I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [22]
Meanwhile, Boss demonstrated her own artfulness. “I’ll make Jacques’s costume!” she announced to Balanchine. Out of the itchiest wool conceivable, she created a milk-chocolate-brown unitard, appliquéd with patches of beige. Clusters of grapes and red berries were strategically placed, and one sprig of berries adorned my backside in lieu of a tail. Two little gold horns sprouted from my head, held by a claustrophobic, choking elastic band around my chin. I carried panpipes sprayed with gold leaf that rubbed off on my fingers, and for the performance, the Boss made up my face with painted vines and leaves that, when I began to sweat, melted down my cheeks.
I seem to recall that A Midsummer Night’s Dream premiered. As far as I can remember, there was one performance only, in a garden on an outdoor stage. As Puck, I Pied-Pipered six woodland nymphs (Tanny among them). More than sixty years later, I still remember Balanchine’s steps—one, a kind of jump in the air, while kicking my feet behind me like a gamboling colt, and on landing, wiggling my bottom while playing my pipes. Bronchitis hit me the day of the performance, and Lincoln paid for a limousine to pick me up in Washington Heights and deliver me to the performance. It was grand.
Soon, Boss had tracked down a music teacher for us, Pietro Yon. I never knew if it was true or a dramatic embellishment, but the Boss claimed he had been the chief organist for His Holiness the Pope at St. Peter’s in Rome, had escaped Mussolini, and was now in charge of music at Manhattan’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Maestro Yon taught theory and composition to music luminaries, and he lived in a very elegant place on Central Park West—I think it may have been the Dakota apartments. One of his compositions, a Christmas song, “Gesù Bambino” (The infant Jesus), is popular to this day.
Madeleine and I were there when my mother first laid siege to him.
Knock, knock, knock, knock. Mr. Yon opened the door. He was a classic and elegant gentleman, old-school Italian. Tiny, with a little paunch, he wore a vest with a gold watch and chain looped to a pocket. The Boss, at the doorway, accusatory in her heavy French accent, inquired, “Are you Mr. Yon?”
“Yes, Madame, I am.”
“The great teacher of music?”
“Well, I don’t know how great I am, Madame, but yes, I do teach music. Come in. What can I do for you?”
Boss crossed the threshold, entered his living room. He was a goner. My sister and I, hand in hand, followed, gaping at the beautiful rugs, tapestries, and the antique piano of rich, dark wood.
“I want my daughter, Madeleine, to have piano lessons. How much does it cost?”
“Madame, I do not take children for lessons.”
“Oh. Well. If you did take children, how much would you charge?”
“Madame, I do not take children. But my fee is fifteen dollars an hour.” (This was 1943, so his fee would be upward of three hundred dollars an hour today.) My mother turned white and staggered back. She hit the wall. Her hand clutched her throat, and she croaked, “So much!”
Poor, embarrassed Mr. Yon stood there speechless, as the Boss, gathering up her forces and leaping back into the breach, continued, “Well, for my daughter, how much for half an hour?”
“Madame, I do not take children … but if I were to do half an hour, it would be half of fifteen dollars.”
“Well,” my mother said. “We will see. I think I can afford that. When can Madeleine start?”
Maestro Yon stood there in awe of her audacity and determination, his small brown eyes darting, seeking an escape, as he temporized, and finally saying to my sister, “Come over to