I Left My Heart in Moscow but My Love Waits in Pittsburgh

This surely had to be a dream and if I closed my eyes, then I would wake up and realize that it was nothing but my imagination.

My eyes traced the curve of his jaw, the tiny dimple in his chin, the straight line of his nose, the closely cropped blonde hair. This surely had to be a dream. I couldn’t possibly be lying in Jordan’s arms. This is something for fairytales, storybooks, movies.

This couldn’t be my reality.

If there’s one thing ballet taught me, it’s that happy endings are just stories that aren’t finished yet.

I suppose some ballets end happy, with the young couple dancing into the sunset ready to live a life of tutus and bliss. But for every Coppelia, there’s a Swan Lake, where Odette kills herself because a broken heart, a Nutcracker, where Clara wakes up to realize the man of her dreams was just that a dream, and La Bayadere, where the lovers are only reunited in death.

3:1 that’s not very good odds.

If there’s one thing a gambler relies on more than luck, its hope.

And maybe that’s all we need.



1980, New York City. Or as Aliya and the other terribly fashionable residents called it “The City.”

Aliya was the belle of the ball. The princess of the city. What was supposed to be a few guest performances turned into a full blown contract with Balanchine. And her face and her feet were known all over New York, plastered onto buses, billboards and magazine covers.

But then she saw him. Misha. Her Misha. He asked her to come with him. Runaway with him to across the street. To the American Ballet Theatre.

She was never able to say no to him.

Except once.

This was not the first time he asked her to come away with him.

They had danced together at the Vaganova Academy since they were children. They were both the smallest in the class and would continue to be until they graduated and joined the Kirov. Together they were perfection. But while Aliya flourished under the Soviet system, Misha felt stifled.

That night in Toronto in 1974, he held her against his chest and whispered the words that were better left unspoken.

I’m defecting. Come with me. Runaway with me.

No other words were spoken. Aliya only cried as Misha whispered her full name, Alyona. Only he called her by her full name. Not even her parents. And they stayed like that whole night. Aliya sobs muffled by the thin cotton of Misha’s shirt and Misha repeating her name like a prayer as he stroked her hair.

The next morning, Aliya flew back to Moscow and Misha stayed in Toronto, making headlines when he declared he would not be returning to the USSR.

Six years. It was six long years before she was able to see her sweet Misha again.

Here she was. Dancing for Mr. B, poised to be his next star. He almost never took on guest artists but he made two exceptions in his long career. One for Misha and one for sweet Alyenka.

Misha tasted the freedom and basked in the glory of pushing the boundaries of dance and blurring the lines between danseur and celebrity. Not just ballet but dance.

The performance billed as their reunion was sold out weeks in advance and they were perfection yet again. It felt like two souls coming together. But he still felt suffocated under the traditional, arthritis ridden hands of Balanchine. Mr. B would never create ballets for Misha like he would for Aliya.

After doing the scheduled performances, Misha held her again and asked her again to run away with him. Come away with him to American Ballet Theatre. She would be his queen. His muse. The center of his universe. He pledged his heart, his body and his loyalty to her.

And this time she did not say no.

By the time the curtains went up at Lincoln Center and Aliya danced Diamonds, the whispers among the balletomanes’ lips would be that Balanchine’s new Russian Princess would be fleeing to the arms of her Prince across the street to the Met.

Aliya Bessonova and Mikhail Baryshnikov.

The New York City audience had already dubbed them the Czar and Czarina of the City.



“10 AM: Dewdrop: Svetlana Khitrova and Anna Gregory. Kent Studio,” The robotic voice of Peggy, Mr. Orr’s assistant, droned as she continued to recite the schedules for tomorrow on the hotline, “1 PM: Columbine and Harlequin: Anna Gregory and Robert Evans. Fonteyn Studio.”

Ouch. Columbine and Harlequin was a good role. But they were also dolls. Enchanted dolls devoid of any expression or emotion. It was definitely a slight to both Anna and Robbie, who were being called “circus ponies” by the press. All flash and tricks and no substance or artistry.

“1 PM: Arabian coffee: Alicia Marie and Dallas Collins.”

Very interesting. Arabian is one of the top roles in The Nutcracker since it’s the only departure from the family friendly ballet. Arabian is all sensual and slinky. While Spanish, Danish, Chinese and Flowers are meant to delight and transport the audience, Arabian is meant to seduce the audience. In a sense Arabian is for all the dads and boyfriends who were dragged to sit through a two hour ballet. But the most interesting part would be that Mr. Orr is trusting Alicia with another featured role.

In fact he is trusting Alicia and Anna with featured roles without promoting either of them.

“1 PM: Sugarplum Fairy and Cavalier: Gelsey Karr and Andrew Paige.”

It was Gelsey’s last season with the Pittsburgh Ballet Theatre and the Sugarplum fairy would be one of her many last hurrahs. It was a role she had done since her debut with the Company and it would only be fitting that it would be one of her last.

“Second cast: Svetlana Khitrova and Alejandro Diaz.”

A second cast. A second cast was often used to give principle dancers a break but I didn’t expect Gelsey to have asked for a second cast. I would have thought she wanted to dance the whole run as part of her farewell. Unless… unless Mr. Orr insisted.

The swirls of rumors and gossip around Mr. Orr and his relationship with Gelsey were so thick you could cut it with a knife. Mr. Orr is married to Madame Stiefel, but his fidelity has always been questioned. It was common knowledge that Mr. Orr fancied himself a bit like Mr. Balanchine, whom he danced for and then staged and taught for. While Mr. B had numerous queens and princesses, Mr. Orr only had one. Gelsey. Or so Anna says.

Either way I was going to dance Sugarplum Fairy and maybe even Dewdrop.

Balanchine had said, “Ballet was woman but didn’t have to be one woman,” when he created Dewdrop out of his passion and love for Tanny as his lover and gave the Sugarplum Fairy out of his respect to Maria Tallchief as his wife.



“Are you leaving me, Alyenka?” Mr. B looked weathered in his overstuffed arm chair, his hands holding his sweet princess’s.

“No, not right now,” My voice soft as I glided over the familiar Russian sounds.

“But soon?” His eyes looked up to me, struggling to focus on her sweet face. In his old age, God robbed him of all the gifts he had been given. His eyes, his body, his ears. And now his mind was starting to slip from him.

“I am not renewing my contract, if that is what you are asking.”

“Why?”

“Misha asked me to join him at ABT.”

“Ah, Misha. Your Prince Charming.”

“No not Prince Charming, just Misha.”

“Will you leave in the middle of your contract like Misha?”

Misha’s sudden departure left a bad taste in my mouth. What was the point of burning bridges? “No, I will finish my contract. My word is good, you know that.”

“Yes, I just wanted to hear you say it,” Balanchine’s old weathered hands patted my own, “Tomorrow we will work on something new for you, my princess.”

“What will we work on?”

“Sleeping Beauty.”