I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [117]
I laugh now. Back then, the environment was miserable. Imagine the widest street you’ve ever seen—the Champs-Élysées, Pennsylvania Avenue—all over Moscow, there were streets like that, only wider. Seldom did a car drive by, just sidewalks with droves of people bundled up against the cold in thick layers of blue, gray, and brown, walking with their heads down. Some corners were packed with queues, waiting for a bus. Rarely did one come by, and they were stuffed, like sausages, with people. In the gutters, women in babushkas swept with bundles of twigs tied with rags, stick brooms of witches. Occasionally, a black limousine with a red flag on its hood would pass, transporting dignitaries. Even rarer, a truck would pass, loaded with cabbages, then stop at a designated site and dump a heap of cabbages on the sidewalk. People stood in lines that stretched for blocks to buy them.
When we dancers would walk Moscow’s streets, passing the multitudes, I never saw one person look up to watch us. It’s not that they didn’t scope us, they were just afraid to be seen watching. “Do you think they would be reported?” we discussed at dinner. If anyone in the crowd was caught staring, perhaps a KGB agent might call them out or report them—“Why are you looking at their clothes? Don’t you think our Russian clothes are good enough?” or “Do you know these people? Then why look at them? What’s your name?” The police-state mentality, frightening, infected our moods. In relief, our company became more cohesive and insular, solidarity against the atmosphere. For the first time in my life, I began to feel lonely and despondent.
After several days of rehearsal, NYCB opened at the Bolshoi Theater in Moscow. Still infirm, I sat in the box with Balanchine and Lincoln. An excerpt from my diary:
October 9, Tuesday. Moscow opening night. Company was great. First the boys: Arthur [Mitchell] in Western the best he has ever done; Eddie [Villella] in Agon, the same; Conrad [Ludlow] and Nicky [Magallanes] both partnered beautifully. Serenade with Patty Wilde, Allegra, Jillana, and Patricia McBride—outstanding. The corps, fabulous. In Interplay, Patty McBride, Conrad, Tony [Blum], good. Its Pas de deux a success. In Agon, Melissa great and Allegra too. Again, corps fabulous. Western Symphony closed, it was wonderful. Reception lukewarm, all the way through, although Arthur had a big, personal success, as he did in Europe.4 Mr. B depressed, I think. I was proud as hell of the best ballet in the world, and unhappy over its reception.
Opening night, when the dignitaries and moneyed class were in the audience, the response was tepid. The critics played it safe—in their reviews, they didn’t like us, they didn’t hate us—until Official Word circulated that it was okay to like us. Several nights after the opening, the audience began to fill with diehard balletomanes. From then on, reception was unpredictable. Sometimes, a ballet we thought would be a smash hit would lay an egg; other times, a sleeper ballet would receive roaring accolades. A few nights after the opening, I was in the company box. The audience adored Violette Verdy and Eddie Villella in Donizetti Variations. To everyone’s astonishment (and Balanchine’s chagrin), Eddie repeated his variation in an encore. Balanchine was peeved that Eddie and Violette had been such a success, especially Eddie. I cheered, even though I was envious and frustrated that I wasn’t up there dancing too. I was determined to get back onstage and, in my daydreams, imagined that if I ever did an encore, I