Chapter 1: Stupid and rich, clever and poor

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

You can say that she was beautiful and intelligent.  She loved Mozart and Bach and the Beatles.  And me. Once, when she told me that, I asked her who came first. She answered, smiling, ”Like in the ABC.’ I smiled too. But now I wonder. Was she talking about my first name? If she was, I came last, behaid Mozart. Or did she mean my last name? If she did, I came between Bach and the Beatles. But I still didn’t come first. That worries me terribly now. You see, I always had to be Number One. Family pride, you see.

In the autumn of my last year at Harvard university, I studied a lot in the Radcliffe library.

The library was quiet, nobody knew me there, and they had the books that I needed for my studies. The day before an examination I went over to the library desk to ask for a book. Two girls were working there. One was tall and sporty. The other was quiet and wore glasses. I chose her, and asked for my book.

She gave me an unfriendly look. ‘Don’t you have a library at Harvard?’ she asked.

‘Radcliffe let us use their library,’ I answered.

‘Yes, Preppie, they do – but is it fair? Harvard has five million books. We have a few thousand.’

Oh dear, I thought. A clever Radcliffe girl. I can usually make girls like her feel very small. But I needed that damn book, so I had to be polite.

‘Listen, I need that damn book.’

‘Don’t speak like that to a lady, Preppie.’
‘Why are you so sure that I went to prep school?’

She took off her glasses. ‘You look stupid and rich,’ she said.

‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘I’m actually clever and poor.’

‘Oh no, Preppie,’ she said. ‘I’m clever and poor.’

She was looking straight at me. All right, she had pretty brown eyes; and OK, perhaps I looked rich. But I don’t let anyone call me stupid.

‘What makes you so clever?’ I asked.

‘I’m not going to go for coffee with you,’ she said.

‘Listen – I’m not going to ask you!’

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

Let me explain why I took her for coffee. I got the book that I wanted, didn’t I? And she couldn’t leave the library until closing time. So I was able to study the book for a good long time. I got an A in my exam the next day.

I gave the girl’s legs an A too, when she came out from behind the library desk. We went to a coffee shop and I ordered coffee for both of us.

‘I’m Jennifer Cavilleri,’ she said. ‘I’m American, but my family came from Italy. I’m studying music.’

‘My name is Oliver,’ I said.

‘Is that your first or your last name?’ she asked.

‘First. My other name is Barrett.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Like Elizabeth Barrett the writer?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No relation.’

I was pleased that she hadn’t said, ‘Barrett, like Barrett Hall?’ That Barrett is a relation of mine. Barrett Hall is a large, unlovely building at Harvard University. My greatgrandfather gave it to Harvard long ago, and I am deeply ashamed of it.

She was silent. She sat there, half-smiling at me. I looked at her notebooks.

‘Sixteenth-century music?’ I said. ‘That sounds difficult.’

‘It’s too difficult for you, Preppie,’ she said coldly.

Why was I letting her talk to me like this? Didn’t she read the university magazine? Didn’t she know who I was?

‘Hey, don’t you know who I am?’

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘You’re the man who owns Barrett Hall.’

She didn’t know who I was.

‘I don’t own Barrett Hall,’ I argued. ‘My great-grandfather gave it to Harvard, that’s all.’

‘So that’s why his not-so-great grandson could get into Harvard so easily!’

I was angry now. ‘Jenny, if I’m no good, why did you want me to invite you for coffee?’

She looked straight into my eyes and smiled.

‘I like your body,’ she said.

Every big winner has to be a good loser too. Every good Harvard man knows that. But it’s better if you can win. And so, as I walked with Jenny to her dormitory, I made my winning move.

‘Listen, Friday night is the Dartmouth hockey match.’

‘So?’

‘So I’d like you to come.’

These Radcliffe girls, they really care about sport. ‘And why’, she asked, ‘should I come to a stupid ice-hockey match?’

‘Because I’m playing,’ I answered.

There was a moment’s silence. I think I heard snow falling.

‘For which team?’ she said.

By the second quarter of the game on Friday night, we were winning 0 – 0. That is, Davey Johnson and I were getting ready to score a goal. The crowd were screaming for blood – or a goal. I always feel that it’s my job to give them both these things. I didn’t look up at Jenny once, but I hoped she was watching me.

I got the puck and started off across the ice. Davey Johnson was there on my left, but I didn’t pass the puck to him. I wanted to score this goal myself. But before I could shoot, two big Dartmouth men were after me. In a moment we were hitting the puck and each other as hard as we could.

‘You!’ said a voice suddenly. ‘Two minutes in the penalty box.’

I looked up. He was talking to me. ‘What did I do?’ I asked.

‘Don’t argue.’ He called to the officials’ desk: ‘Number seven, two minutes in the penalty box, for fighting.’

Angrily I climbed into the penalty box.

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

The voice was Jenny’s. I didn’t answer. ‘Come on, Harvard, get that puck!’ I shouted.

‘What did you do wrong?’ Jenny asked.

‘I tried too hard.’ Out there on the ice Harvard were playing with only five men.

‘Is that something to be ashamed of?’

‘Jenny, please. I’m thinking.’

‘What about?’

‘About those two Dartmouth men. When I get back onto the ice, I’ll break them into little pieces.’

‘Do you always fight when you play hockey?’

‘I’ll fight you, Jenny, if you don’t keep quiet.’

‘I’m leaving. Goodbye.’

I looked round, but she had gone. Just then the bell rang.

My two-minute penalty had finished. I jumped onto the ice again.

‘Good old Barrett!’ shouted the crowd. Jenny will hear them shouting for me, I thought. But where was she? Had she left?

As I went for the puck, I looked up into the crowd. Jenny was standing there. I took the puck and went towards the goal line. Two Dartmouth players were coming straight at me.

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

That was Jenny’s voice above the crowd. It was crazily, beautifully violent. I pushed past one Dartmouth man. I knocked hard into the other. Then I passed the puck to Davey Johnson, and he banged it into the Dartmouth goal. The crowd went wild.

In a moment we were all shouting and kissing and banging each other on the back. The crowd were screaming with excitement. After that, we murdered Dartmouth – seven goals to zero.

After the match I lay in the hot bath and thought with pride about the game. I’d scored one goal, and helped to score another. Now the water felt wonderful on my tired body. Ahhhh!

Suddenly I remembered Jenny. Was she still waiting outside? I hoped so! I jumped out of that bath and dressed as fast as I could.

Outside, the cold winter air hit me. I looked round for Jenny. Had she walked back to her dormitory alone? Suddenly I saw her.

‘Hey, Preppie, it’s cold out here.’

I was really pleased to see her, and gave her a quick kiss.

‘Did I say you could kiss me?’ she said.

‘Sorry. I was just excited.’

‘I wasn’t.’

It was dark and quiet, out there in the cold. I kissed her again, more slowly. When we reached her dormitory, I did not kiss her goodnight.

‘Listen, Jenny, perhaps I won’t telephone you for a few months.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Why?’ she asked at last.

‘But perhaps I’ll telephone you as soon as I get back to my dorm.’ I turned and began to walk away.

‘Damn Preppie!’ I heard her say. I turned again. From twenty feet away I scored another goal.

‘You see, Jenny, that’s the kind of thing you say. And when other people do it to you, you don’t like it.’

I wished I could see the look on her face. But I couldn’t look back. My pride wouldn’t let me.

When I returned to my dorm, Ray Stratton was there. He and I slept in the same room. Ray was playing cards with some of his football-playing friends.

‘Hullo, Ollie,’ said Ray. ‘How many goals did you score?’

‘I scored one, and I made one,’ I answered.

‘With Cavilleri?’

‘That’s none of your business!’ I replied quickly.

‘Who’s Cavilleri?’ asked one of the footballers.

‘Jenny Cavilleri. Studies music. Plays the piano with the Music Group.’

‘What does she play with Barrett?’ Everyone laughed.

‘Get lost!’ I said as I entered my room.

There I took off my shoes, lay back on my bed and telephoned Jenny’s dormitory.

‘Hey, Jen . . .’ I said softly.

‘Yes?’

‘I think I’m in love with you.’

She was silent for a few moments.

Then she answered, very softly: ‘Oliver, you’re crazy.’

I wasn’t unhappy. Or surprised.