Tales of Accidental Genius (11 page)

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 afford 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

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.”

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 graduation.

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
people to grow flowers against;

the communal hutong bathrooms were now

the only facility in Beijing with heated toilet seats,

deluxe rain showers, steam rooms (with eucalyptus infusers),

part-time attendants, and nightly golf-cart shuttle service.

When people asked how Weng had become so rich,

he told them about his success with competitions.

Soon everyone in his hutong was entering competitions,

and a month later someone won a Jet Ski.

Only Hui was suspicious.

“Know why the oldest tree in Tiantan Park is still there?”

“Because it's ugly,” Hui said before Weng could answer.
“Anything that stood out for its beauty or strength was cut
down.”

Weng handed Hui some coffee-flavored tea.

They were standing next to each other,
looking at the Rolls-Royce.

“Better come second, even third,” Hui winked. “Less attention.”

“I only bought it to drive to Ningbo.”

“I know,” Hui said, going into his house,

“which is why I have a present for you.”

A moment later Weng's neighbor reappeared

with a bag of Hello Kitty bobbleheads.

“I got these cheap. Arrange them on the back shelf

of your new car. Then everyone will think you're a joke.”