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?”
“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