ary and I were back dancing together again and we quickly became good friends. We trusted each other's tastes in dancing and each other's opinions in other aspects of life too.

After a rehearsal one day, Mary invited me to her apartment for dinner. I arrived with a six-pack of beer in hand just as Mary was in the middle of making spaghetti carbonara.

"Can I help?" I offered.

"No, thank you! Just relax! Enjoy your beer. All is under control!" she replied a little too cheerily.

I peered into the kitchen—and saw total chaos. There was a huge pot on the stove full of spaghetti which was all glued together. There was so much of it. Enough to serve at least ten people, I thought.

"How many are coming for dinner?" I asked casually.

"Oh, just the two of us!"

I laughed. "It looks like you have enough food here to feed all of Mao's army."

When the dinner was served the spaghetti was a lump and the sauce was very bland.

"How did you learn to cook?" I asked.

"I can't cook! I'm hopeless in the kitchen! Can't you tell? My mother is a good cook but I never paid any attention while she was cooking. I'm sorry this is a bit gluey. It's my first attempt at carbonara sauce," Mary said apologetically.

"Still tastes good though," I said, trying to comfort her.

"Would you like more? There's plenty left!"

"I know," I replied. We looked at each other and burst into laughter. We laughed and laughed. Her first attempt to impress me with her cooking had definitely failed the test for a perfect Chinese wife. But her efforts and her honesty won me over completely and I liked her even more after that disastrous carbonara.

My parents didn't come back to America until February of 1986, four months after our New York tour I'd worked so hard to recover for. By then my relationship with Mary had gone beyond just being friends. Her love of literature had become a major influence on me and I loved her open-mindedness and her curiosity. She constantly searched for new knowledge, not only in dance but in all aspects of life, and her tremendous inner strength and high principles seemed to be a match for my stubbornness. Mary could put me back in my place and set me straight any time.

We stayed together at each other's places often by now. However, we decided that to avoid any unnecessary shock Mary shouldn't stay overnight with me once my parents were here. Traditional Chinese marriage values couldn't possibly allow us to sleep together without being married. My parents would never approve.

Charles Foster got my parents a six-month visa this time. They were just as thrilled to see me and, though it still took them a while to get over their culture shock, they were much more familiar with America this time around and enjoyed every bit of it. Their kindness and their love of life made them the centre of attention among my friends. They were so well liked, and I was going to have them with me for the whole six months.

After a performance one night I brought Mary home to have dinner with us. My niang cooked some of my favourite dumplings. It was almost midnight by the time we finished dinner and before my parents went to bed my niang stopped and said, "Jing Hao, tell Mary, don't go home tonight, it's too late."

"But we only have two beds. Where is she going to sleep?" I asked innocently.

"You're a man now, do I have to tell you where she should sleep?"

"You don't mind if we sleep in the same bed?" I asked, red-faced.

"As long as you love each other, we don't care what you do," she replied. My niang looked at Mary. Then she whispered to me, "Of course we would prefer you to marry a Chinese girl who can look after you and cook for you like a Chinese wife could, but we know that we are old fashioned. I can tell there is something special between you," she paused. "We made a mess of arranging your second brother's marriage. We will not interfere again."

Then my niang turned to Mary who was just about to leave. "Mary, don't go home tonight, it's too late," my niang said to her in Chinese.

Before I could translate for her, I saw Mary's face. She had understood.

My parents' liberal thinking surprised me greatly that night. I knew they liked Mary but I also knew that deep down they would have strong reservations about their son marrying another Western person, especially after my failed marriage with Elizabeth. Still, they left the matter entirely to my own judgement.

But even I wasn't completely sure whether Mary and I could cross our cultural boundaries successfully. Memories of my marriage with Elizabeth haunted me often. But then, Mary was like no other woman I had ever met. She had an unusual understanding of Eastern culture. She had the most generous spirit. She endlessly bombarded me with questions about my childhood, my family, about China and especially about my life at the Beijing Dance Academy. I asked about her family and childhood too, and about Australia in general. I had learned about Australia in our geography classes back at the academy and was always puzzled that such a huge country like Australia only had a population the same size as Shanghai's. It was almost inconceivable.

Mary had been in Houston for nearly a year by now. Our friendship grew stronger all the time and my parents liked her more and more. Mary even began buying me clothes. "Do you like this?" she asked one day when we were out shopping, and she pulled a shirt off the rack.

"No, no, don't be ridiculous! I'll never wear this! It's too… colourful," I said, horrified. The shirt was a mess of gaudy colours and hectic patterns, way too loud for me.

"No, you will look so handsome in it! Let's try it on," she said enthusiastically.

I put the shirt on and looked at myself in the mirror. I gasped.

"There, you look like a colourful artist now," Mary continued. "I knew you would look beautiful with a bit of colour. It's done. The shirt is yours."

I continued to study myself in the mirror. Gradually I got over the shock. The longer I lingered the more I liked it. Maybe she was right. A bit of colour did suit me. But there were so many colours and patterns! Compared to what I wore in China—the Mao jacket, the plain colours—this is very daring, I said to myself.

A couple of days later Mary and I were invited to a post- performance dinner party. I decided to be brave and wear the shirt.

"Where did you get this shirt? It looks great!" Ben said.

"Mary bought it for me," I replied proudly.

That shirt became my favourite thing to wear. Later I even wore it to the White House to meet Vice-President and Barbara Bush.

Mary and I had formed a rapport, a chemistry, but we both knew that getting involved with someone within the same profession was going to be difficult. A dancer's life was hard enough. Two dancers together would be impossible, especially two ambitious principal dancers like us. But there seemed to be a certain force drawing us closer all the time. I knew she was fond of me and I knew she was special. I quietly wondered if I loved her but still I wasn't sure.

Ben had paired Mary and I together for the leading roles in Peer Gynt at around this time. I vividly remember rehearsing a scene one day: Peer had been informed by Solveig's little sister Helga that his mother was dying. Peer was torn between going back to his mother or staying with his beloved Solveig. Mary and I had to do this romantic, agonising pas de deux together just before we parted on stage. There was a long phrase of beautiful, intensely sad music. Mary and I looked at each other and kissed each other goodbye.

At that moment, we both had tears in our eyes. We stood there and looked at each other. We had no sense of time. We both knew, instantly. Our destiny together was inevitable.

After that fateful moment I decided I would ask Mary to marry me. In fact I decided many times after that, but every time I managed to talk myself out of it. In the end I felt like I was fighting against an irresistible force.

One day not long after our Peer Gynt rehearsal I was guest performing with the Pittsburgh Ballet in Giselle and I knew that

Mary was having dinner with my parents back in Houston that night. I spoke to my parents over the phone, and made sure everything was all right. "Mary is looking after us. She is such a nice girl!" my niang told me.

Then I spoke to Mary. "How is everything in Houston?" I asked.

"Fine, your parents are adorable! I've just bought them some Chinese cabbage and pork and they have made me some delicious dumplings!"

"Mary, I miss you. I want to ask you something…" My heart thumped as I spoke. I was so nervous and so hopelessly backward in trying to find the appropriate words. I just wanted to say, "Will you marry me?" but I was too scared. What if she said no?

My fumbling continued, my voice shaking. "Mary, you are such a special person in my heart and the most beautiful person in the world. I feel that you are a much better human being than I am. Sometimes I don't feel that I deserve you. Would you still love me the same when I have a long silver beard at the end of my life?"

"Li." Mary sounded impatient. "What are you trying to say?" I knew she was thinking, for god's sake just get on with it! "Are you trying to tell me that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?"

"Yes! Do you think we can be happy together, for the rest of our lives?" I still couldn't say what I wanted to say.

"Li," she said matter-of-factly, "you are the dearest person in my life. I will love you until I die. Of course we can be happy together for the rest of our lives."

Asking Mary to marry me was the hardest, the bravest and the luckiest thing I had ever done in my life. My heart soared into the air. Now I had found my soul mate. My niang was ecstatic. Even my dia was happy, though his reaction wasn't quite as spontaneous as my niang's.

Mary told her parents about our engagement immediately, and of course they were happy, but being Catholics they were somewhat uneasy about their daughter not being able to have a traditional wedding because of my previous divorce. So one of my friends, who was also Catholic, set up a meeting for me with a priest, Father Monaghan.

Father Monaghan was a chubby, friendly person. He wore a pair of spectacles and a priest's robe. I hesitated in front of this rather ordinary-looking man—he didn't look like a messenger of God to me. "Nice to meet you, Father Mon…" I struggled with the pronunciation.

"Monaghan," he said helpfully. "Tell me about your problems."

I told him everything—my failed marriage with Elizabeth, my defection story, which he knew well enough already, my love for Mary, her parents' sincere wish that their daughter could be married in the Catholic Church.

"Does Mary love you as much as you love her?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

"Do you believe in any religion?" he asked.

"No, I was never allowed to believe in any religion. Except Mao's communism," I replied.

"Do you believe in God?" he asked seriously.

This was the first time anyone had asked me this and I had never given it much thought. I remembered looking up into the sky as a child and imagining the gods above, whoever they might be. I remembered flying my kite back home in my village and imagining my secret communication channel up to the gods, saying my prayers and sending up my secret wishes. I thought of every turning point in my life and I knew I'd felt a great force guiding me, but I could never put a finger on what that was.

"Yes, I do believe there is a god," I finally replied.

Then Father Monaghan said, "I'm going to ask you the last and most serious question of all. I want you to take your time to consider this."

I started to feel nervous. "To be able to marry Mary you have to become a Catholic. Are you prepared to adopt the Catholic religion as your only religion for the rest of your life?"

I sat there like a statue. Communism had been my religion for over eighteen years. Ever since I'd turned my back on it I hadn't questioned myself about other religious beliefs. I had no idea what kind of differences there were between other religions. Perhaps Catholicism was like communism, I thought. But as long as I believed in God, the one God for all people in the whole world, then surely Mary and I would be able to share the same religion. So I agreed there and then to become a Catholic.

Both Mary and her parents were overwhelmed with this news. Mary's mother couldn't figure out how on earth Father Monaghan would get the Catholic Church to agree to have my first marriage annulled. But Father Monaghan assured us that because my communist background had denied me any religious freedom, our marriage within the Catholic Church would be perfectly possible.

I was supposed to have five religious education sessions with

Father Monaghan and I was given a Bible to read. I still had such difficulty understanding how Jesus could possibly have been born to a virgin. "How do we know that Jesus wasn't Joseph's child?" I asked Father Monaghan. But Father Monaghan was very patient and after just three lessons I was baptised, at the age of twenty- six. It was 1987 and our marriage date was set for October.

Two nights before our wedding, I learnt all about the tradition of the bachelor's party. I was reassured by my friends that this was one tradition that we simply had to have.

That same night I was invited to a lavish black-tie party in honour of the beautiful and glamorous Isabella Rossellini, daughter of Ingrid Bergman. But first my friends took me to an Irish pub. They gave me vodka. They all drank water, but I thought they were drinking vodka too. By the time we got to Isabella's party, my head was spinning.

Then it was on to our final stop, a men's club. We were ushered to a private VIP room. During the course of the evening, twenty- dollar, fifty-dollar, sometimes one hundred-dollar notes, were exchanged as the men were entertained by topless dancers. This was the western version of the Chinese wedding's "chaos night", I thought. Mary's brother Matthew who was with me was horrified. By one o'clock in the morning, I was exhausted and told my friends that I'd had enough of the wiggly topless dancers and I just needed to go home. But I was too drunk to drive.

"I'll drive you home!" my friend John volunteered.

"No, I will. I'm not drunk," said Matthew. But all the way home he forgot he wasn't in Australia still, and he habitually drove on the wrong side of the road.

Mary's mother was so worried about our bachelor's party. She nearly called the police to see if there were any reports of dead Chinese and Australians in any car accidents that night.

By the time of our wedding Mary and I had bought a new house with a large front yard that we could use for our wedding reception. Since my parents had just left America—they'd arrived more than six months ago—none of my family members could be there, but we had invited over fifty of our friends. How I wished my parents could be present too.

We decided to have our wedding in the little Catholic chapel where I had been baptised. The wedding rehearsals were like getting ready for a major performance. But the wedding ceremony itself was no ordinary performance: it was the defining moment of our lives.

With Charles Foster standing by my side as my best man, I nervously waited for the sound of the music that would signal Mary's entrance into the chapel. Then I saw her, the princess of my life being led down the aisle by her brother Matthew. I had feelings in my heart like never before. For a brief moment I thought I was in another time altogether. For a brief moment I could see only the image of a young and innocent eighteen-yearold Chinese girl, way back in 1946, being carried with her entourage towards her future husband's village. But then suddenly that image vanished and I saw in its place Mary's beautiful, loving face.

We went to Acapulco for our honeymoon and shared the most intimate time of our lives together. The more we understood each other the closer we grew.

But our marriage didn't change our commitment to our dance and although we loved to dance with each other we respected Ben's artistic decisions too. As the Houston Ballet's reputation spread, more and more choreographers came and staged their works and we continued to progress and develop as artists. Christopher Bruce came with his Ghost Dances, a beautiful work choreographed to South American music. I learnt so much from him. His choreography was breathtaking. He even created a new work especially for Mary and me, called Guatama Buddha.

Another British choreographer, Ronald Hynd, the choreographer of The Sanguine Fan which the London Festival Ballet performed in China back in 1979, came to Houston to do a full-length version of The Hunchback of Notre Dame. The whole company was abuzz with this new creation. There was a lot of speculation about who would be chosen for the title roles of the Hunchback and the gypsy girl Esmeralda. Ronnie Hynd walked around the studios for days watching classes and rehearsals before making his final decision. When the casting sheet went up, Mary was Esmeralda and I was the Hunchback.

The whole choreographic process for The Hunchback was fascinating and Ronnie's theatrical skills allowed me to perform a role that was totally different from my usual princely roles. There wasn't much dancing and Mary and I didn't dance together as partners, but it was a great acting experience for me, and in the end Mary stole the show.

Glen Tetley was another choreographer I loved working with, and he was arguably one of the most highly respected modern ballet choreographers in the world. His legendary pursuit of excellence and his moderate temperament made dancers work beyond their usual physical limitations. He came to stage one of his most technically challenging ballets, Le Sacre du Printemps or The Rite of Spring. Even Baryshnikov had found it a challenge, I was told.

Glen came into the studio in the middle of our class one day and sat by the mirror with his friend Scott. I watched as Glen's eyes darted around while he whispered to Scott, who scribbled down some notes in a notepad. I was nervous. I wanted so much for him to like me and choose me to be in his work.

To my joy, I was his first cast for the lead in Le Sacre du Printemps. When I walked into the studio on the first day of rehearsals I was shaking with excitement. I couldn't believe I was going to work with one of the world's most creative choreographers. But from the start of that rehearsal I knew this was going to be one of the most challenging times of my career. Glen was certainly demanding. Nothing escaped his experienced eye. Every subtle detail had to be right. He expected total concentration and total dedication. Sometimes, when a dancer didn't give one hundred per cent, he would stop them in the middle of their dance and simply say, "Okay, that was a warm-up. Now let's do it again for real." There were no protests, no screaming or yelling, only recognition of his high expectations.

I had several physically difficult solos in this ballet and they required enormous stamina. Glen understood exactly what it would take. Many times, after hours of endless jumping and turning under Glen's strict and watchful eye, I felt there was not another breath left in me. Every muscle in my body was wasted with fatigue and my back injury still gave me problems. Often I just wanted to lie down on the floor and die. But then, just as I felt I was at the end of my physical capabilities, he'd say, "Let's do it again for the road."

Is he mad? I would scream inside. But I knew I had to start these solos again with whatever was left inside me. No one complained. We knew that without this kind of work our stamina would not improve.

Sometimes during the rehearsals, when Glen would ask me to do it for "the last time", I would feel sick from extreme exhaustion, but somehow Glen kept pushing me beyond my physical boundaries. I discovered those rare moments when the power of the music took over. It was refreshing, almost spiritual. By the time of the performance, I felt full of energy, ready to explode on stage.

Then came Romeo and Juliet. Ben had planned to choreograph a new version for the Houston Ballet to be staged at the newly completed Wortham Center in Houston. It would be one of the most lavish and expensive productions in Houston Ballet history. Both scenery and costumes would be designed by David Walker, the famous ballet and opera designer from The Royal Ballet in England. Everything was going to be made in London and shipped to Houston. Ben had chosen Janie Parker and me as his first cast and Mary was paired with Kenneth McCombie as second cast.

I loved the story of Romeo and Juliet and the Prokofiev score but the rehearsals were gruelling. Ben often threw out certain sections of his choreography, even though we had been rehearsing for days, and then he'd start all over again. We'd try many, many different ways of doing a particular lift, of partnering, jumping or performing turns, over and over, until Ben would finally shout, "That's it! I like that." It was a tough schedule: there were detours, setbacks, endless challenges, but our enthusiasm was always sky-high.

But for a ballet which told a story like Romeo and Juliet, I had to gather all my experiences together so I could somehow make the Romeo role more real for myself and for the audience. Some aspects of Romeo's character I found easy to portray, but others were difficult. I read Shakespeare's play over and over and watched as many Romeo and Juliet movies as I could get my hands on. I wanted to create my own version of Romeo, to make it my role. I remembered my feelings towards Her Junfang in that dark room in the Beijing Dance Academy. I remembered my first love Elizabeth, and my love for Mary. I remembered portrayals of love from literature, film, anything that would help me in my creation of Romeo.

The opening night of Romeo and Juliet was one of the biggest events in the history of the Houston Ballet. The air was full of tension. I couldn't make myself calm down. I heard the applause for the conductor. Just listen to the music, I told myself. Just listen to the sound of the music.

That night, from the very first note, I knew I had not only heard the heart and soul of the music but I had felt it as well. I leapt joyously and I lifted my Juliet high in the air. I ran wildly around the stage to celebrate our soaring love. And when Romeo mistakenly believed that Juliet was dead all the sorrow and despair I had ever experienced in my life overwhelmed me. I thought of the years of separation from my parents, of fearing for my life in that small room in the Chinese consulate. I thought of life without Mary, I thought of the greatest sacrifice one could make, to take one's own life for the sake of love. When Juliet finally plunged Romeo's knife into her heart and closed her eyes for ever, there was not a sound from anyone in the entire theatre, only the soul-wrenching music playing to the end. Then suddenly the audience erupted into applause. I didn't want it to end. I'd tasted the delicious feeling of the ultimate performance; the performance of my life. Another moment to treasure for ever.

I was invited as guest artist to dance with a number of companies worldwide after Romeo and Juliet. La Scala in Milan, steeped in history, was one of the most thrilling and inspirational. But along the way I still kept striving for one distinction. I didn't want to be just a technically good dancer: I wanted to be creative, emotionally powerful, artistically mature. I'd made many breakthroughs in my dancing already, and had a number of offers from other companies, but my loyalty was always with Ben and the Houston Ballet and I still often remembered the old Chinese fables, such as the bow-shooter, and drew on them for inspiration. I kept telling myself that I had only tasted the mango skin, not the flesh. I kept reminding myself of the painful leg-limbering exercises that Teacher Gao had made us do all those years before. Constantly I reminded myself of where I had come from—my peasant roots, the starvation, the desperation of being trapped in the deep well, of my Chinese heritage—all this I used as my internal driving force. And as my standard of dancing improved, my ambition of becoming one of the best dancers in the world was never forgotten. I worked even harder. I kept Nureyev, Baryshnikov and Vasiliev always in my mind. I had overcome so many obstacles in my life. Nothing could stop me now.

But no matter how successful I would become as a dancer, there was always one last unfulfilled dream. So, in early 1988, with Mary holding my hand, I went back to the Chinese consulate in Houston.

It was still in the same building where I had been detained, nearly seven years earlier. This time I was there to ask the Chinese government's permission to allow me back into China to visit my family. To go home. I wasn't sure what kind of reaction I would receive.

The entrance to the consulate was now much grander. A big round emblem of the People's Republic of China had been erected high above the gate. Once inside we were warmly greeted by the cultural consul Mr Tang, who led us to a meeting room and offered us some Chinese tea. He didn't have any idea that this room was the very same room where Charles, Elizabeth and I had been detained back in April 1981.

I was nervous and uncomfortable sitting there. Images from that night seven years before flashed through my mind. I felt claustrophobic. My heart began to race.

Mary sensed my apprehension and gently reached for my hand and held it tight. Almost exactly like what Elizabeth had done on that dreadful night.

Consul Tang was easy-going and friendly but, even so, I wasn't sure what to make of him. Should I trust him? I'd walked into a trap here before. I didn't want that kind of nightmare again. I guessed that he would have been well informed of my past, but Consul Tang didn't mention that. Instead he began to tell us how the Chinese now had more freedom and a much higher living standard under Deng Xiaoping. He emphasised that China today had an open-door policy towards the rest of the world. It had been nearly nine years since I'd left China. Things had changed.

"Cunxin," he said, "I've read your file and I know quite a bit of your past. We want to forget what has happened, but there still could be considerable opposition within the Chinese government to your return to China. But I will try my best to help you because I believe that what you have achieved in the last nine years has only added glory to the image of the Chinese people. I hope Beijing will grant you permission, but I can't guarantee that they will."

I left the consulate feeling vaguely optimistic, but the waiting over the next few weeks was unbearable. A month passed. No word from the consulate. I called Consul Tang.

"Nothing yet. I'm sorry," he responded.

With each passing day my hopes became dimmer.

Two months later I had just about given up hope altogether when, after a rehearsal one day, I found a message in my pigeonhole at the studios: "Please call Consul Tang at the Chinese consulate."

With a trembling hand I dialled his number and prepared myself for bad news.

"Cunxin! Congratulations! You have been granted permission to go back to China. You and your wife can come to the consulate any time to apply for your visas."

At last. I was going home.