I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [83]
The Portuguese are natural romantics. Where America’s national story tells of George Washington cutting down a cherry tree, their story recounts the love of Inês de Castro and Pedro I of Portugal, and of lost love, tragedy, murder, and revenge. Love continues into the tomb. José de Jesus Santos decided to advance my romance with Carrie, suggesting that on our day off, we travel to Estoril. “All the deposed royalty of the world have made it their home in exile. It is a place of flowers, palaces, and sunlight.”
José de Jesus took charge of us, planning and organizing the whole adventure: pickup, bus tickets, hotel, and delivery. “You must stay overnight. If you will permit me, I will come as your guide. Give me your passports.” In Portugal, you couldn’t check into a hotel without surrendering your passport, and certainly, no man and woman could stay together unless married. In Estoril, we had no Roland and Janet, just José de Jesus. But he was superb. On entering the hotel lobby, he assured us, “I’ll take care of everything.” He marched up to the desk, spoke a few words, and flashed something in his wallet to the now white-faced and fawning clerk. Within minutes, we were escorted into an elegant suite, “The best in the hotel!” the bellhop announced. That’s when we knew for sure José was a Secret Services big shot. Beaming, José de Jesus bowed, announced, “You have the wedding suite,” and disappeared. We didn’t spot him again until two days later, when he boarded the return bus with us. “I had a few odds and ends to take care of,” he grinned.
Every couple needs an Estoril. Spotlessly clean. Flower bedecked, and next to a stunning beach. Gorgeous waves. On the last night, Carrie and I lingered barefoot at the edge of the surf. The full moon, reflected on the water, made a beam path to us, and no matter where we trod it followed, illuminating us and the surf, which bubbled with lights like diamonds and miniature supernovas.
After Balanchine’s stormy parting from Maria Tallchief (an annulment, on the grounds that she wanted a baby—he didn’t), he soon married Tanny. The stick-skinny, gawky teenager, Nymph to my childhood Puck, had blossomed into an exquisite, witty, sophisticated princess. Balanchine had watched and nurtured her for years, intrigued by her talent. Through her teens, he choreographed for her, and waited. She had captured the eyes and heart of the king. They married December 31, 1952.
The Balanchines included us in their family life. Routinely, Tanny would say, “Come over for dinner. We’ll play cards after.” As it was the fifties, steak every night was the norm. Porterhouse, rare, served with Dijon mustard, a salad of romaine lettuce with a dressing of olive-oil, lemon, and garlic, and new potatoes roasted in their skin with butter, parsley, and rosemary. This was the usual menu Tanny chose and chef Balanchine served. Her wit, barbed and directed at everything and anyone (including herself), was unpredictable, yet veined with affection. Having decided on the dinner menu, she would announce, “Oh! This again?” Delivered with mock surprise and a hint of indignation. Dessert was never anything but ice cream. “I thought we’d have something new,” Tanny would declare. Mouton Rothschild was the wine—two bottles in the course of an evening. I was responsible for the downing of one. “Have another glass,” Tanny would quip. “Here, let me pour it for you.” Then, turning to Balanchine, she’d add, “If he does, George, we’re sure to win, even with you as my card partner.” After dinner, Balanchine would sit, patiently playing endless rounds of canasta. Sometimes, either from boredom or just to pique an outburst from Tanny, he would throw down a wrong card, dissolving her strategy.
During the next day’s rehearsal, Tanny would pick up from the