Mao's Last Dancer - Li Cunxin [82]
I didn’t regret what I had done. In a strange way I felt at peace with myself. Elizabeth was my first love. Our marriage was not a marriage of convenience. I knew I could even have stayed in America on my own artistic merits. Charles had told me this at our very first meeting. But still I felt a strong sense of sorrow for my parents.
I felt the tears pushing upward through my throat. My poor dear niang. She had suffered enough hardship already. I thought of the sorrow she would feel if she never saw me again. Oh, how much I loved her!
I thought too of my teachers who had invested so much of their time and effort in me, hoping that I would one day put Chinese ballet on the world map. Their hopes would be dashed. I would never see them again. But I was determined not to allow the consulate officials to see my tears or sense my weakness.
Downstairs, in the main room, everyone was shaken. The consulate officials changed their approach and went back to their pleasantries again, offering everyone drinks. Charles told me later that he sat there, bewildered, until he could stand it no longer. “My client was just dragged out of here and I am not leaving until you have released him! You are in violation of US law!”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Foster,” Consul Zhang spoke up with genuine surprise. “You just told us that you strongly support good US-China relations. What is good for China and for the United States is for Li to return to China. If he does not, US-China relations will be harmed. So will the Houston Ballet and their planned tour to the People’s Republic of China.”
“While we may all agree with you about what’s good for US-China relations, there’s one problem with what you say. In the United States, Li gets to make that decision.” Charles was concerned about my safety. He feared they would hold me through the night and then take me to the airport and fly me out of America the following morning.
Despite his disappointment, Ben joined my friends and refused to leave the consulate without me. So the consulate officials turned the lights out. The tea, soft drinks, and crackers were withdrawn. About twenty minutes later the officials came back into the room. Polite persuasion changed to cold, threatening words.
Ben and my friends continued to resist.
By now, rumors about my detention at the consulate had started to spread. Two people in particular wanted to find out the truth: Anne Holmes and Carl Cunningham, dance critics for the Houston Chronicle and the Houston Post. They’d planned to interview me that night, but as time dragged on they had discovered that I was being held at the consulate against my will.
Hours passed. People were beginning to gather at the side entrance to the consulate, Anne and Carl among them.
At one o’clock in the morning, after many hours of interrogation, I was collapsing with hunger and exhaustion. My head was throbbing. I couldn’t think anymore. I hadn’t had anything since breakfast the previous morning. I asked for something to eat.
They found me some leftover fried rice and a Tsingtao beer: at least I would taste something from my hometown before I left this world, I thought.
After my meal they wanted to resume the interrogation. I told them that my brain couldn’t take any more. “Please, just leave me alone.” If they wanted to kill me they should do it now. I had made up my mind. I wasn’t going back to China.
To my surprise they agreed to stop their interrogation. They assigned one of the guards to sleep in the room and keep an eye on me. We both twisted and turned all night.
About the same time, Charles had his final discussion with Anne and Carl outside the consulate. They wanted to know all the details. This was a front-page story. Charles asked them to withhold writing anything until the matter was resolved. They said they appreciated that, but they had a greater duty to the public and they had deadlines to meet. Charles went back inside and asked to use the telephone. First he rang