I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [69]
In Milan, we performed at the famous La Scala opera house for several weeks. I made friends with several of the Italian dancers, especially the young ones—fourteen-year-old Carla Fracci,6 already lighting up the room with her beauty and talent; and Mario Pistoni, not much older than I, a superb technician. They laughed at my atrocious Italian and stew of assorted languages, French, English, Spanish, and Italian, melded and spiced with mime. “Insalata di lingua mista” they dubbed it. They arranged for me to join their morning classes, eight fifteen to nine fifteen a.m. Why so early? NYCB was in residence at the theater, so had command of the dance studio, and needed it all day. That left early morning as the only alternative for the Italians. I’d be up by six a.m. and on my way by seven, arriving at the theater in time to join my Italian friends in their class. Madame Bulnes, the legendary dance teacher from Argentina, presided. She had revitalized the training and quality of the La Scala company, and taught a brutal, vigorous class. As soon as it ended, I’d head to the theater buffet, gobble several brioches, which settled in my stomach, well drenched with eight to ten double espressos. By nine thirty a.m., hyped and jagged, I’d be in Balanchine’s class, twitching and relishing every leap and spin.
During the short break between company class and rehearsal, Balanchine would test me playfully, “Do ten pirouettes, and I give you a hundred lire.” Then would follow a slew of virtuoso dance steps to test me, dredged up from his past experience and incredible imagination. The commencement of rehearsals stopped our games. We danced from eleven a.m. to six p.m., with an hour break for lunch. At six p.m., I’d race out, grab a bite, and return to the theater in time to put on makeup, do a warm-up, and, as there were always last-minute injuries, fit in eleventh-hour emergency rehearsals for replacements. Then, into costume, and, by eight o’clock, be onstage ready for the call. “Places, dancers. Curtain going up.”
Milan’s buildings bore the scars of World War II, pockmarked with bulletholes and shrapnel indentations. The local Italian people, having endured the Mussolini and Hitler regimes some eight years before, had their own scars. Ballet fans saved their lire for months to buy a ticket to see the Americani in the New York City Ballet. No one can imagine the success in those days. How we were loved and admired.
The last performance in each city was always triumphant. As in London in 1950 and our European tour in 1952, the applause at the end of the performance lasted close to a half an hour. We’d take bow after bow. The curtain would close, but the audience kept applauding and stamping, so up it would go, then down and up and down and up, dozens and dozens of times. Thrilling as it was, the exhausted dancers eventually importuned the stage manager, “Bring in the fire curtain!” It was the only way to silence the enthusiasm and determination of the fans.
With matinees Saturday and Sunday, we did eight performances a week. Monday was our day off, and my Italian dancer friends often took me to the local piscina (swimming pool), and I treated them to lunch at the local trattorias. Biffi Scala, the restaurant next to La Scala, was Balanchine’s favorite hangout. I could never afford it, but he relished describing to me the meals he enjoyed there—lunch, dinner, and after-performance feasting. I’d be waiting in the wings ready to make an entrance in Lilac Garden, and he’d be whispering to me, “You know, Biffi Scala—the tortellini alla panna. It has