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the guide’s words were whispered from one dancer to the next, “This mummy is real … this is fake,” until it came to Frank Moncion, in line before Shaun and me. When the message reached Frank, he made a ridiculous face, pointed right, and said, “Da mummy,” then pointing left, “Nyet mummy. Pass it.” From that point on, the dancers joined in, chanting musical variations of “Da mummy, nyet mummy,” down the line, accompanied by roaring cascades of laughter. When we finally collected in an open chamber outside the tunnel, the company continued chanting the lyrics, and the tour guide’s face twitched with anger. Some thirty years later, my son Christopher, then artistic director of the Pennsylvania Ballet, choreographed a piece called Da Mummy, Nyet Mummy. Curious critics asked, “What does it mean?” Chris solemnly answered, “Long story, family history.”

In Kiev, I danced almost everything with Allegra. And she was the company’s sensation—all the talk and spotlight was on her. Early on, there was a dewy-eyed teenager who stood waiting at the stage door. He approached me and stammered, “I saw you dance with Allegra. She is so beautiful!” I remarked, “Your English is excellent!” “Thank you, I study.” He gathered his courage and continued, “Do you think I could approach Miss Kent?” “Sure, just go up and talk to her!” But he was too modest to do so, and left.

The next night, he was back. Thinking that with him as our guide, we could ditch the rest of the company and sup adventurously with the Kievians, I went up to him. “Why don’t you come out after the performance? I’ll ask Allegra. We’ll have dinner together.” Stunned, he was making some incomprehensible sounds. “Pick your favorite restaurant,” I suggested. He may have picked the most expensive “in” place he could think of—not the student dive I’d hoped for. During the dinner, he filled us with his dreams. “I am going to be scientist, but to do it, I must go to Novosibirsk. It is where the elite go.” He described how only the top of the class would be allowed to go; otherwise, you would be assigned to a factory school, or to study an occupation the government determined. Our dinner didn’t last long. The service was awful, and Allegra, acting her kooky self, squirming dramatically to get back to the hotel.

All memories of Kiev are eclipsed by Shaun’s arrest. I was to dance Swan Lake that night with Diana, but, of course, she canceled and was replaced by Allegra. The half-hour call came and Shaun, who played the sorcerer, von Rothbart, was not in the theater. Fifteen-minute call, no Shaun, and, calling the hotel, no answer in his room. Eddie Bigelow came to the rescue, put on Shaun’s costume, and did the role he’d originated some ten years before.

Halfway through the performance, we got the news. “Shaun’s in jail.” Much later we heard the details from him. In the early morning, he had gone to film the tracks of birds in the snow, planning to use the footage in his travelogue. In a transition, a picture of the tracks would dissolve to people’s feet slushing their way to St. Sophia Cathedral, where you’d see the paper bag at the foot of a sculpture of a Russian saint.

Some police up the road saw this Amerikanski with his head lowered, and his camera pointing at the snow. “Photographing snow? In Russia?” They nabbed him, thrust him in the back of their jeep, drove to headquarters, and shoved him in a cell. Details were recounted by him at dinner that night, when the released Shaun made a grand entrance to the dining room. “Oh my dears, wait till I tell you what happened to me!” Lincoln, who wanted to be there, had earlier ordered, “When he shows up, don’t let him say anything until I’m there!” But no one could stop Shaun when he had an audience. He immediately told us the whole story, and didn’t mind at all when Lincoln showed up later and he had to give a repeat.

“All I was doing was filming bird tracks in the snow, when these militiamen grabbed me and threw me in their jeep, then drove me somewhere. I was afraid I would pee.” While under interrogation the whole day, Shaun protested,