Tales of Accidental Genius

by Simon Van Booy

  didn’t know where Mr. Yi found it, was afraid to ask.

  Was that blood on the frame?

  Or sriracha?

  That night Mr. Yi was trying to sleep

  when a voice woke him.

  At first he thought he was dreaming, but then he heard it again.

  He sat up in the darkness and blinked a few times,

  then noticed a dark figure at the bottom of his bed.

  “How did you get in? What do you want?!”

  The figure just laughed.

  “Please tell me what you want! Take anything!”

  “Calm down,” the figure said. “I’m not a thief.”

  Mr. Yi could tell from the voice that it was a woman

  and he wondered if one of his staff hadn’t let her in

  before going home for the night.

  “If you are not a thief, then what are you?”

  “I’m a ghost,” the figure said coming toward him.

  Mr. Yi put his head under the covers.

  “I don’t know which is worse!”

  “Well,” said the ghost, “that all depends.”

  “Depends?” said Mr. Yi. “On what?”

  “On whether you plan to cheat my son, Fun Weng.”

  “No. No!” Mr. Yi protested. “I’m an honest man—let me

  explain, Mrs. Fun, please, I’m actually trying to help your son.”

  “That may be how you feel, Mr. Yi—but there was a time when

  you would not have kidnapped a poor man’s tricycle

  because you saw opportunity for yourself.”

  Mr. Yi said nothing.

  “It’s not how your parents taught you in Guanshan village.”

  “Only my mother is alive now,” Mr. Yi said.

  “But she does not work anymore.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Yi?”

  “Because I send her money.”

  “And do you know what she does with the money?”

  Mr. Yi thought for a moment. “Buys luxury goods for herself?

  Gets facials?”

  The ghost of Mrs. Fun smiled.

  “She puts it in the bank, every yuan.”

  Mr. Yi was surprised.

  “In case you ever go broke, Mr. Yi—

  she can save the day. It’s every mother’s fantasy.”

  Mr. Yi was astonished. “But I want her to show off,

  have banquets, enjoy a closet of Hermès and Burberry.

  Drive any car she wants, or be driven. . . .”

  The late Mrs. Fun stared curiously

  at the sad figure of the businessman.

  “There is a generosity in you,” Mrs. Fun said, “but it’s

  misguided because you’re so unhappy with yourself.”

  Mr. Yi laughed haughtily. “How could I possibly be unhappy?

  Look around, Mrs. Fun, look around. . . .”

  A few days later, Mr. Yi typed Fun Weng’s address

  into his GPS system,

  but the car didn’t seem to understand

  anything behind Wanfujing Road.

  By noon, Mr. Yi still hadn’t found the right hutong district,

  and so ducked into a small restaurant called Han Palace.

  The owner was watching an NBA game,

  but when he saw the Rolls-Royce pull up,

  went to get his best baijiu and two glasses.

  After lunch, Fang (owner of Han Palace) told Mr. Yi that Fun

  Weng was a regular, and gave directions to his house.

  When Mr. Yi got there, Weng brought him into the kitchen,

  then seated him at the kitchen table in the worst chair.

  There was dust on the television screen,

  and Mr. Yi had to resist the urge to get up

  and wipe it with his handkerchief.

  Then Weng gave him some tea.

  “I had a big lunch with your friend at Han Palace,

  and this will break up the grease.”

  There were photos around the room

  of Mr. and Mrs. Fun with their son.

  Mr. Yi was drawn to one of them in matching hats.

  “Nice picture, that one.”

  But Weng couldn’t wait any longer. “Mr. Yi,” he said.

  “Where is Golden Helper II?”

  “Your days of worrying are over,” the businessman said with a

  chuckle. “You’re going to be one of the richest people in China,

  thanks to your father’s invention.”

  Then he leaned in to examine a photograph of Mrs. Fun more

  closely. “My only request is that we name it after the honorable

  late Mrs. Fun, and drop the II,” Mr. Yi said, turning to Weng.

  “At least for marketing purposes.”

  九

  Within six months of the accident,

  two million Golden Helpers were in use

  and the original mechanism had been returned to Fun Weng

  in a temperature-controlled glass case,

  that was alarmed and bulletproof, with a platinum plaque

  that read in diamond script:

  GOLDEN HELPER II

  (The Original I)

  The world was stunned by this miraculous device from China.

  International papers hailed Golden Helper

  as the first major blow to global warming.

  After agreeing on terms with Weng,

  Mr. Yi had his factory engineers

  work night and day

  to configure enormous machines for mass production.

  And within weeks, Golden Helpers were being churned out by

  the tens of thousands.

  In Sweden, entire lanes of highways were designated for people

  now able to glide for miles at a time

  with only a pump or two upon the pedals—and no emissions.

  But even after the first check arrived,

  Weng was afraid to stop working,

  and every evening after supper

  he would take out the check and look at it.

  He studied the computer type, the signature, the sky-blue paper

  on which it was printed—even the watermark.

  The sum was more than his parents had earned

  in their entire lifetime,

  plus the cost of their home

  and probably his neighbor Hui’s home too.

  He hid the check in Mrs. Fun’s scarf box.

  It had to be a mistake and he was afraid to take it to the bank

  in case there was some law that prohibited

  the cashing of enormous checks.

  When a second, third, fourth, and fifth check arrived,

  each for five or six times the amount of the first one,

  Weng wondered if it wasn’t some kind of punishment

  for not cashing the first one quickly enough,

  so he plucked up courage and carried them all to the bank

  hidden inside a copy of the Beijing News.

  When the bank manager heard what was happening,

  he rushed out of his office to insist that Fun Weng

  have lunch or dinner with him.

  But Weng said he had vegetables to sell.

  For the next few days after work,

  Weng walked the parks near his district,

  listening to old songs and wondering

  what his parents would have done

  with all the money now sitting in the Abacus Bank

  like a mountain of gold coins.

  Other people would have been exhilarated,

  Weng considered one afternoon

  as he wrapped the last bundles of bok choy.

  A cool wind made him think of the fall songs that would soon

  get people ballrooming in Tiantan park.

  At least the mannequins in Chanel still excited him,

  though not because he imagined one coming to life anymore,

  but because there were so many beautiful things

  he could now aff
ord to buy Cherry.

  And with all Weng’s money, she could stop working.

  Shirley could have a private tutor.

  Their days would be nothing but ballrooming, banquets,

  And traveling the world in search of

  the rarest Beanie Babies.

  A week later, Weng gave the new tricycle away

  to a man with a young family

  who was just starting out in the vegetable trade.

  He also hired a mechanic to fix his neighbor Hui’s car,

  which had been annoying everyone for months,

  billowing smoke into bedrooms.

  As the mechanic hammered on the new muffler,

  Hui asked Weng why he was being so generous,

  and why he had stopped working.

  Weng told him that overnight he had become a billionaire

  but Hui just walked away, laughing.

  After a few weeks, however, people in the neighborhood

  began to gossip.

  But all Weng could think about was Cherry.

  Night after night, he imagined sitting with her

  at the kitchen table watching television.

  Sometimes on Sunday he woke up very early.

  Dressed in the dark.

  Then sat on his bed until first light.

  But he could not go to Tiantan Park.

  Could not imagine dancing alone

  like some of the grown men he had seen,

  the ones who still lived with their parents

  and couldn’t make eye contact.

  Weng pictured Cherry’s husband as a tall and quiet man,

  holding her hand the way they would ballroom on television

  with graceful bodies, proud faces.

  “His fingers are strong and fine,” Weng told himself, “not

  damaged like mine by decades of vegetable handling . . . and

  no scars on his cheeks, either . . . and of course he speaks well,

  understands Western manners, doesn’t spit . . . they probably

  met at work, spent time talking . . . then many dinners . . . love

  declared silently by eyes over crispy duck.

  Then wedding day: nice hall (free parking) . . . the unmarried

  stare in relief or regret, petals on the ground . . . a hotel . . . so

  charming. Cherry loves the little soaps in the bathroom . . .

  rolls them in her hand . . . her parents will learn to love her new

  husband as the son they never had. Big honeymoon in Hong

  Kong . . . no, Thailand (paid for by mother’s savings), . . . Take

  photographs, the mother tells Cherry. Here’s an extra memory

  card. Her daughter is happy and looked after. Soon Cherry and

  her husband have an announcement:

  SHIRLEY

  IS HERE

  musri/iStock by Getty Images

  She is gifted and generous.

  What a family!

  It’s everything the parents hoped for in a match.

  And now a no-good vegetable seller in Beijing

  wants to turn everything upside down,

  wants to ruin their lives,

  tear them apart like a bun. . . .”

  In the end,

  imagining Cherry’s other life was too painful,

  so instead Weng remembered how she parted her hair,

  And those mornings dancing in the park.

  “Don’t look at your feet,” she would say. “Look at me.”

  十

  One of the agreements Fun Weng

  had with Mr. Yi was that the origins of Golden Helper

  be kept secret until Weng was ready

  to publicly honor his father.

  But you may not realize what reporters are like,

  how cunning and occasionally evil,

  and Weng’s hutong district was soon flooded

  with men and women asking questions

  about giant metal eggs, and tricycles that pedaled themselves.

  Weng went to hide out at the Peninsula Hotel

  on Goldfish Lane, where he could watch television in the bath.

  Mr. Yi began to visit him there,

  and they often had morning congee.

  After living at the hotel for a month,

  Mr. Yi brought representatives

  from an American motor corporation to meet Weng.

  The hotel prepared a banquet, and everyone

  shook hands and bowed.

  The Americans were like giants and kept smiling for no reason.

  Weng was soon bored by Mr. Yi’s talk of money, investment,

  and growth, and so after an hour, he excused himself

  and rode the escalator

  down to the Chanel boutique in the lobby.

  Mr. Yi joined Weng for breakfast at the hotel a few days later

  because there were contracts to sign.

  But Weng instead asked questions like:

  Did Mr. Yi have a favorite animal growing up on the pig farm?

  What were his best memories of the river?

  When did he first know he was allergic to pumpkin?

  Does he find snow beautiful or inconvenient?

  Then it was Mr. Yi’s turn to ask questions,

  And one of them led to the story of Cherry.

  Oh! To hear her name out loud. . . .

  “You really can’t control women,” Mr. Yi said. “But you

  shouldn’t give up, Uncle Ping sounds clever and probably

  had a long-term plan. . . .”

  “But she has already settled down,” Weng told him.

  “She has a husband.”

  “But you say they live apart?”

  “Because of work, they live in different cities.”

  “Sounds suspicious,” Mr. Yi said. “Ningbo is a city

  where there’s plenty to do.

  I would take a trip down there if I were you,

  get a look at this husband.”

  “Seems like a bad idea,” Weng admitted.

  “Nevertheless,” Mr. Yi said, “you said that Cherry told you it

  was a long and shameful story, might be worth finding out.”

  “But I’ve never been on an airplane, Mr. Yi,

  and am afraid to fly.”

  “Drive, then.”

  “I don’t have a car.”

  “You can borrow mine. Here’s the key—it’s outside.”

  “What if I smash it up?”

  “You worry too much, but I’ll have the dealer call you.”

  “I don’t have a driving license either.”

  Mr. Yi laughed. “Does anybody in Beijing?”

  At Mr. Yi’s request, a Rolls-Royce salesman

  picked Weng up the next day,

  and they spent most of the afternoon singing in the backseat

  to demonstrate the Phantom’s great potential for karaoke.

  “Would you like a picnic hamper too?” the salesman asked.

  “Or a humidor?”

  Weng shook his head. “Maybe next time.”

  “How about I show you the upholstery choices? We have

  Moccasin or Oatmeal, with Bird’s Eye Maple?

  Do you have a time frame in mind for delivery?”

  “Next week,” Weng said. “I have to go to Ningbo.”

  “Why don’t you fly, Mr. Fun?”

  “Because I want to drive. That’s the whole reason I’m here.”

  “Of course, of course,” the salesman chuckled. “Driving there is a

  luxury few would consider.”

  “Do you sell driving licenses too?”

  The salesman laughed nervously.

  “You don’t have one, Mr. Fun?”

  After a few lessons at Penglun Driving School,

  Weng tried his luck on the roads.

  The salesman had been calling the driving school daily

  to keep track of Weng’s progress

  and to push for early grad
uation.

  Once in the chaos of Beijing traffic,

  Weng tried to remember what the instructor had hold him:

  Don’t cross into other lanes—but if someone crosses into yours, you

  must fight back.

  In the end, Weng passed his test,

  despite rolling over a policeman’s foot

  outside a school for the disabled.

  The first night Weng brought the car home,

  Hui came rushing out.

  “What’s this?” he said. “I didn’t know you were a gambler.”

  “I’m not,” Weng said.

  “Then how did you get this? You win it in a competition?”

  “Yes,” Weng said. “That’s it.”

  “Well, be careful,” Hui warned him,

  “people will look up its value on the Internet.”

  Then Hui asked if he could sit inside.

  “All the celebrities have these,” Hui noted,

  getting into the driver’s seat.

  “The keys are in the tray,” Weng told him,

  “take it for a drive if you want.”

  “Ha, ha, no,” Hui laughed. “A car as valuable

  as this should never be driven!”

  “I got my license too.”

  “Wow,” Hui said, “all because of a competition.”

  “But be careful, Fun Weng,“ Hui went on,

  “people are going to wonder why

  you’re so lucky . . . they’re

  going to get suspicious.”

  Weng asked what he should do.

  “You want me to be frank?” Hui said.

  Weng nodded.

  Hui winked, “Spread your good fortune around.”

  Weng had been assured by Mr. Yi’s accountants that

  he now possessed a fortune large enough

  for a hundred lifetimes.

  “Or a hundred people over one lifetime,” Weng said.

  For his neighbors Weng’s unemployment

  had become a great mystery they were happy to live with.

  Each day was a new good deed: find workers to fix leaky roofs;

  hire tutors to help children learn English; put up a wall for old