I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [171]
In silence, we took the elevator down. I got Tanny out of her wheelchair and into a cab. Carrie and I trudged home.
Returning from her morning visit a few days later, Carrie said, “A rotund, motherly nurse told me in a soft Caribbean accent, ‘He was very bad today. Abusive. He calls “Karin, Karin,” and can recognize her footsteps in the hall. He counts them, and, when she has to go, doesn’t want her to leave.’ ”
New Year’s Eve, 1982. Did my morning class, then over to visit at one thirty p.m. Balanchine alone, talking in Russian, and crying. I held his hand, and petted and stroked his face and head—he kept scratching his own head and stroking it himself, then started pulling the sheets over his mouth and up to his face, as if hiding from something frightening. I too was frightened and shaking and needed to move, so I took him for a tour in his wheelchair, zooming up and down corridors and careening around corners for half an hour. Then we took the elevators, and visited other floors. When we returned, one of the musicians came by to thank Balanchine for the new wooden floor under our orchestra pit (they had all signed another card, “Happy New Year’s Day/Get Well”). Eddie Bigelow helped organize a little gathering—Bill Hamilton, Carrie, and a few others, less than ten. Suzanne showed up. I was surprised, remembering her dramatic statement a few weeks earlier. We drank champagne and toasted the New Year, with little hope. Tanny had articulated what we all felt—no elegant exit for him, just a long, undignified end with a wail.
For the next three months, while paddling in the stream of life, there was always an inner cry in my throat, “When will he die? When will he die?” Karin seemed never to leave his side. A great, loving mother, she would sit next to him on the bed, holding his head against her breast, stroking his hair like a child, and softly singing lullabies in German.
Guten Abend, gut’ Nacht, mit Rosen bedacht,
Mit Näglein besteckt, schlupf unter die Deck’!
Morgen früh, wenn Gott will Wirst du wieder geweckt.
Morgen früh, wenn Gott will Wirst du wieder geweckt.
Good evening, good night, with roses adorned,
With carnations covered, slip under the covers.
Early tomorrow, if God wills, you will wake once again.
Early tomorrow, if God wills, you will wake once again.
Carrie put it beautifully, “She [Karin] received from him lots, but gave back even more and is still giving back.” Once, when there seemed to be some improvement, a cute nurse, Ana, from Cali, Colombia, and I each took an arm and walked Balanchine halfway down the hall and back. Because he claimed to have vertigo, he had not walked in weeks. Propped against the wall, he sang a Mexican conga while Ana and I danced for him.
I wrote a note to myself: “Jacques, something is wrong with you. You’re too tired and listless—and you have let your body go, it’s getting weak and functioning poorly. Balanchine is wasting away. Are you doing the same thing to yourself?”
I went over to see Mr. B on Easter Sunday and found him unconscious, with two nurses feeding him intravenously. “His pneumonia is back,” was their grim statement. I stayed only a minute.
April 30 was a glorious, glittering spring day. I was awakened at six a.m. by a phone call from Barbara Horgan, reporting quietly, “Mr. B died around four a.m.” “Thank God!” I thought. “He didn’t drag on anymore.” It was spring renewal, but with tears.
Later that day, at the theater, rehearsing half a hundred children for our coming NDI Event, Shaun told me he was there the night Balanchine died.
Daisy, there was such a bustle outside his room, with agitated nurses running in and out. One of them said, “He can’t see anyone,” and shut the door. I stood outside … for over an hour. I kind of knew what was happening, but couldn’t leave … Then, through the closed door, I heard Balanchine calling, “MAMA!”
On April 30, 1983, at the age of seventy-nine, Balanchine died.
Working with NDI children at the State Theater’s rehearsal hall, I found myself