Dinner with the Yeltsins

“Whatever you’re doing that night, cancel it. I need an escort. And you won’t want to miss this!” How could I refuse? No less than the fine soprano Carol Vaness was doing the asking. And the event was happening at the White House.

Carol has always been one of my very favourite performers. In addition to her exquisite voice, she has the rare ability to flesh out a role in a way that is riveting. This is one of the reasons that she became Luciano Pavarotti’s soprano of choice late in his career; as it became harder and harder for him to move around the stage, she picked up the slack, acting up a storm, and making the drama believable even if he did nothing more than sit in one place — which is what happened in his farewell production at the Metropolitan Opera. Imagine that! She had the chops to carry not just a scene but a whole opera, for both herself and her co-star. Offstage Carol is a hell of a lot of fun.

It was 1991, and Boris Yeltsin had recently been elected president of Russia. The occasion at the White House would mark his first state visit to the United States. Among the invitees were prominent business people, performers, and athletes, including Phylicia Rashad, Betty White, and Kristi Yamaguchi. Following cocktails and dinner, the evening was to conclude with a brief performance by Carol.

Perhaps because the United States is my adoptive homeland — I became a citizen in 1960 — I felt especially grateful and humble as we were guided through the halls of the White House to the receiving line. We were welcomed by President George H.W. Bush and his wife, Barbara, and then moved on to a pair of two-headed beings. At least that’s how it seemed as we got closer and closer to Yeltsin and his wife, as each had a translator glued to a shoulder. The visual oddness continued when we saw how they were dressed. This was a black-tie event, and the room was awash in tuxedos and fancy gowns — except for the guests of honour, who sported a light blue suit (him) and a two-piece pale brown number (her). Not that it mattered — the party was for them, after all. But it looked for all the world as if they had stepped out of an old Soviet-era photo.

Just this side of comatose, Yeltsin stood there, offering a limp hand to the stream of well-wishers. When I got to him I mentioned the collaboration I had initiated between San Francisco Opera and the Kirov in St. Petersburg — how we were programming all of the great Russian operas, and bringing conductor Valery Gergiev to the U.S. for the first time — and he nodded absently. I moved on. A few seconds later — apparently the time it took for the translator to relay what I’d said — Yeltsin perked up and stormed toward me, enveloping my hand with his bearlike paw and squeezing furiously while he beamed and repeated, “Harasho! Harasho! Spasseba!” (“Very good! Very good! Thank you!”). Apparently he was an opera fan!

The cocktail hour was perfectly lovely, and if I had to take a guess I’d say that Yeltsin enjoyed it more than anyone else. Everyone was drinking champagne except for him. Instead he was downing glass after glass of chilled vodka. Nonstop. There must have been a special stash just for him, and probably an attaché charged with keeping his glass full.

We moved to another room for dinner. The guests at our table included Chief of Staff James Baker and his wife, as well as Mrs. Yeltsin (plus her second head). Perhaps they sat me with Mrs. Yeltsin because I spoke a bit of Russian. Then there is my so-called Persian charm, which I’ve been told can keep things lively. Mrs. Yeltsin, however, was immune to my wiles. Or maybe she simply felt out of her element. Thankfully we would soon move on to Carol’s performance. What I didn’t know is that we would have an opening act.

Boris Yeltsin.

Mr. Yeltsin sat at the next table over, with Barbara Bush on one side and a stunning young blonde on the other. I am not so base as to say that this young looker was a “trophy wife” of one of the prominent businessmen, but I have no problem suggesting as much. By this point, Yeltsin was, to put it mildly, a very vodka-happy man, and getting happier by the minute. A military string orchestra made a surprise entrance, the players threading around the tables, and launched into a series of waltzes. This inspired Yeltsin, who jumped to his feet. The wild look in his eyes said it all: this was a man who wanted to dance.

There was a problem, though. The room was set for dining, with the tables tightly packed together. There was not even a hint of a dance floor. Yeltsin was too happy to care. Looking to his right, he offered Barbara Bush his hand; she responded with wide eyes, but somehow managed to decline politely. Looking to his left, he saw the trophy wife, who was about as happy as he was. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she accepted. She was a tiny thing and when Yeltsin grabbed her it looked like a huge beast wrestling with its prey. The two careened through the narrow spaces between the tables, bumping endlessly into the seated guests and the standing players. Now everyone had a horrified look. It was like a car wreck, with everyone feeling helpless. President Bush’s face remained impassive, as if he had mentally checked out, and Vice President Dan Quayle looked positively dazed. Of course this could have been normal.

Following this opening act, we moved to a salon for Carol’s recital, but it became clear that Yeltsin was more interested in Carol’s figure than her vocal selections. She did look particularly fabulous, sporting a dress specially designed for the occasion by Norman Miller — and Yeltsin did not miss the dress’s most outstanding feature, which was the décolletage. He lurched onto the stage, his nose heading for it like a guided missile, moaning “Carolka, Carolka.” As aides scrambled to head off a major international incident I leaned back in my chair. Just another day in the halls of power, I mused.