A Matter of Defection : Jorge Esquivel, once Cuba’s leading male dancer, was hailed for his sensitivity and virtuosity. Today at 44, he teaches at the San Francisco Ballet and dances character roles. But he says he doesn’t regret the changes in his career.

Jorge Esquivel should have been an international superstar. Balletomanes everywhere should have thought of him when they thought of Rudolf Nureyev and Mikhail Baryshnikov.

Extraordinarily lithe, eminently Latin and macho-muscular, he exuded what the hypesters like to call animal magnetism. He was a firebrand, in the best sense. But he also was a cavalier, a disciplined stylist and the most self-effacing, most considerate, most reliable partner a ballerina could dream of.

He had the touch of a poet. Even better, he had the touch of a tall poet.

Like Nureyev and Baryshnikov, Esquivel came from a Communist country. Unfortunately for him, perhaps, it wasn’t the country of the glamorous Kirov and Bolshoi.

Esquivel was, in more than one sense, a product of Fidel Castro’s Cuba. As such, he also was the protege and, for most impractical purposes, the property of Alicia Alonso, the legendary dancer who created a world-class company in her own image with the total support of the Castro regime.

Born in 1950, Esquivel was chosen for glory while still a boy. Carefully trained, studiously nurtured and painstakingly groomed, he rose from a modest background to become the premier danseur of the Ballet Nacional de Cuba and, as such, the primary partner of its aging, nearly blind, eternally compelling prima ballerina assoluta.

He was, from 1972 to 1986, the leading male dancer in Cuba. That virtually made him the leading male dancer in Latin America. He earned spectacular triumphs wherever the Cuban ballet was allowed to tour, even, as the iron curtains eventually began to open, in America.

Still, his repertory was confined to the Havana repertory, and his opportunities for professional expansion remained slim. A Cuban dancer--by political, social and artistic definition--could not be an independent dancer.

In 1986, after 18 years with the National Ballet, he decided to abandon both his alma maters--partner and company. After a brief sojourn with a lesser Cuban ensemble (this one run by Fernando Alonso, Alicia’s former husband), he made the big break. While visiting Italy, he went to the U.S. consulate to request asylum. The erstwhile role model for Cuban youth opted for a precarious new life and a difficult new occupation in the dangerous world of capitalism. Now 44, he resides in San Francisco and works quietly for the San Francisco Ballet, which he first joined in January, 1993. When he isn’t teaching classes, he performs character roles. The noble Siegfried has become the evil Rothbart.

When Helgi Tomasson’s San Franciscans bring “Romeo and Juliet” south to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion from Nov. 30 to Dec. 4, Esquivel will appear as the menacing Tybalt. In his prime, he could have been an ideal Romeo. Sadly, those days are over.

Esquivel may harbor regrets about the limitations and detours of his career, but he refuses to admit them. During a conversation in the lavish offices of the San Francisco Ballet, he remains steadfastly philosophical about the past and bravely optimistic about the future.

He answers questions with humor and self-deprecating candor, sometimes in halting English and sometimes in the rapidly tumbling sentences of Cuban-flavored Spanish. Antonio Castilla, a principal dancer from Madrid and fellow teacher, generously volunteers to serve as interpreter.

Somehow Esquivel isn’t prepared for the inevitable first question: Why did he leave the National Ballet of Cuba?

“ Bueno ,” he pauses. “Why? I don’t know.”

Of course, he does know.

“I had been there so many years. I needed to be free, and I was tired. For seven months I didn’t dance at all. Then I wanted to do more, to do different things. I knew that I didn’t have much time.”

He made a lot of guest appearances--in Buenos Aires, in Perm, in Brazil, in Italy. He danced with diverse divas--Ghislaine Thesmar, Eva Evdokimova, Cynthia Gregory and Carla Fracci (all, incidentally, older women, but none as old as Alicia Alonso, who was born in 1921).

Significantly, he had turned down an offer from Lucia Chase to join American Ballet Theatre years earlier. “I was not ready then,” he explains. “I had a wife and young daughter. I felt I could not leave the country and the company that had given me everything. It would have caused too much pain.”

He acknowledges basic, ultimately fragile loyalties.

“I would not have been anybody without Alicia and without the revolution. I knew that, and I knew what ballet meant to everyone in my country. It was not the time to think of leaving.”

In the interim, the declining political and economic fortunes of Cuba have taken a drastic toll on the National Ballet. Esquivel’s marriage has been dissolved, and his daughter is virtually an adult.

“Now everything is different,” he says. “My daughter is 18. I haven’t seen her for two years, but it isn’t so bad. We can talk on the phone, and I know the situation in Cuba will change.”

Obviously, he is not here with his country’s blessings, or with those of Alicia Alonso.

“I still have many relatives in Cuba--brothers, sisters, uncles . . . I’d love to see them,” he adds. “But if I were to go back, the people in charge would cut my head off.”

He laughs. Nervously.

“I have decorations from Castro and from the ministry of culture. They must regard me as a traitor. My decision to leave was motivated by artistic, not political, reasons, but that wouldn’t make any difference.”

And Alicia Alonso?

“That’s even worse. She would not speak to me. In her eyes, I now am a dead person. She thinks I have betrayed a trust, betrayed her, betrayed the company and the country too. There’s no way she can understand. It makes me sad.

“She is like a sick mother. She gave me life, in a sense, and she thinks I belong to her.

“It is the same with Castro. The revolution was great, but the world is changing. Some people cannot comprehend the change.”

It could not have been easy to dance with a partner who was 29 years older and afflicted with severe vision problems.

“It was difficult in the beginning,” Esquivel admits, “but I got used to it. I danced with Alicia for 14 years. That is longer than any other partner she had. (Igor) Youskevich danced with her for only 10 years. She was a genius. There is no question of that. I knew the difference when I danced with other ballerinas in the company.”

He becomes agitated when asked about current conditions in Cuba.

“The Ballet Nacional was one of the best companies in the world, and it can still produce wonderful dancers. The men are especially good. Castro wanted the men to symbolize everything proud and noble in Cuba. When boys were chosen for the school, they could not be weak. They had to represent the country, Castro, the revolution.

“But these are bad times. The government needs money. Many have left.”

He claims that he feels no disappointment regarding his new career. “I did not come here with great expectations,” he says. “It was too late for that.”

Was it difficult to give up his heroic roles?

“No,” he declares, almost defiantly.

Doesn’t he miss Siegfried and Albrecht and all those lofty princes?

“Yes. But one has to know oneself. One has to know what one can do. Destiny has made me Tebaldo (Tybalt) now, and I will be the best Tebaldo I can be.

“I must give 100%. For me there never has been another way.”

Esquivel doesn’t pretend that the downward switch in repertory poses no problems.

“If one doesn’t understand the situation,” he admits in matter-of-fact tones, “the pain can be great.”

He says he finds comfort in San Francisco. “In Cuba I didn’t just dance in wonderful theaters. I also danced in rice fields, in bull rings and on floating stages. Now I am here. It is a new life.

“The city is so beautiful. The company is one of the best. Helgi has been very generous. I love teaching. I cannot complain about anything.”

Complaining, in any case, would not seem to be Esquivel’s forte. Modesty is his forte.

He brushes aside any suggestion that he didn’t fulfill his potential as a universal celebrity.

“What is fame?” he shrugs. “I had more fame than I deserved.”

One hopes he doesn’t protest too much.*