Love Story

Love Story

by

Erich Segal

What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who died?

That she was beautiful. And
brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. And the Beatles. And me.
Once, when she specifically lumped me with those musical types, I
asked her what the order was, and she replied, smiling,
‘Alphabetical.’

At the time I smiled too. But now I
sit and wonder whether she was listing me by my first name - in which
case I would trail Mozart - or by my last name, in which case I would
edge in there between Bach and the Beatles. Either way I don’t come
first, which for some stupid reason bothers hell out of me, having
grown up with the notion that I always had to be number one. Family
heritage, don’t you know?

In the fall of my senior year, I got
into the habit of studying at the Radcliffe library. Not just to eye
the cheese, although I admit that I liked to look. The place was
quiet, nobody knew me, and the reserve books were less in demand. The
day before one of my history hour exams, I still hadn’t gotten
around to reading the first book on the list, an endemic Harvard
disease. I ambled over to the reserve desk to get one of the tomes
that would bail me out on the morrow.

There were two girls working there.
One a tall tennis-anyone type, the other a bespectacled mouse type. I
opted for Minnie Four-Eyes.

‘Do you have The Waning of the
Middle Ages?’

She shot a glance up at me.

‘Do you have your own library?’
she asked.

‘Listen, Harvard is allowed to use
the Radcliffe library.’

‘I’m not talking legality,
Preppie, I’m taking ethics.

You guys have five million books. We
have a few lousy thousand.’

Christ, a superior-being type! The
kind who think since the ratio of Radcliffe to Harvard is five to
one, the girls must be five times as smart. I normally cut these
types to ribbons, but just then I badly needed that goddamn book.

‘Listen, I need that goddamn book.’

‘Wouldja please watch your
profanity, Preppie?’

‘What makes you so sure I went to
prep school?’

‘You look stupid and rich,’ she
said, removing her glasses.

‘You’re wrong,” I protested.
‘I’m actually smart and poor.’

‘Oh, no, Preppie. I’m smart and
poor.’

She was staring straight at me. Her
eyes were brown.

Okay, maybe I look rich, but I
wouldn’t let some ‘Cliffie even one with pretty eyes - call me
dumb.

‘What the hell makes you so smart?’
I asked.

‘I wouldn’t go for coffee with
you,’ she answered.

‘Listen - I wouldn’t ask you.’

‘That,’ she replied, ‘is what
makes you stupid.’

Let me explain why I took her for
coffee. By shrewdly capitulating at the crucial moment - i.e., by
pretending that I suddenly wanted to - I got my book. And since she
couldn’t leave until the library closed, I had plenty of time to
absorb some pithy phrases about the shift of royal dependence from
cleric to lawyer in the late eleventh century. I got an A minus on
the exam, coincidentally the same grade I assigned to Jenny’s legs
when she first walked from behind that desk.

I can’t say I gave her costume an
honor grade, however; it was a bit too Boho for my taste. I
especially loathed that Indian thing she carried for a handbag.
Fortunately I didn’t mention this, as I later discovered it was of
her own design.

We went to the Midget Restaurant, a
nearby sandwich joint which, despite its name, is not restricted to
people of small stature. I ordered two coffees and a brownie with ice
cream (for her).

‘I’m Jennifer Cavilleri,’ she
said, ‘an American of Italian descent.’

As if I wouldn’t have known. ‘And
a music major,’ she added.

‘My name is Oliver,’ I said.

‘First or last?’ she asked.

‘First,’ I answered, and then
confessed that my entire name was Oliver Barrett. (I mean, that’s
most of it.)

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Barrett, like
the poet?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No relation.’

In the pause that ensued, I gave
inward thanks that she hadn’t come up with the usual distressing
question:

‘Barrett, like the hall?’ For it
is my special albatross to be related to the guy that built Barrett
Hall, the largest and ugliest structure in Harvard Yard, a colossal
monument to my family’s money, vanity - and flagrant Harvardism.

After that, she was pretty quiet.
Could we have run out of conversation so quickly? Had I turned her
off by not being related to the poet? What? She simply sat there,
semi-smiling at me. For something to do, I checked out her notebooks.
Her handwriting was curious - small sharp little letters with no
capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?). And she was
taking some pretty snowy courses: Comp. Lit. 105, Music 150, Music
201

‘Music 201? Isn’t that a graduate
course?’

She nodded yes, and was not very good
at masking her pride.

‘Renaissance polyphony.’

‘What’s polyphony?’

‘Nothing sexual, Preppie.’

Why was I putting up with this?
Doesn’t she read the Crimson? Doesn’t she know who I am?

‘Hey, don’t you know who I am?’

‘Yeah,’ she answered with kind of
disdain. ‘You’re the guy that owns Barrett Hall.’

She didn’t know who I was.

‘I don’t own Barrett Hall,’ I
quibbled. ‘My great-grandfather happened to give it to Harvard.’

‘So his not-so-great grandson would
be sure to get in!’

That was the limit.

‘Jenny, if you’re so convinced
I’m a loser, why did you bulldoze me into buying you coffee?’

She looked me straight in the eye and
smiled.

‘I like your body,’ she said.

Part of being a big winner is the
ability to be a good loser. There’s no paradox involved. It’s a
distinctly Harvard thing to be able to turn any defeat into victory.

‘Tough luck, Barrett. You played a
helluva game.’

‘Really, I’m so glad you fellows
took it, I mean, you people need to win so badly’

Of course, an out-and-out triumph is
better. I mean, if you have the option, the last-minute score is
preferable.

And as I walked Jenny back to her
dorm, I had not despaired of ultimate victory over this snotty
Radcliffe bitch.

‘Listen, you snotty Radcliffe
bitch, Friday night is the Dartmouth hockey game.’

‘So?’

‘So I’d like you to come.’

She replied with the usual Radcliffe
reverence for sport:

‘Why the hell should I come to a
lousy hockey game?’

I answered casually:

‘Because I’m playing.’

There was a brief silence. I think I
heard snow falling.

‘For which side?’ she asked.

Oliver Barrett IVSenior

Ipswich, Mass.Phillips Exeter

Age 205‘11” 185 lbs.

Major: Social Studies

Dean’s List: ‘61, ‘62, ‘63

All-Ivy First Team: ‘62, ‘63

Career Aim: Law

By now Jenny had read my bio in the
program. I made triple sure that Vic Claman, the manager, saw that
she got one.

‘For Christ’s sake, Barrett, is
this your first date?’

‘Shut up, Vic, or you’ll be
chewing your teeth.’

As we warmed up on the ice, I didn’t
wave to her (how uncool!) or even look her way. And yet I think she
thought I was glancing at her. I mean, did she remove her glasses
during the National Anthem out of respect for the flag?

By the middle of the second period,
we were beating Dartmouth 0-0. That is, Davey Johnston and I were
about to perforate their nets. The Green bastards sensed this, and
began to play rougher. Maybe they could break a bone or two before we
broke them open. The fans were already screaming for blood. And in
hockey this literally means blood or, failing that, a goal. As a kind
of noblesse oblige, I have never denied them either.

Al Redding, Dartmouth center, charged
across our blue line and I slammed into him, stole the puck and
started down-ice. The fans were roaring. I could see Davey Johnston
on my left, but I thought I would take it all the way, their goalie
being a slightly chicken type I had terrorized since he played for
Deerfield. Before I could get off a shot, both their defensemen were
on me, and I had to skate around their nets to keep hold of the puck.
There were three of us, flailing away against the boards and each
other. It had always been my policy, in pile-ups like this, to lash
mightily at anything wearing enemy colors. Somewhere beneath our
skates was the puck, but for the moment we were concentrating on
beating the shit out of each other.

A ref blew his whistle.

‘You - two minutes in the box!’

I looked up. He was pointing at me.
Me? What had I done to deserve a penalty?

‘Come on, ref, what’d I do?’

Somehow he wasn’t interested in
further dialogue. He was calling to the officials’ desk - ‘Number
seven, two minutes’ - and signaling with his arms.

I remonstrated a bit, but that’s de
rigueur. The crowd expects a protest, no matter how flagrant the
offense. The ref waved me off. Seething with frustration, I skated
toward the penalty box. As I climbed in, listening to the click of my
skate blades on the wood of the floor, I heard the bark of the PA
system: ‘Penalty. Barrett of Harvard. Two minutes. Holding.’

The crowd booed; several Harvards
impugned the vision and integrity of the referees. I sat, trying to
catch my breath, not looking up or even out onto the ice, where
Dartmouth outmanned us.

‘Why are you sitting here when all
your friends are outplaying?’

The voice was Jenny’s. I ignored
her, and exhorted my teammates instead.

‘C’mon, Harvard, get that puck!’

‘What did you do wrong?’

I turned and answered her. She was my
date, after all.

‘I tried too hard.’

And I went back to watching my
teammates try to hold off Al Redding’s determined efforts to score.

‘Is this a big disgrace?’

‘Jenny, please, I’m trying to
concentrate!’

‘On what?’

‘On how I’m gonna total that
bastard Al Redding!’

I looked out onto the ice to give
moral support to my colleagues.

‘Are you a dirty player?’

My eyes were riveted on our goal, now
swarming with Green bastards. I couldn’t wait to get out there
again. Jenny persisted.

‘Would you ever ‘total’ me?’

I answered her without turning.

‘I will right now if you don’t
shut up.’

‘I’m leaving. Good-bye.’

By the time I turned, she had
disappeared. As I stood up to look further, I was informed that my
two-minute sentence was up. I leaped the barrier, back onto the ice.

The crowd welcomed my return.
Barrett’s on wing, all’s right with the team. Wherever she was
hiding, Jenny would hear the big enthusiasm for my presence. So who
cares where she is.

Where is she?

Al Redding slapped a murderous shot,
which our goalie deflected off toward Gene Kennaway, who then passed
it down-ice in my vicinity. As I skated after the puck, I thought I
had a split second to glance up at the stands to search for Jenny. I
did. I saw her. She was there.

The next thing I knew I was on my
ass.

Two Green bastards had slammed into
me, my ass was on the ice, and I was - Christ! - embarrassed beyond
belief.

Barrett dumped! I could hear the
loyal Harvard fans groaning for me as I skidded. I could hear the
bloodthirsty Dartmouth fans chanting.

‘Hit ‘em again! Hit ‘em again!’

What would Jenny think?

Dartmouth had the puck around our
goal again, and again our goalie deflected their shot. Kennaway
pushed it at Johnston, who rifled it down to me (I had stood up by
this time). Now the crowd was wild. This had to be a score. I took
the puck and sped all out across Dartmouth’s blue line. Two
Dartmouth defensemen were coming straight at me.

‘Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads
off!’

I heard Jenny’s shrill scream above
the crowd. It was exquisitely violent. I faked out one defenseman,
slammed the other so hard he lost his breath and then - instead of
shooting off balance - I passed off to Davey Johnston, who had come
up the right side. Davey slapped it into the nets.

Harvard score!

In an instant, we were hugging and
kissing. Me and Davey Johnston and the other guys. Hugging and
kissing and back slapping and jumping up and down (on skates). The
crowd was screaming. And the Dartmouth guy I hit was still on his
ass. The fans threw programs onto the ice. This really broke
Dartmouth’s back. (That’s a metaphor; the defenseman got up when
he caught his breath.) We creamed them 7-0.

If I were a sentimentalist, and cared
enough about Harvard to hang a photograph on the wall, it would not
be of Winthrop House, or Mem Church, but of Dillon. Dillon Field
House. If I had a spiritual home at Harvard, this was it. Nate Pusey
may revoke my diploma for saying this, but Widener Library means far
less to me than Dillon. Every afternoon of my college life I walked
into that place, greeted my buddies with friendly obscenities, shed
the trappings of civilization and turned into a jock. How great to
put on the pads and the good old number 7 shirt (I had dreams of them
retiring that number; they didn’t), to take the skates and walk out
toward the Watson Rink.