I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [169]
And, oh, how he waxed on about the talent of the company’s dancers, in particular, Darci. He mumbled that maybe in the future, he could still function, supervising revivals and maybe choreographing some easy pas de deux for the company. Then, “No. I am finished. Nothing for me. Now, it is all other people.” I reflected on how he lived in the present. The word “now” meant a great deal to Balanchine. He used it often. He made plans for the future, but lived the “now” of the moment.
At the hospital, among the get-well cards on Balanchine’s table, I noticed one, collectively signed, “Your stage crew,” and another, “Your devoted orchestra.” I saw none from “the dancers of NYCB” or “the students of SAB.”
November 26, 1982. If Balanchine ever had a best friend, it was Karin von Aroldingen, and Balanchine’s fading hit her the hardest. Her relationship with Balanchine was rarest among his multitude of muses—a principal dancer, happily married, and a mother, she was his arm-in-arm confidante. Poor Karin was extremely depressed. Balanchine called on her constantly. She might be onstage performing, but he would phone backstage and demand, “Get her off the stage, I need to see her right now!” Once, after a lengthy visit in the hospital, when Karin and I were leaving, Balanchine lamented, “I’ll be here for six months.” I replied, “No! You must get out, get back home. Every morning, do your physical therapy, afternoons, too.” With a doleful look, and plaintive voice, he importuned, “Karin, stay awhile.” I waited outside in the hall some fifteen minutes until she came out. We walked back to the theater in silence.
Two days later, talking a blue streak, Balanchine announced, “I can go home next week!” We were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the edge of the bed, the phone right on his lap. I believe he was forgetting numbers, not hearing, or pushing the wrong numbers and not getting through. He demanded, “Call theater for me, I need Karin! Call the stage.” I dialed the switchboard. “Hi! This is Jacques, can you ring the phone up on the stage?” Impatiently, Balanchine called out, “Tell them it’s Balanchine!” as if afraid they had forgotten or discounted him. “Tell them it’s Balanchine!” His voice betrayed a flicker of doubt. He had been calling Ronnie Bates to make nonsensical demands and requests—“Go look in the rosin boxes! There’s no rosin!” or “The curtain is stuck! Get it fixed!”
Lincoln’s secretary, Mary Porter, confirmed that the SAB benefit would feature the Mendelssohn ballet I had been playing around with (Jerry’s ballet was definitely not ready, and I heard Peter Martins had refused to do one). I thought to dedicate the ballet to the teachers of SAB, and notes had gone back and forth with Lincoln as to titles. Mary hinted, “Lincoln likes ‘Dedication.’ ” I teased her, “How about calling it ‘Progression of Heirs’?” Mary got all twittery, taking me seriously, and nervously squeaked, “Oh! With all the talk and worry now about THE SUCCESSION, that would not be a good title.”9
Soon, Lincoln sent a note, saying he didn’t like “Dedication” as a title. “It’s pretentious and presumptuous.” I wrote him back, “Lincoln, I picked that title because Mary Porter said it was your choice.” With Lincoln’s erratic notes and Balanchine dying, I felt both my parents dismembering.
It was almost a week before Christmas, and Carrie and I made our daily visit to Balanchine. Francis and Paul Sackett, with Vera Zorina, dropped by, and Balanchine hardly acknowledged them. When they left, he stared at Carrie and spoke at length about how lucky I was to have her to take care of me. How he had no one, how he wanted to go home, but was scared and needed help.
We all knew he would not be going home. Dr. Bill Hamilton told me they planned to set up an apartment-like room at the hospital for Balanchine, with costs to be covered by Eugenia Doll.10