I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [129]
BAKU
November 28 was Shaun’s birthday, and we were in the last city of our tour. No rehearsal that day, so, with Felix, our guide, we explored Baku.
We anticipated delight at the Turkish baths. With precognition, Felix sat it out. After a shower, we lay down on a marble tabletop, and a tattooed slab of a masseur pounded us with soap-filled animal bladders. The skins had pinprick vents that released suds. When we were pink and foaming, he ordered us to wash off, and that was it. We paid the fee and left. I’m not good at shopping or sightseeing; wandering around, seemingly without purpose, exhausts me. “Let’s go back to the hotel,” I suggested. “If you want,” Felix ventured, “we could return by another route.” “Whichever’s the shortest,” I requested. Felix was silent, then mumbled, “There may be something interesting to see.” “Naw, naw, naw,” I dismissed, but Shaun interrupted, “Shut up, Daisy. We’re going to follow Felix.” The three of us trotted down a narrow side street. Felix seemed to know where he was going. But after ten minutes of walking, I was grumbling. Felix ignored me. “This is a very interesting building,” he said, pointing to a nondescript stone structure across the street. “Oh? So what’s so interesting?” I grunted. Shaun interrupted, “Felix, what is it?” He whispered to Shaun, “It’s a synagogue. There is only one in Baku.” “Oh, how nice, Felix, would you like to go in?” How happy Felix was, nodding and smiling, as he left us. He scurried across the street and disappeared into the building. We sat outside on the curb, waiting. “He’s Jewish, Daisy, but probably can’t admit it to anyone. But with us in tow, he has an excuse to go in. He can claim that he was giving us a tour, and just went in to check out the hours it would be open.”
Some twenty minutes later, a beaming Felix emerged from the building, and we continued our walk, through a maze of streets and alleys, back to the hotel. Felix talked a flood—of communism, his life, his family, and how it had been years since he’d visited a synagogue. He trusted us. Shaun had made, in Felix, a friend for life.
A few days earlier, we had tried to mail postcards to our spouses—Shaun, to his love, Cris Alexander; me, to Carrie. We intended to write, “I love you and miss you and thank God! It’s over,” both in English and Azerbaijani, the language of the country. The concierge and interpreter at the hotel desk nervously announced to us, “There is no such language. We speak and write Russian here.” Shaun protested, “But before Russia, there was Azerbaijan, and it wasn’t that long ago!” “No! There is no such place. We were always Russian.” Shaun’s Irish was up. Swelling and red-faced, he puffed, “You’re not that ignorant, and you’re not that young. There are buildings all around here that are not Russian. They’re from another culture. Even your guidebooks speak of Azerbaijan!” “Oh,” she stammered, “that may be from ancient times, prehistoric. Nobody remembers that time or what those people spoke.”
OUR LAST PERFORMANCE OF THE TOUR
… was chock-full of drama.
Diary entry, December 1, 1962:
Very good Raymonda at the matinee this afternoon and even better at night. The wind is howling outside. It’s said Baku is worse than Chicago in that respect. Mr. B seems happy, and told me he plans to arrange company classes in New York regularly (he’d been teaching less since Tanny’s illness). We are to leave around 5:45 in the morning for the airport. Shaun, with Robert Irving, Tony Blum, and Frank Ohman, were almost arrested for taking pictures today.
They had been ambling along making their way to the theater from the hotel, with Shaun taking pictures of whatever spurred his interest. Every building had a superintendent who wore a red armband as