Mariella Gattini

My mother met Nureyev in Milan, Italy, in 1973. He and Carla Fracci were performing in a production of Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake. She was particularly mesmerized by Carla Fracci’s arms movements. For a fraction of a second she thought she was watching a real bird.

Once the show ended, she went backstage to say hello to Rudolph. She could do so, because my brother, who was twenty years older than me, was the manager of a high-end gym in Milan, and he had been personally contacted by the ballet production company to provide a masseuse for Nureyev, who was in pain. So, with the excuse of asking him about it, my brother invited my mom to accompany him. My brother was like that, he didn’t believe in shying away from obstacles: “Do you want to meet him? Well, let’s do this, let’s go!” he said.

My mother was a petite woman, and Nureyev was tall, so she felt in the presence of greatness. He also was very gracious with her, and very grateful to my brother. Both left him behind with a good feeling over their shoulders.

According to my mother, Rudolph was a force of nature. He could do the most difficult movements and make them appear so easy and fluid. His grace came from his beautiful body—he had long limbs, long muscles, and his face was angular, with well-defined cheekbones—but also from his soul, revealed in his penetrating eyes. My mother fell instantly in love. So much so, she never forgot him.

David Morris, one of the directors of the documentary Nureyev (2019), said that when Rudolph defected from the USSR in 1961, he had to leave his mother behind, who had been his biggest supporter. I’m sure he was naturally nice to everybody, and managed his public relations very well, but after I heard of this particular consequence of his defection, I realized why my mother felt surprisingly cherished by him that day after an exhausting performance. He must have seen my brother trying to sneak my mother with him, and, because of that image, nothing but love came out from Rudolph, which made of his greeting something so welcoming and warm.

My mother didn’t know that soon after that encounter everything would fall apart in her own country; something so dreadful, painful, and never-ending would take place that wouldn’t allow her to enter the country for months. With me—a little girl at the time—at the other end. (Tears dropped right here.)

As far as I’m concerned now, she still is leaving the theater behind in Milan embraced by my brother, who would pass away in a motorcycle accident near Lissone, Italy, eighteen years later.

Don’t get me wrong, we survived, we are strong women. One of the things that helped us to do so was people like Rudolph Nureyev, their talent, and their grace. The memory of my mother’s encounter with him lasted a lifetime—my mother’s—which ended last year.

Rudolph Nureyev died in 1993, in France, a few months after my brother’s accident in Italy. My mother survived them both for decades, but I’m sure their memory kept her going until her own end, because she was completely lucid in her old age.

I had to leave my mother behind, too, when I decided to move to the U.S., later in life. For that reason, I understand what Rudolph saw in my mother that day, as if I were there and then.

Unlike me, he had a jet-setter life surrounded by the rich and famous of his era, but I’m sure that back in his own personal space, he knew what life was all about. At the time being gay was unacceptable, therefore, being famous and admired didn’t quite cut it for him. The superficiality of life is good to a certain extent, to entertain your mind for a while, but it doesn’t help when you actually need support, when you are in real trouble.

My brother and my mother provided him with some relief from pain for a moment, and that was enough for him. With nothing but respect and love, knowing them, they made him feel better in his own body, and in his own mind.

I see my mother walking the streets of Milan that I would later walk myself so many times. At her side: My brother, who always had a positive outlook in life. Talking about infinite things, they strolled the streets thinking of where to go to eat and what to do next. They crossed Galleria Vittorio Emanuele toward Piazza Duomo and got lost among the multitude of tourists, locals, and pigeons that inundated the square. I had the privilege to have them with me, later in life for a while. And the moment was gone. Just like that. Like the fleeting moment in Piazza Duomo. Gone forever.

Rudolph Nureyev is who binds us right now, in a moment that feels infinite. The pettiness of the everyday life pushed us apart, but what really matters kept us together for the rest of our lives. Being the only survivor of our interaction that seems so far behind, it’s a joy to have them with me until my time comes.

I’m glad that you too will have the opportunity to meet this great dancer in Nureyev (2019). Don’t miss it. Don’t get lost in the lack of civility of our days. Connect with what really matters. And Nureyev actually matters today more than ever. The recognition of talent and grace in others uplifts our spirits and makes of us better human beings. I’m working on it myself.

I’m crossing Galleria Vittorio Emanuele now, I get distracted by some Japanese tourists who ask me to take photos of them, I use the Duomo as a backdrop for their cheerful faces, click, and it’s done. Keep walking toward tram 19. I turn around and look in every direction; I don’t see them anymore. I touch my forehead with the palm of my left hand. I remember now—they went back to the deepest side of my mind, where they got lodged until the end of my time.

UPDATE (March 23, 2021): In the movie The White Crow, based on the life of Nureyev and directed by Ralph Fiennes, there is a wonderful depiction of Clara Saint, the Chilean socialite, who was crucial in Nureyev's defection from the Soviet Union. She was only 21 years old at the time.