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 tne. 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? ff 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.