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By Root 1393 0

a symbol of authority. Their real job was to report to authorities the comings, goings, and utterances of the tenants. As Shaun was filming some street urchins playing after the rain in a puddle of water, a red band noticed him and, spouting a torrent of Russian, tried to seize Shaun’s camera. He lifted it as high as he could, as if holding a basketball from opponents’ pawing hands, and screamed, “Nyet, nyet!” Then he started speed-walking toward the theater, yelling to his trio, “Quick! Let’s get to the theater as fast as we can.” Irving later reported gleefully, “My dear, we couldn’t keep up with him.” Red Band #1, calling out an alarm, followed, and other red-banded comrades emerged from buildings along the route, to join the pursuit.

Fortunately, it wasn’t long before they reached the theater. Unfortunately, Shaun, his camera still held high, was pursued by a mob now numbering close to two hundred, with Red Band #1 in the lead. A police car pulled up at the same moment the throng arrived at the stage door, and a pair of militiamen jumped out. Red Band #1 waved an accusing finger at Shaun and his camera. Shaun was chanting his familiar mantra, “Balyet, Balanchine, NYCB! Artiste!” and pointing to the stage door. After listening for a few moments, the senior militiaman ordered his partner to disperse the crowd, and ushered Red Band #1 and several of his cronies, with Shaun and his ballet trio, through the stage door into the vestibule.

The stage doorman stood, open-mouthed, as this motley cast of characters pushed their way past. From the vestibule, a few feet of hall opened onto several wide marble stairs that grandly led down to the theater’s buffet, a large dining room where most of the company dancers were lounging around drinking tea, eating yogurt, and slurping down delicious white bread, deliciously slathered with butter and a half inch of caviar. The food available for purchase in the theater buffets of Kiev, Tbilisi, and especially Baku was far better than in the canteens of Moscow or Leningrad.

What a superb entrance Shaun made, elbows raised, left and right hands touching the area over his breasts as if he were Birgit Nilsson or some other divine diva filling her lungs before launching into an ear-splitting aria. “Felix! I’ve done it again. Felix, where are you? Come save me!” Behind him, spread out as if they were part of his royal robe, were the militiaman, Red Band #1, and his red-banded cronies. Irving, Frank, and Tony fanned out stage right and left and descended to join the rest of the dancers, leaving Shaun in the center spotlight. From the back of the canteen rose Felix, our sole interpreter on these last few days of the tour. He put down his cup of tea and casually approached the militiaman. The militiaman began his report that Red Band #1 had a complaint against Shaun. Felix raised his hands slowly, palms out, in a “Stop! Hold on a moment” gesture. The militiaman paused midsentence. It was so unlike gentle and timid Felix that the room hushed, as well. Felix reached inside his jacket pocket, ominously pulled out a notebook and pen, and methodically flipped through several pages, as if browsing through a dozen KGB reports. Reaching a blank page and holding his pen ready, he turned his gaze on Red Band #1 and softly intoned, “Name?” Red Band, his eyeballs beginning to move rapidly, right-left, right-left, right-left, stammered out a name. Felix returned to the notebook and slowly wrote the name. The militiaman removed himself from Red Band’s side. Looking up, Felix softly inquired, “Wife?” and, as he wrote down the spouse’s name, beads of sweat appeared on Red Band #1’s forehead, and his red-banded lackeys faded back and dematerialized. No one moved. Felix continued in his deadpan tone, “Children?” The militiaman finally spoke up. There was a rapid exchange in Russian between him and Red Band #1. Felix slowly nodded his head, and, as if he were a bishop dispelling a blessing, pronounced, Xhorosho—good—and closed the notebook. Red Band #1 curled his tail under his backside, and fled. The militiaman