I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [80]
I left the picture with one scene unfinished, where the brothers pace the floor waiting for the birth of Milly’s baby. Michael put the assistant choreographer, Alex Romero, in a duplicate of my costume, slapped a red wig on his head, and stuck him in the back to fill in for me. Today, they could take my photo and digitally morph me into the scene with close-ups.
I complained, then, about doing movies, but am so thankful now, and I treasure every bit part and scene I was lucky enough to be in. Today, when I choreograph a dance, I simultaneously plan how it could be directed, filmed, and edited.
COURTING CARRIE
I flew into New York City and immediately dashed to the City Center Theater, arriving just in time to catch the evening’s premiere of The Nutcracker. Lincoln Kirstein gave me his seat in the first row of the mezzanine. Balanchine’s exquisite choreography raised my heart to my throat: Maria Tallchief glittered as the Sugar Plum Fairy, Nicholas Magallanes made an elegant Cavalier, and Tanny stole the show as the Dew Drop in the “Waltz of the Flowers,” but I hardly noticed. My eyes sought out Carrie whenever she was onstage. I remember how she always said, to my surprise, that she didn’t enjoy all the battements tendus and exercises at the barre. I loved them, and did them by the thousands, so I thought everyone else did. To her, ballet class was a bit of a chore, and although rehearsals were more interesting, for Carrie the best was to be onstage and dance. That’s where she felt happiest.
The next morning after class, I approached her and squeaked out, “Hi! Want to go to a movie with me?” Her mouth fell open. “You haven’t spoken to me in a year!” Then she giggled, and answered, “Okay.” It was February 26, 1954.
One of her favorite places was Carnegie Tavern, a big, German-style alehouse that occupied the southwest corner of Carnegie Hall. On Fifty-sixth Street and Seventh Avenue, it was half a block up from the stage door of City Center. After the curtain closed, Carrie and I would dash there as quickly as we could, for their enormous, frosty tankards of beer and “the Carnegie Special,” an indulgence of a sandwich—rye bread, an inch-thick pile of thinly sliced ham, topped with a slice of raw onion, wearing a hat of Swiss cheese and slathered with Russian dressing before being bracketed with the other bread slice. I would guzzle, nosh, and gab incessantly while Carrie sipped, ate daintily, and giggled. Garrulousness with your mouth full is not romantic; I would often notice Carrie fighting to stay awake.
Today, I wonder why she suffered me. Perhaps our love of dance, energy, and optimism knit us together.
In our ballet company, everyone knows who’s going together—you’re branded as an item if you carry someone’s practice bag. “Oh, look, Roland’s carrying Janice’s bag … Oh, there’s Billy carrying Juan’s bag.” Before long, there was a chorus of, “Oh, look who’s carrying Carrie’s bag!” I hefted her bag until we were married in 1956. Two years of penance for my year of dumb pride!
In 1955, NYCB was once again touring the cities of Europe. On arriving, Carrie and I secretly developed a system to be able to stay together, but needed help to pull it off. Fellow company members Roland Vasquez and his girlfriend, Janice Mitoff, agreed to be coconspirators. Roland and I would book a double room in a hotel. We’d dump our bags, slip outside the hotel, and inform our female counterparts our room number. “Try and get the same floor,” we urged. Carrie and Janice would then go to the desk and book their double, requesting the designated floor. After performances, our quartet would sup together, and, in the hotel lobby, stage a dramatic scene of separation, loudly proclaiming, “Goodnight, you all!” and “Yeah, see you in the morning!” Roland and I would then repair to our room. Precisely a half hour later, I would scope the hall, and if