Tales of Accidental Genius (9 page)

For Cherry's thirtieth birthday Weng gave her a silk scarf.

They celebrated in a small restaurant where three roads meet.

When Weng asked if she liked her present

Cherry told him she was married.

“I also have a daughter named Shirley,” she said.

All the uneaten dishes of food on the table
made Weng feel foolish.

He put some money down and went outside.

Cherry appeared a few moments later.

“You should have told me before I gave you
one of my mother's scarves,” he said.

Cherry fingered the silk knot around her neck.

Her hands were dry and callused from long shifts
in the factory where she worked.

“Where is your husband?” Weng asked. “With Shirley
in your hometown of Ningbo?”

“It's a long story.”

“Why don't they live here with you? I don't understand.”

“Someday I'll explain the situation,” she said.
“But it's shameful, I warn you.”

“Why did you come to Beijing alone? Isn't there plenty
of work in Ningbo?”

“Uncle Ping got me a better job here as I also
support my parents.”

When it was almost dark they parted at the edge of her district.

“All this time,” Weng said, “I thought your
uncle was a matchmaker.”

Cherry untied the silk scarf and held it out.

“Keep it,” he said. “Even though you're married,
today is still your birthday.”

For the next month, Weng didn't iron his white shirt

nor his mouse-gray trousers, nor clip on his tie
or the sock garters from Hong Kong.

And each evening, as he packed up his vegetables,
the mannequins of Chanel

were transformed by twilight into a window of Cherrys.

One evening, Uncle Ping came to see him,
said he'd heard from Cherry what happened,

and felt responsible for not telling Weng sooner
about his niece's situation.

They sat very still before cooling cups of tea.

Weng turned off the television to be polite.

At last Uncle Ping spoke. “Did Cherry tell you
that I was once almost married?”

Weng shook his head.

“She was so beautiful I couldn't look at her.”

“It was hard in China then, with Mao and the Red Guards,

your parents probably told you. But after a few months of
dating, the thought of marriage pulled on us
like a fish to be reeled in.

Back then, if she was to leave her parent's house,
we had to be married.

“We were thinking of some nice hall. A lucky day.
Everyone in red.

But then, one morning, my beloved failed
to show up at our usual time.

I went to her house. Her mother said she was very ill

and I should call again in no less than a week.

But after three days I stood in the rain below her room,

in case she opened a window, I would at least glance her face.

I was quite romantic then, Weng—not like now,

where my only excitement is from karaoke and Weibo.

When seven days had passed I went back
and we sat at the kitchen table not talking.

It seemed her short illness had changed her,
and over the next few weeks

she would not talk about our wedding plans,

and made excuses not to see me.

“One day I asked if she could tell me,
what month we should have the wedding?

And she said I must go back home and never see her again.

When I asked why, she covered her face.

Anyway, I defied her wish and continued to visit.

Finally I got a letter saying that she wanted to break up.

Talk about angry.

“My parents were bitterly disappointed and I was ashamed.

After one month I went back to her house in the early morning.

Her mother came to the door. Asked calmly what I wanted.

Her little sister was standing behind trying to see;

In my frustration I shouted out:

Does your older sister have another she is engaged to?

IS THERE SOMEONE ELSE IN THERE

RIGHT NOW

IN MY SEAT

EATING BUNS?

Her mother closed the door, and I never went back.

In time I just learned to accept my disappointment

like everyone else in the world.

“But that's not the end of my tale,” Uncle Ping told him.

“A few months later I woke in the middle of the night,

because there was knocking on my window shutter.

I looked out cautiously, expecting to see something sinister,

but it was my beloved shivering in the darkness.

I rushed around to the front door,
led her inside, heated some water.

I had so many questions but was afraid of scaring her away.

She told me she had been in Shanghai.

Wouldn't say why.
Did she have someone there?
I thought.

A Shanghainese?

“Then she said—and even now I'm a little shy to say it:

Make love to me, Ping

We had only kissed before,
so you can understand I was hesitant.

But I put my teacup down and helped her into my small bed.

She put her arms around me.

It was like a film, but with breathing for music.

When we woke, dawn had come.

She asked if I would take her home and sing.

We held hands and swayed through the alleyways.

She could hardly walk as though seeing me
had made her sick again.

Anyway, I sang a few songs. Kept her hand in mine.

In my naïveté I thought we were back together,

but the next day I went to her mother's house
and found it empty.

A neighbor called to me from a window,

said they had gone in the night.

“For the next few years, anytime she came into my head,
a part of me hurt.

There was no relief. And I never saw her ever again, Weng.

Over the years, other women came and went.

I got on very well in my job, with a reliable income.

But my heart had tightened like a southern fist.

Some girls I met wanted to marry—but I was stubborn,

so they went on to marry others and have nice lives.

In the end, to be happy, it's not enough to love someone,

you also have to accept something in return.

“A few years ago, about when I turned sixty-eight,

I fell down at a restaurant.

The waiters thought
too much grape alcohol
,

but felt guilty later for not rushing over.

At the hospital, the doctors said
there was a problem with my heart

and I would need an operation.

A chance I might not wake up after.

Say your good-byes now
, they told me.

“For a long time after surgery I stayed in bed.

At night, when the nurses drifted like swans through the ward,

I began to think about my life as though it were over,

And I, Uncle Ping, a ghost poking about in the past.

I went through each scene.

Drew up the cast of characters who had been part of my story.

Of course,
she
was who I thought of most,

and still so breathtaking—even in memory,

as though my poor heart had been tricked

into believing there was still hope.

“I began to think about what happened all those years ago,

but this time from her point of view.

I considered what life must have been like
living with her mother and sister in that damp house.

I don't think I mentioned that her father
had passed away when she was young.

I began to feel sorry for her, Weng—to forgive her even.

And it was like falling in love again, but without any pain.

“And in that spirit, I decided to go and visit
her old place near where we grew up.

Fifty years had passed. I put on some nice clothes
and combed my hair.

When I arrived, the house was for sale.

There was a light on inside, but when I glanced at my watch,
it was too late to knock.

So I looked instead through a keyhole.

My heart, Weng, was throwing itself against my ribs

as if trying to get into the house.

Then—couldn't help myself!

. . . I lightly rapped on the door.

“The woman who opened the door was not old,
but seemed frail and done-in.

I could tell she was suspicious, but I was wearing nice clothes,
aftershave, and the Rolex Submariner
I bought in the year of the goat,

so she mistook me for someone interested
in buying her house and invites me in,

tells me she's moving away, needs a quick sale.

Once we were in the kitchen, where there was more light,

Guess what?

I couldn't believe it:

Same table, same dishes, same chairs. . . .

Thought I was dreaming.

“This old woman is my beloved's little sister!

I am not proud to admit what I did next,

but realized that in the disguise of a potential buyer,

there was a chance to finally get the truth.

So I asked if she had grown up in the house.

She said
Yes.

Brothers or sisters?

She paused for a moment,

then nodded,
Older sister
.

She sensed my anxiety. . . .

Would I like some chrysanthemum tea?

It must have been lonely for her there, Weng,

because near the sink: one set of dishes, one bowl,

one pair of chopsticks, one glass, one teacup.

Silence has many forms, eh?

But I gritted my teeth, kept lying,
told her I was from Shanghai.

She didn't say anything, so I asked if she had ever been there.

She said
once
, last year with the company she worked for.

‘You never lived there?' I asked. ‘You never moved
away from the house?'

“She told me that, for one year, when she was a teenager,

They had lived somewhere else, but not Shanghai.

Then I asked if
older sister
lived nearby.

She considered the question, then pointed to the window,

‘Older sister is on a hillside outside the city.'

Instead of anger, Weng—instead of desire, I felt something else,

a sort of lightness, and truly hoped she was with a devoted
husband, children too, even grandchildren,
a house full of voices like a forest in spring.

“. . . Little sister went on talking.
‘I don't visit
as much as I used to, but

at least she is there with our father—
and our mother is out there now too.

I'm the only one left, and so the house that was
once too small is now too big.'

It sounds silly, Weng—but it took me a moment
to realize what she was saying.

‘I can see my story has depressed you,'
she said finally,
‘but the end of my sister's life was happy—because she knew what
love was like, got to taste it before she died with a boy who lived
nearby. Whereas I have lived a whole life and still don't know how
it feels.'

I wanted to speak up! Cry out! Pull the sister toward me!
Tell her:
I was that boy!

But all I could do was fix my eyes
on some object in that kitchen,

with little or no meaning.

“At last I said, ‘What happened to the boy?'

The little sister shrugged.
‘She never told him she only had a year
to live when she broke off the engagement—
wanted to spare him a lifetime of grief.'

‘He probably thought she didn't love him,' I said.

‘Yes, I've never decided which was worse,'
Little Sister answered,
‘to lose the person you love after one year?

Or to think they never loved you in the first place?'

For a while neither of us spoke.

Then little sister looked me in the eye.

‘Sometimes I think about him and go over in my head
what I would say if we were ever to meet again.'

“I visited that hillside cemetery the next day, Weng.

Then a few days later, I went again.

Then again.

I began practicing the songs she loved
and realized I still had my voice,

though it had been silent for a long time.

When I go there now, other people visiting the graves
of their loved ones mistake me for her husband.

So in the end, Weng, you can see that I got some of my wish.”

Then Uncle Ping wrote down the poem that was carved into

his beloved's memorial:

我对你的感情就像最深山谷里的野花
，

尽管肆意疯长却无人知晓
。

My feelings for you are like the wildflowers

Of the deepest valleys:

Though their abundance increases,

There are none that knows.

The following week, Weng was involved
in a serious road accident.

Witnesses saw a man fly off his tricycle into the guardrail.

What bad luck,
they all said.

For a few moments after impact, Weng didn't move.

People thought the worst.

But then he opened his eyes and stood quickly,

cursing not out of anger but embarrassment.

The driver of the Rolls-Royce that hit Weng was furious too,

but then an old woman spoke up and waved her cane,

ordered Mr. Yi to help Fun Weng pick up his vegetables.