Raisins in the Danish or A Night in the Ballet

"Just walk through that door to the rear of the stage and wait for directions," said the round man at the side entrance of the Opera House as he checked our identification. Mr. Nordus, with a spray of flags across the lapel of his tails that made him look like a distinguished veteran of the Pacific campaign rather than the conductor of the Ballet Orchestra, stepped aside as we filed in. He was in the process of greeting Boston friends or relatives in a flurry of Danish, ending up with "I'll see you later,"

Inside the wings the twelve of us stood about waiting for the stage manager. We had been told earlier that there would be a short rehearsal before the performance. As we peered around noticing the height of the ceiling and tying to find the house through the procession of curtains, a young girl dressed in a fluffy peasant costume with a white apron stood up against a tall upright packing crate doing exercises. Her legs swung as if they were pendlums. Now one way, now the other, taking no regard for her anatomical structure. Pretty soon other dancers appeared through the wings like small fairies. They embraced one another, then held an arm or waist while their partners stretched. The stage became an orchestra of bodies tuning up.

Before long a small man in a blue blazer surrounded by a stage crew in smocks led us to an elevator. There was an exchange of words between men in blue blazers. "They should have been here at one o'clock. . .but I thought it was eight." We crowded in the elevator like cattle waiting for our fate as the argument came to an end. "Well we'll have to go without the rehearsal. Have them put on their costumes."

Each floor presented a new row of costumes lining the hallway until we reached the fifth floor. Inside a low ceilinged room there were baskets of shoes. Our costumes were arrayed along a clothes bar near a mirror. Everyone did their best to find something that didn't smell too old and that fairly approximated his bulk until four of us were dressed as herdsman, one as a cook, and others as villagers.

Now for "smirka" said the swarthy costumer. We looked puzzled until his clowning Danish assistant brought fourth tubes of make-up. After a few vain efforts which had to be corrected in the dim light of the wings, we descended once again to the stage, this time feeling more properly a part of the bustling company.

The Whims of Cupid was already over and the second presentation Somnambulist was in process. The dancers who swept before the footlights with such grace plunged towards us with great sighs, wiping their brows as they came off.

This was our first really close look at the dancers. Only one of the men looked frail and particularly feminine, the others were slight but athletic. Their faces were chiselled. I thought of the sketch of Kirkegaard by Manet with its Nordic impishness. The women were lovely, budding, blossoming and fading with each costume change. Against the gossamer of the skirts were beautifully developed supple legs.

Now it was our turn. Before the curtain went up on the third act of Napoli, the ballet master pointed out our places. We stood just behind a row of ballerinas draped along the edge of the stage. One of the group twirled the end of a rope near a ballerina who was still stationing herself. In a slightly hurt voice and in uncertain English she pouted "a-a. .pl-eese." Four of us practiced pulling a cart decorated with flowers across the stage. This was to be the finale. "Now just relax ourselves," said the ballet master.

And that we did, clapping with everyone else and when a tamborine flew out of one of the dancer's hands under the curtain. The beat was a little tricky and there were a few extra claps but no one noticed. The dancers having been together since childhood made faces at one another, joked as they posed made adjustments in their costumes as if they were in rehersal. They were astonishing but the dancing left little to be desired.

Suddenly the ballet master whispered to us from the wing. We backed off the stage and took hold of the cart containing the bridge and groom of the marriage ceremony. As we made the are across the stage, dancers whirled about us. "Hurry up," they whispered. We did not almost sent the cart careening into the orchestra pit. Putting the cart down, we leaned back in our most graceful posture of the evening. The happy couple spread their arms to the audience and the curtain fell.

As we made our way back to the dressing room we leapt in the air joyfully imitating the dancers.