аааа Rudolf / RudikЕ

ааааааааааааааааааааааааааааааааа L. ROMANKOV

 

Time, like memories, often repeats itself. There are periods when life becomes interrupted and slips into an almost dream-like trance. ааааTime isа made up of events. And memory, by some low of its own, selects from the rich tapestry of life those destined to remain with us forever. Only in this case, history itself broughtа into play a considerable interruption of time, on that lasted twenty eight yearsЕ

 

Before his defection, he sent most of the time we had together listening, hungrily feasting on our diet. On the novels of Remarque, Oldington and Hemingway, which had just come out. On the political revelations only then coming to light. And on the sports which we were all so mad about, whether it was rugby on the beach or in the snow − making up the rules as we went along ─ or semiprofessionalа volleyball or downhill skiingЕ

 

For some unexplained reason, his first major performance was СТCayaneТТ. Perhaps the Kirov thought the Armenial story was tailon-made for him? However, from my point of view, I never met a more European person. By the end of his life, he was fluent in Italian, French and English and knew other European languages as well. He had a flat in Paris on the bank of the Seine, housing a wonderful collection of Central European artworksЕ

 

St. Petersburg, 1961: everyone else was of town at that moment, so I ended up going by myself to the airport to sent Rudik off. He was flying to Paris with the Kirov Ballet Company. СТSee you soon,ТТ he said.. but that promise was only fulfilled 28 years later. Rudik wrote in his 1962 autobiography about his last night in St. Petersburg:

 

ааааааааааааааааааааааа СТIt had been a delightful evening, followed by that beautiful walk back to the School. My new friends, and the

ааааааааааааааааааааааа White nights, and those busy аclouds racing across the sky as if they knew аexactly where they going ─ all that

аааааааааааааааааааааааа Filled me with joy. I, too, suddenly had the feeling that I knew where I was racing toЕТТ

 

30 years later, he presented me with a copyа of his book, inscribing in it: СТThe wings may be a bit heavier, but my joy at our meeting is no less now than it was thanЕТТ

 

When people you know become rich and / or famous, you feel a little timid about reminding then of your existence. You donТt want to appear as if youТre after then for something and you donТt want to be suspected of mercenary or snobbish motives. Personally, I always think itТs better to wait for some sort of gesture on their behalf. RudikТs gesture took the form of a charming woman from Paris, Douce Francois, who only with great difficulty was finally ably to locate us in 1988. we realized then that he had remembered us, that he wanted to see us, that nothing had been forgottenЕ

 

St. Petersburg, /Rudolf has returned to dance СТLa SylphideТТ at the Kirov and has just been interviewed by a Russian reporter,/ Leonid: СТHey, why are you so critical of our ballets? You didnТt do much to improve the situation here.ТТ Rudolf: СТTo tell the truth, I was actually very drunk. WhatТs more, that obnoxious reporter ─ whoаа actedа like we were old friends ─ drove me up the wall. I really didnТt аwant to speak to him. But the honest truth isа that the dancers here do have low standards. They donТt know what real work is.ТТ Leonid: СТIs there anything I can do for you?ТТ, Rudolf /with unexpected fervor/: СТ Tell the West IТm here!ТТ. Leonid: СТWhat do you want me to do? Send them a telegram saying: СAttention, West! Rudolf Nureyev is here! In St. Petersburg!Т?ТТ

 

Pares, 1990: He and the ballet master Pilyakov are working on a production at the opera house. TheyТre rehearsing. In my unsophisticated opinion, Rudik and Polyakov areа dressed like two clowns: baggy trousers and sassy waistcoats and such. TheyТre demonstrating how some positions or movements are supposed to be danced and doing it all from memoryЕ

 

St. Petersburg, 1992: HeТs back in our house once again, sitting in one of our chairs. Just like 30 years ago when Alexander Ivanovich Pushkin, Xenia Josifovna and our father were all sitting around the table. But, now, heТs seized with chills and fevers. His eyes look like two concentric circles as he stares off into space. The pupils are dark and his eyeballs are very white. Are they wide open with wonder, or half-frozen from some premonition??ТТ The telephone rings. ItТs Phyllis Wyeth, a mutual friend of both Rudolf and ours and wife of the artist аJamie Wyeth /why had so often painted Rudolf/ . SheТs аcalling from America to wish Rudik a happy birthdayЕ