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doing a show when the audience expected me to be there. A kind of inbred professional ethic always prevented me from canceling a show. It was literally impossible for me to indulge myself that way. I remembered the night I had done two shows in Vienna, when I was on tour in Europe, with a 106-degree fever. By the end of the second show, my temperature was normal. I had sprained my ankle on New Year’s Eve in Vegas. The doctor told me I shouldn’t even walk on it for three weeks, nor dance on it for two months. It was purple-black. But I went on anyway—and never missed a show for the rest of the engagement. When I was sixteen years old, I had broken the same ankle and danced a complete ballet on point rather than miss a show. I think I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I couldn’t live up to my professional obligations. It was my gypsy-dancing training, I guess. But really, I think it was more that I didn’t want to displeaseanyone. I was my mother’s daughter, all right. So I really understood her sincerity in not wanting to upset me. I had come to understand that conducting myself according to what others might think was not a trait to be admired, but when it came to an audience waiting with the expectation of seeing me, some kind of workhorse professionalism took over. I would be there.
    “Mom,” said Sachi, “don’t you think you’d be more comfortable wearing slacks tonight?”
    I wondered what she meant. “No,” I said, “I don’t feel like changing. I’ll just keep on this knit suit. It’s okay. Besides, why should I wear slacks to our dinner afterward?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” she said vaguely.
    I didn’t know what that was all about.
    Simo came in tapping his watch.
    “Why don’t you put on some slacks so we can get going?” he said casually.
    “Why does everybody want me to wear slacks?” I said.
    “No reason,” he said. “Just thought with all that’s going on, you’d be more comfortable.”
    I brushed it all aside, picked up my pocketbook, yelled for Sandy and Dennis, and we all piled into the limo to go to the theater.
    The crosstown traffic was congested. With each red light and delay, thoughts of my mother crowded my mind. Sad childhood memories. How I would feel when I could never touch her again. What it would be like walking into the house without seeing her rush toward me, her long arms outstretched. I pushed the thoughts away. I had a show to do. But as we pulled up to the stage door, I realized I was quietly crying.
    Crowds of people milled around the stage-door entrance. Many more than usual.
    “What’s going on?” I asked.
    “Well, it’s your birthday,” said Simo.
    “Yeah, but why all this?” I asked.
    I looked into the crowd more carefully. I saw three television camera crews.
    “I don’t understand,” I said. “I’m not Queen Elizabeth.”
    “Well, I hope not,” said Simo. “She wouldn’t know what to do with this.”
    “With what?” I asked, really becoming curious now.
    My company manager, Michael Flowers, flanked by two policemen, guided me over to the huge stage-door elevator that was used for loading equipment into the theater.
    “Why are you taking me this way?” I asked.
    And with that, the elevator door opened. The crowd began to applaud. I turned to them. I didn’t know why they were applauding. Someone pointed behind me. I turned around.
    Towering over me was a huge Indian elephant with her trainer from Ringling Brothers Circus beside her.
    Lee Guber, the promoter for my show at the Gershwin, said, “You said the one thing you had never done was ride an elephant. Well, happy birthday! Here’s your chance.”
    I quickly wiped my eyes, took a deep breath, entered the scene, and we were “on.” Lee was right. The night I had won the Academy Award, I was interviewed by Joel Siegel. He had concluded that I had done just about everything there was to do in my life and he wondered if there was anything I hadn’t done that he