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By Root 1367 0

for them. As I tried to demonstrate, I would say, “I’m sorry. This is not what it should look like, you have to see Balanchine.” In many dances, particularly Prodigal Son, any time he demonstrated his choreography, my mouth would open at the beauty of his movement. Coaching a slew of marvelous male dancers who danced the role over the years—Jerome Robbins, Francisco Moncion, Hugh Laing, Eddie Villella, Misha Baryshnikov—Balanchine would demonstrate and all paled in comparison. He wrung tears from your heart. Maria Tallchief, at a recent symposium, when asked about developing her extraordinary interpretations of Balanchine’s choreography, responded, “Oh, I only had to look at George. He was so beautiful, the way he demonstrated the movements.” Can you imagine what he was like at twenty-three, inventing and teaching Apollo and Prodigal Son to Lifar?

After dancing in Germany in the 1960s, a critic titled me “the Apollo of Madison Square Garden.” Though I’m not sure he meant it as a compliment, the phrase resonates. Balanchine’s Apollo is my story. A wild, untamed youth gains nobility through the arts. A New York City street boy from Washington Heights transformed by the art of the aerial.

In late March of 1958, when my son George was a year and a half old, NYCB embarked on a tour of Japan, Australia, and the Philippines. Paul Szilard, a successful impresario who, as a dancer, had shared the barre with me in many a ballet class, booked our company for the six-month tour. Balanchine stayed home with Tanny; I took Carrie and little George with me on the Japan Airlines flight. Our ballet company had the run of the whole plane. Over two days, we hopped and refueled from San Francisco to Hawaii, Wake Island, and at last Tokyo. Carrie, George, and I sat right behind the cockpit, and despite George’s continual squalling, the senior pilot, Captain Hench, took to us. “This is the last propeller flight that I’ll fly for Japan Airlines,” he confided. “Jets are the future, and I’ve been back in school learning how to fly them.” He had young children of his own in San Francisco, but after our arrival in Tokyo he stayed an extra week, to help us settle in. “Best to stay in a traditional Japanese hotel. I’ll arrange it—the Matsudaira—you’ll have your own private cottage, surrounded by gardens.”

What a dear Captain Hench was. “I’ll get you the babysitter,” he insisted. “TB is rampant in Japan, so she’ll have to be tested. And I’ll be sure to have pasteurized milk delivered to you—it’s scarce here.” Captain Hench made sure the milk wasn’t delivered in bottles, but in sealed cartons, because, he warned, “People with TB sometimes spit into bottles.” Our cottage sat solo in the midst of a garden of glorious flowers. Made of wood with paper walls that slid open to the outdoors, it had two rooms, one for us, and one for George and a babysitter. After he got us settled, Captain Hench returned to his own family in San Francisco. I never saw him again.3

Walking down the streets of Tokyo, George attracted crowds. They followed us, staring at his yellow hair, longing to touch and stroke it. We took him everywhere—dressing rooms, backstage, out front, and to after-performance dinners. At the restaurant table, I’d take the belt off my pants and attach George to a chair, seatbelt-style. A real showbiz trouper, he’d eat a few bites, squirm, wiggle, complain a bit, then pass out.

The two superstars of the company, Maria Tallchief and André Eglevsky, skipped out of the tour. Maria informed Paul she was leaving after Tokyo, and nothing could dissuade her. André attempted to follow, but Paul, angry and distraught, insisted that he stay, “at least for the opening in Australia.” As our plane was landing in Sydney, Paul sat, scheming with our manager, Betty Cage. “How can I face the press in Australia? I will have to confess that Maria walked out on us. Maybe if I make up some grand excuse … How about I tell a big lie! She is pregnant, and her doctor said she will lose the baby if she dances?” “Well, if you want to lie,” Betty mumbled, “I guess I can’t stop