Back to Macedonia to restage Serge’s ballet. Communism was gone, Yugoslavia had broken up, the Kosovo war was winding down and NATO soldiers were all over Skopje. The quality of the dancers and the work ethic in the ballet company had rapidly deteriorated. There were far less talented dancers, plus the number of male dancers who could handle difficult roles was far less than before. Surprisingly, the old out of shape dancers were still around – drinking coffee in their dressing rooms and killing time before their pensions kicked in. They didn’t come to many rehearsals – at least not until the final week. On that final week, people that I hadn’t even known existed and would suddenly show up and step into the corps de ballet roles. I personally wouldn’t have used them but then you’d get into that whole political/diplomatic thing with the management, which would entail endless hours of discussion that don’t go anywhere. Sometimes it is just better to go with the flow. The behind the scenes intrigue among the performers was also getting out of control. It had always been there but never quite as blatantly. Who was a friend of whom; who was sleeping with whom for advancement and so on. The two of the main Prima Ballerinas were at each other’s throats – the constant mud slinging (including articles in the newspapers) became the ever present backdrop to our work. Because we were working with one of the quarreling ballerinas, we were regarded as part of the enemy camp by some and were inevitably slandered in the press. There’s not much you can do in a situation like this, other than to ignore it.
Everywhere that I walked in Skopje I would see soldiers from many countries, including the U.S. Most of the time they were unobtrusive but Friday and Saturday nights were a different story. Early Friday night, the boys would congregate in downtown Skopje, drink and raise hell. It would continue into the wee hours of the morning only to start up again on Saturday night. I was leaving for an evening rehearsal when I passed a raucous group of U.S. soldiers. Gritting my teeth in anger, I passed them without a word. As a U.S. citizen, I have become overly sensitive to the fact that most of the world doesn’t really like Americans – or at least American foreign policies. With that in mind, I am very careful to present a positive image of my country (well – countries – I represent Canada too). Later as I was returning from the rehearsal I passed yet another group of rowdy American soldiers who were in the process of yelling at one of the locals. I stopped in front of them and with my hands on my hips, yelled, “Would you want your mothers to know that you are behaving like this? And if you think that I can’t find your mothers – you’d be wrong. Knock it off. I do not want to see any of you on this street again.” The soldiers froze in shock. Their heads dropped to their chests and they started to murmur, “Yes ma’am, yes ma’am.” I gave them a final snort and continued on my way. Later a friend of mine in Skopje said that he should have tried that. It wouldn’t have worked. You need to have that in-your-face American accent that only another American would recognize as the real thing.