Rudolf Nureyev may be the monstre sacre of the world dance ("Fortress Nureyev," by Lewis Segal, March 22), but he also owes me $20.

My son and I, along with Jean Louis, the great clothes designer, drove Nureyev in our limo from the Malibu Beach home of Joan Cohn Harvey (the widow of Harry Cohn, and then married to the now-deceased Laurence Harvey, the actor) to L.A. International Airport.

Rudi swept into the airport wrapped in a full-length mink coat--but few noticed, thinking he was an eccentric millionaire, or something along those lines.

At the airline counter, he was told that Sol Hurok's people--then his booking agent--had him on other than first class, and he made enough noise to again start World War II.

Nureyev had no cash, and told them something like, "Nureyev carries no money," and the clerk replied, "Then Nureyev doesn't go first class!"

You know, Calendar, how Rudi is at 49? Imagine this scene in 1964!

Nureyev turned to me and gave me a "It is your privilege to pay the difference," and I stupidly did. He gave an aside as he marched toward the plane embarkment: "It will be sent to you."

Of course, it never was.


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