But our life was never plain sailing. With the success of Li’s book and the platform it had provided for him to become a celebrity speaker on the international circuit, he was travelling more than ever. At the same time he was still managing the Asia desk at the stockbroking firm, now called Bell Potter Securities, where he had started after leaving the Australian Ballet. His client base had grown considerably.
Li’s seventh brother, Cungui, called to ask if his daughter, Rong Rong, could stay with us as she had been accepted into a school in Melbourne the following year. Lulu had stayed with us for three years and was now making her own way, enjoying life in Melbourne with her Mauritius-born fiance, Yannick. With our kids growing up, though, sharing bedrooms was no longer really an option, and fitting Rong Rong in was going to be a bit of a problem. A bigger house in our local area wasn’t really in the budget, but neither were proposed extensions to our current house – not to mention the financial stress on top of heavy school fees and the extras for Sophie.
One day that autumn at one of Tom’s tennis matches, I noticed people walking into an open-house inspection across the street. It was a grand Federation-style home that which I had admired before. The location was perfect, in the most desirable part of South Yarra, right opposite Fawkner Park and five minutes’ walk from the Royal Botanic Gardens. Out of curiosity, I followed a few prospective buyers inside. I was totally sold on it just walking through the door. It had been built in 1923 and was a well-known boutique hotel called the Tilba. It had soaring high ceilings, generously proportioned rooms, and was well kept with some lovely original features, including a castle-like turret. But best of all, it had six bedrooms and six ensuites – five for us and another for Coralie when she visited.
I rang Li immediately and said, ‘Li, I’ve found us a house and we can all fit, including Rong Rong. It’s grand and beautiful, exactly what we need.’
‘Mary, don’t be silly. We’re not buying a new house – we’re going to renovate our own,’ Li replied, annoyed.
Although we’d had renovation plans drawn up, I still thought the house wouldn’t be big enough for us all. There’d be no room for extras, and we always seemed to have those!
‘I know, darling. But this one is perfect,’ I argued. ‘We don’t have to go through all the agony of a renovation. Please, at least go and see it.’
We made an appointment for Li to inspect the house the following day. I even brought the children with me. As soon as they saw it, the whole family gave it their tick of approval. It was also close enough to our old home that they wouldn’t face any disruptions.
‘Can you tell me if anyone has made an offer?’ Li asked the agent as we were leaving.
‘No, not yet,’ she replied.
‘Would the sellers consider a good offer before the auction?’ Li asked.
For the next two days, we were on tenterhooks as Li negotiated with the agent. The day before the auction, we received the news: the house was ours! I couldn’t believe we had bought this magnificent historic home in one of Melbourne’s best suburbs. We were thrilled. There was space to entertain, and everyone would have their own bedroom and bathroom. And I didn’t think we would ever have to pack up and move again.
When Rong Rong arrived from China later that year, she couldn’t speak any English and I was reminded once again of the challenges we all faced in our Australian-Chinese family. Though having Rong Rong speaking Chinese in the house was good practice for Sophie and Tom, the only person she could converse with properly was Li. Rong Rong, who was the same age as Sophie, was dreadfully homesick and looked lost when Li wasn’t there. We had been through this with Lulu not long before, and I knew it would just take time.
We worked hard on Rong Rong’s English during our summer holiday in Coolangatta, and to our delight she passed the English proficiency test and got into Year 10 at Melbourne Girls Grammar. We were thrilled that she would be going to the same school as Sophie, and they became close mates. Rong Rong came everywhere with us. She slotted into our family and became one of our own. She had a good sense of humour and reminded me of her mother, whose wedding we’d attended in the commune back in 1988.
One day I was humming to myself and doing some barre work in the foyer at home when Li burst through the front door.
‘Mary, darling!’ he said. ‘I had a call from Jan Sardi today.’
‘Who is she?’
‘He is the person who wrote the screenplay for the film Shine, about the pianist David Helfgott.’
‘I love that movie!’ I said excitedly.
‘So do I, and I told him so, too. He said he’s interested in my story.’
‘What, to write a screenplay?’ I asked.
‘Well, I guess so . . .’
Over the years, Li had received numerous offers for the rights to his story, even met with some people in Hollywood, but had declined them all. In his mind, he could never allow it unless the right people came along, people with integrity and honesty who would have the respect to make a movie that was truthful and authentic. If any movie were to be made about Mao’s Last Dancer, it would have to be one that Li and our children and grandchildren could live with. He’d recently had discussions with London-based producers.
‘I think it can’t hurt to meet him,’ Li continued. ‘What do you think?’
‘Your story would make the best movie, Li. It would be interesting to hear what he has to say,’ I replied.
The next afternoon, Jan arrived at Li’s office with a tattered-looking copy of Mao’s Last Dancer covered in sticky yellow notes. Clearly, he had come prepared.
‘I was impressed by Jan’s passion and intellect,’ Li told me that night. ‘I do feel good about him. And guess who his proposed business partner is?’
‘Who?’
‘Jane Scott, the producer of Shine!’
‘Wow! Well, don’t get too excited, Li. You know these things often go nowhere,’ I said. And we both remained circumspect until after he had met with Jane and learned that Bruce Beresford, the Australian director of Driving Miss Daisy, Breaker Morant and other famous movies, was among the directors they were considering. We couldn’t believe it. Imagine having Bruce Beresford tell the story of Li’s life! It was then we felt that this movie would be made with the kind of integrity that Li could accept.
As part of the agreement, he was to work with Jan on the screenplay. And so began another chapter in Li’s life as a writer. Several jobs at once now – stockbroker, speaker, assisting Jan on the screenplay, plus serving on the Australian Ballet and Bionic Ear Institute boards. As if I should have expected anything less from him! It was so exciting and I couldn’t wait to hear who the actors would be. I’d have to be patient about that, though. The process of making a movie was even longer than producing a book.
In the meantime, Penguin had published a young readers’ edition of Mao’s Last Dancer and Li was now working on a picture-book version, illustrated by award-winning children’s book illustrator Anne Spudvilas. This edition had the fairytale-sounding title of The Peasant Prince, which summed up my husband’s life perfectly.
It was two years since Sophie’s new implant. It had been two very frustrating, long years for her, years that had severely tested her and my patience. She seriously doubted if the new implant would ever work, and to be honest, I started to doubt it myself as the days, weeks and months rolled on. Had we made a wrong choice? I questioned myself often during this time.