One day, after a hard day’s rehearsal, I walked into a dark apartment. “Hello, Liz?” I called out. No answer. She must be out, I thought. I turned on the lights—the dishes were still piled up in the sink after breakfast as usual. Anger started to simmer inside me. I looked to see if she had left me any messages, and I found none. I took a beer from the fridge and sat on a cheap folding chair and felt sorry for myself. Where is my wife? Where is my dinner? Why didn’t she leave me a message? Why didn’t she wash the dishes, with all the time she has during the day? Hunger made me feel angrier. I broke a couple of eggs into a bowl and was about to make fried rice when I noticed the rice was still sitting in a pot on the stove. I’d told Elizabeth to put it in the fridge so it would keep longer. Should I wait for her perhaps? Yes, of course. According to my family tradition, the family meal together was a sacred time. I should keep this tradition going.
I waited for over an hour. I started to worry. Maybe she’d had an accident. I picked up the phone and called Keith, the British boy who’d stayed at Ben’s place and who was a close friend of Elizabeth’s at the time. No answer. Please don’t let anything happen to Liz, I prayed. I paced around our apartment with my heart hanging in the air.
Elizabeth eventually came home, in a happy mood, around nine o’clock. “Hello, my darling, have you had your dinner yet?” she said.
My anger flared up immediately. “Where you been?”
“I went out with some friends, and we had something to eat together. Why are you so angry?” she asked.
“Why I am angry? Look at these, dirty dishes in sink, like pigs’ home, rice out on stove. No dinner, no message. I’m worried, hungry and angry!”
“Oh, you want me to cook for you? Is that what you’re angry about? Let me tell you, you didn’t marry a cook! I hate cooking!”
“I work all day and come home, see dirt everywhere! You want me cook, clean, wash at seven o’clock? You have many more hours free, what you do?”
“You don’t understand, do you? I want to dance, not cook! Dancing is something I’ve wanted to do since I was a little girl. It’s the only thing I want to do. Your career is going from strength to strength, and you are happy with your leading roles. You go to sleep with sweet dreams. What about me?” she said, and by now she was in tears.
In my anger I could see nothing of my own selfishness. Sweet dreams? Had she forgotten my nightmares so quickly? She had no idea what I was going through. “In night, I think of my family in China . . .” But I couldn’t go on. How could I express all my sorrow and guilt? “You don’t understand!” I said finally.
“We don’t understand each other!” she shouted.
We were still fuming the next morning. I’d gone out the evening before to walk off my anger, and Elizabeth had been asleep when I’d returned. My anger gradually gave in to remorse but we didn’t speak for days.
That was the beginning of the end of our marriage. I wanted Elizabeth and Ben to get along. I hoped that he might accept her into the company. But eventually it was too agonizing for her to socialize with Ben, and she was convinced that as long as he was the artistic director of the Houston Ballet she would have no chance of getting a contract. I tried to teach her some of my techniques but with our close relationship and my poor English, our coaching sessions always ended in frustration. Our happiest moments were when we would dance together in our living room. I wished that I could give her this kind of happiness all the time, but I could see she was suffocating and I didn’t know how to help. I encouraged her to continue her dancing career with other companies, but she thought I was pushing her away. She eventually tried the San Francisco Ballet and several other companies, but no contracts were offered. She came back to Houston between tries, and over the months we communicated with each other less and less.
About a year after we married, she was finally accepted as a dancer by a small contemporary dance company in Oklahoma. She immediately started work. She was excited at last. She loved her new dancing opportunities. She loved performing. She was happy and alive.
Then one evening she phoned me from Oklahoma. “Li, I want a divorce.”
I was shocked but not totally surprised. “If this is what you want, okay,” I murmured sadly.
“I’ll be back to get my stuff soon,” she said shakily. “I’m sorry, Li, I really loved you.”
I didn’t blame Elizabeth for our failed marriage. I blamed myself. I had let Elizabeth down. I had failed as a husband. I didn’t understand love in Western culture, and I shrank back into my own protective cocoon, withdrawing from many of my friends. I felt hopeless. I doubted that a marriage between East and West could ever work. Hadn’t Consul Zhang told me this, that night at the consulate? What could I have done to have saved our marriage? We loved each other. We had each other, and now we had lost each other. I blamed fate. Fate had pulled a dirty trick on me. I thought of my parents’ successful marriage and felt only more grief and shame.
Now there was no way back. I had no home to go to now, so I poured myself into my dance even more. Ballet was the only thing I knew how to do. It was my salvation as I tried to survive on my own in the Western world.
After our divorce, to help me pay my rent, I shared an apartment with another student for that first year. The second year I moved into a one-bedroom unit, and I finally had my own space.
By now it was May 1982, the year I would go to London for the very first time. Ben had choreographed a pas de deux using Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, and he had especially created it for Janie Parker and me to perform at the Sadler’s Wells Royal Ballet gala.
Janie had joined the Houston Ballet in 1976. She’d fallen in love with Ben’s choreography and artistry and, despite the outrage of George Balanchine and the artistic director of her company in Geneva, she’d followed Ben to Houston.
Janie had the most beautiful long legs and pretty feet. When she stood on pointe her legs seemed to stretch on and on. She was very lyrical in her dancing and, like me, she loved the romantic ballets.
This was going to be our first partnership, and I was very apprehensive. She was one of the top two principal dancers of the Houston Ballet. In reality I was a little too short for her when she stood on pointe, but I made sure that I was strong enough and went through a physical-strengthening program to make absolutely certain.
I couldn’t wait to get to London. I longed to see it. London, Paris, Washington, D.C.—the symbolic capitals of the Western world. I had seen some pictures of London but to be there in person, to experience the mood of this great city, would be awesome.
Like my first experience of America, I was shocked with what I saw in London. I’d guessed that the Chinese government would probably have lied to us about England too, but I was still overawed by its wealth and prosperity. The grandness of Buckingham Palace made me gasp with wonder. Where was the tragic poverty, the depressingly dark, unhappy London I had been told of in China? Britain should have made China look like heaven, but to my horror, it was the reverse.
It drizzled sporadically for the entire time we were in London but when the sun peeped out it was gloriously beautiful. The flowers in the meticulously maintained gardens, the café tables along the pathways, the wide busy streets. If only I could stay longer and enjoy all this! But our schedule was grueling, and we spent most of our time in the hotel and the theater. I did manage to see Piccadilly Circus, the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, and I marveled at the glorious detail of Big Ben and Parliament House. The history fascinated me. Ben even introduced me to rich clotted cream for afternoon tea one day, and I remember sitting there in that café and thinking of the London Festival Ballet dancing in Beijing that time in 1979, so long ago now, it seemed.
Back in Houston, before my defection, Ben had been negotiating with the Chinese government to take some Houston Ballet dancers to China. This was one of Ben’s great dreams, but after my defection everyone including Ben thought this possibility was dashed. But to everyone’s surprise the Chinese G
overnment allowed Ben to proceed with his plan. The Houston Ballet dancers were paired with the Chinese dancers, and it was all a great success. As I had expected I wasn’t allowed to go, nor would I have dared to return.
Ben’s relationship with China mended after that trip and I was happy for him for that, but I still worried about the possible implications my defection might have had on my family and for several years I didn’t write or call them, fearing I would get them into further trouble. When I eventually did dare to write, I received no reply and this just added even more worry to my already heavy heart.
It was now eighteen months since my defection, and the Houston Ballet was to do a six-week tour through Europe: Italy, Switzerland, France, Spain, Luxembourg and Monaco. It would be my first look at the Continent.
I loved the places we performed at. Epernay was one of them: our impresario had booked us there for two performances, and we were warned that the stage was small, uneven and raked. During the afternoon rehearsal it became apparent that the stage was far too small to accommodate the entire cast of Etude. Ben had to take some dancers out of a couple of the larger scenes. I was one of the principals and had to find the smoothest part of the stage on which to perform my difficult turns. After the rehearsal, Ben gathered all the dancers together. “I know we are in the city where the best champagnes are made, but I hope you are disciplined and responsible enough not to drink any before the show,” Ben warned.
The audience enthusiastically received our performance. But I did see a few wobbly legs that night. Maybe it was the raked stage, maybe it was the champagne, but right after the performance the British consul general, a distant cousin of Ben’s, provided the whole company with Moët & Chandon and Taittinger, passed around in flowery hand-painted glasses. It was consumed like water, and the party lasted into the early hours of the following morning.
From Epernay we traveled to Nice, with its beautiful Mediterranean beaches and turquoise water, where I would brunch in a beach café and watch the boats passing back and forth. I visited the Matisse and Chagall collections and at night dined with the dancers and friends from the ballet, tasting red wines I had never even imagined and eating superb cuisine in even the smallest and shabbiest of cafés.
While touring in Italy we had a few days free. I went to Florence with three of my Houston Ballet friends. I was awestruck by Florence. Endless monuments and sculptures, the history of the Medici family, masterpieces by Michelangelo, Brunelleschi, Donatello, Masaccio, the Piazza del Duomo and Piazza della Signoria. I was like a kid in a candy store. I was so excited that I missed my lunch appointment with my friends and my hotel checkout time, and had to rush to the train station to catch my train to Venice.
Venice was the place all of us were eager to visit. A friend had once told me that “to discover romance and beauty in Venice one must walk and walk.” Well, at least that’s what I thought she’d said. So I walked and walked, from one historical site to another. I stood there, in total amazement at the striking of the bell in the Torre dell’Orologio, at the incredible paintings, at the rich Venetian colors. This was romance and beauty in its ultimate form, I thought. I saw decay everywhere, part of the true beauty of Venice and its rich history. But this ancient city also made me sad—I thought of China and all that had been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution.
In the middle of all this glamour, I remembered, as always, my family and friends back in China. How I wished I could share this food with them! How I wanted to show them what I saw! But for them I knew the Western world and its affluence would remain completely out of reach.
24
A MILLET DREAM COME TRUE
After my failed marriage and that first amazing trip to Europe, my dance career moved rapidly forward. Ben’s choreographic and teaching talents were immense—he became my mentor and I concentrated on my dancing with all my energy. I breathed ballet, I craved ballet. The freedom I now had allowed me to do anything I wanted to in America.
I was always surprised to hear others say I had a very strict work ethic, though, because for me dancing was fun. I wanted to practice during our fifteen-minute breaks—I could not allow such precious time to be wasted. I couldn’t believe there were so many public holidays in America. And why were the studios shut on the weekend? We never had so many holidays in China. Other than going home for the Chinese New Year, the only holidays we had were 1 October for the birth of communist China and 1 May, which was dedicated to the workers of the world. Otherwise it was the strict routine of the Beijing Dance Academy, day after day after day.
Here in America I had freedom. But I knew I had paid a huge price for it. I had lost my niang, my dia, my brothers, my friends and my country, forever. Self-doubt often overwhelmed me. I was completely cut off from the first eighteen years of my life. Many times I wanted my niang to hold me, but I didn’t even know if she was still alive.
I would have loved just to have heard their voices once again. In some ways, although I had escaped the communist cell, I had, in so many other ways, stepped right into a cell of another kind—a world of homesickness and heartache, of pain that was palpable, of sickness that was real. When I was alone, tears would fog my vision and drop like rain whenever I thought of my beloved niang.
Gradually, over the months and years, I learned to store my grief inside, and it flooded my heart with sorrow. I would remember my family’s voices, their word-finding games, how we would pass food from one family member to another because there was never enough for all of us. I wondered, was my dia still telling his stories? How is my second brother? Did he marry the girl Big Aunt had introduced to him? Is he at peace with his life? How was the Bandit? The Chongs? Teacher Xiao and Zhang Shu? I missed my dia’s stories. I missed making kites with him. I longed for my niang’s warmth, her heartbeat, her love. At these moments, the distant memories of dried yams never seemed quite so bad.
And another thing concerned me—I didn’t want to be like most of the Chinese people living in Houston, mixing only with other Chinese. I didn’t want to be always on the fringe. So I tried to read books in English. My first was a book called Black Beauty. It was a Christmas present. An animal story, I thought. For children. Easy enough. But then, it was so hard! So many new words I didn’t know. I turned to my dictionary and wrote down the meaning of each word in the book as I went. That killed the continuity of the story for me, but still I cried when Beauty lost his mother, just as I had. By the time I’d finished reading it, my tiny detailed notes covered each and every page of the novel.
I tried to fit in by dating American girls too. Once, I dated a young girl and we went to a wedding together. She asked me if I wanted some coke.
“No,” I answered, “I don’t like Coke, I am a beer drinker.”
“I didn’t mean Coca-Cola, I meant cocaine.”
I had heard about cocaine. I’d heard it was bad. “No, thank you,” I replied.
Then a friend of hers asked me if I wanted a smoke.
“I hate the taste of cigarettes,” I said.
He laughed. “I wasn’t offering you a cigarette, I was offering you some grass.”
I was totally lost by then. Sounded like those horrible dried squash leaves I’d tried with my childhood friends back in China. But everyone assured me it would make me feel good, so I gave one of their grass cigarettes a try. Ten minutes later I didn’t feel any different. So I tried another.
A few minutes later I felt like a hammer was pounding inside my head. Unhappiness overwhelmed me. My parents, my brothers, the Bandit, my friends, my failed marriage, the defection—all flooded into my mind. I was trapped. I had to go home. I don’t remember which road I took or how I got there, but I do remember lying on my bed at one in the morning, alone with those painful thoughts. My head felt like someone had driven a long nail into it. Every joint of my body ached. I don’t know what time I finally fell asleep, but when I opened the door the next morning, there was the girl I’d dated. Her face was red. She could hardly stand. The th
ought of what I’d just experienced made my head ache more, and I ended our relationship there and then.
All the way through rehearsal the following day, I thought I would lose my balance and fall at any moment. I was in a dream-land. Words just came out of my mouth without me thinking.
I performed the role of the jester in Cinderella at that night’s dress rehearsal. All I could remember was the applause afterwards. Ben said it was the best solo I had ever done. Could I do it exactly like that on opening night? he asked. Repeat that? Of course I couldn’t repeat what I’d done! I hadn’t the slightest idea how I’d done it in the first place! That was the last time I would try anything that looked like dried squash leaves.
Aside from the drugs, though, I did want to experiment with nearly everything the Western world had to offer. I discovered Western movies, especially the John Wayne ones. I liked the courage he portrayed. I also liked movies such as Star Trek and the 007 films. I went to operas, symphonies, pop concerts and plays. Through Ben I met some extraordinary people—people including Liza Minnelli, Cleo Laine, Gregory Peck, Frank Sinatra and John Denver. I even went to discos, but I wasn’t too fond of them. Still, I was like a bird let out of its cage, and I could fly in any direction I chose.
But I never lost my love for ballet. The Houston Ballet was my home now. The dancers were my family. I treasured each day and each performance as though it were my last. I looked to Ben for constant guidance and inspiration, and found it.