Chapter 62 – Russian Ballet
Baryshnikov stood on the stage of the Mariinsky Theater for the first time in thirty years. The few times he had been back in Russia since his defection were for international charity events, the only condition under which The Ministry of Cultural Affairs would permit his presence in the country. Looking up into the lights he could think of nothing and no one other than Markova. He had paired with her when he was sixteen and she was fifty-two, the last year she danced. He remembered the way she felt in his arms, like electricity. He had wanted her so badly, and in so many ways. For just a minute she was with him again, on the Mariinsky stage.
He luxuriated in the memories and the feelings of the place. Home. Two hundred year old wood under his feet, polished by the feet of thousands of dancers during thousands of performances. The great Mariinsky stage. Behind him he sensed the mass of the musicians gathered in the adjacent rehearsal hall, waiting to come in for the meeting. Then he sensed the dancers, also waiting in the rooms below the stage. Gergiev had called for the first meeting of the entire production staff to introduce the choreographer, and now it was time. Despite a sense of personal animosity, out of professional respect, Gergiev had given The B a few minutes alone on the stage. But now he entered from stage left, motioning to the head flunkies to bring in the musicians, dancers, lighting crew, costumers, and minor flunkies.
Sixty-seven musicians, forty-eight dancers, twelve lighters, seven costumers, and about a hundred flunkies poured onto the stage from the rear, down the steps at either side, and out into the theater. When they were seated and quiet, Baryshnikov spoke. “It’s good to be home.” Gergiev bit his lip. “And I am not the only one who feels that way. So does Stravinsky, the great maestro. He is back with us now, and will see the light of day again in a few weeks, when we dance the lost ballet.” Hearing Baryshnikov invoke himself in the same breath as Stravinsky caused Gergiev to, momentarily, swallow his tongue. His autonomic reflex reaction produced a sharp cough that blew it back into its proper position. “This will be one of the greatest productions in the history of Russian dance, and you will make it. We will make it, for our cultural heritage.” The tongue started slipping again, falling backwards into Gergiev’s larynx. “Stravinsky’s stories are wonderful, about the four painting and the people that inhabit those paintings. Van Gogh, Cezanne, Matisse, and Picasso, in four acts. And his music that expresses the stories is wonderful, too, a combination of classical and revolutionary. Now, it is my job, my privilege, to make the choreography that will meld the stories and the music into movement for bodies on the stage. This stage, the greatest stage for dance in the world.” Gergiev noticed The B was standing on one of the many small trap doors set in the stage, and used occasionally for special effects, such as disappearing actors. He wished he was just below that trap door, willing and able to release the latch.
Baryshnikov changed his tone from inspirational to pragmatic. “I have some of the basic choreographic concepts worked out now for the four acts, and beginning today we will explore them together. But there is something missing, something I cannot create solely out of thin air, or just from the storyline and music. For me to make the choreography, and for you to make your movements, we must go to the source. We must go to Stravinsky’s source, to the place of his inspiration, and that is France. That is where the four painters worked, and where they produced the paintings from which Stravinsky created his music. We, too, must go there, and experience the culture we will display here, on this stage.” He didn’t bother looking over at Gergiev because he didn’t want to see the steam coming out of his ears, or see his head blow off his shoulders and land on one of the lighting gantries sixty feet above the stage. He knew he held most of the cards, and would get his way. “So, one week from today, we go to Paris. All the dancers. For two days. We will see places, and art works, and people associated with the four painters who so impressed Stravinsky that he wrote a great score for what will become the world’s greatest ballet.”
The Lost Ballet Page 62