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