Tales of Accidental Genius (7 page)

WORKING SCRIPT/STORY NOTES

Beijing/Ningbo Shooting Crew

An Epic Fable of

Wealth, Loneliness, and Cycling

A
N
EW
F
ILM

by

PENG LONGWEI

Chinese Translation by Li Chen of Bethel, China
Home for Blind and Visually Impaired Orphans

Inspired in part by the true story

Restoring the Light

A documentary film by Carol Liu

意识是改变的第一步。

. . .
awareness is the first step for change . . .

For a long time,

Golden Helper II was just a lump of metal welded

to the frame of a crooked tricycle

used to ferry small mountains of bok choy

(and occasionally celery)

to a street corner in Beijing opposite Chanel

where blind Mr. Fun and his wife

had their vegetable business.

The idea for Golden Helper II had appeared in Mr. Fun's head

one night at the kitchen table

searching for a home in the world like fire or the wheel.

Mr. Fun folded pieces of newspaper to help him remember—

couldn't draw his ideas for the same reason he sold vegetables

and didn't work as an engineer,

which was his dream.

Mr. Fun put the pieces of folded newspaper away

in a drawer that wouldn't close because of New Year's cards,

coins, a set of teeth, old keys, plastic toys, souvenirs,

and a whistle;

Mr. Fun's life in small pieces.

Most of his inventions never became anything

more than a folded newspaper,

but Golden Helper II was special,

and Mr. Fun knew exactly where this bundle

of copper, steel, and rippling chains could be welded

onto the frame of the Fun family tricycle.

Mr. Fun's ideas often came in the evening

when Mrs. Fun and Little Weng were at home

watching television, bellies full, eyes closing.

At night he sometimes stood over their beds,

sometimes stood there in the darkness,

his heart like a kite on currents of breath.

It would be like when they were dead
, he thought,

except he would be dead too.

No more Fun.

Mr. Fun was also a worrier,

but if there was nothing to worry about,

he let himself be swept up in flights of fancy.

Once he wondered what it would be like to go backward.

He caught the idea from television:

Mrs. Fun staying up to watch Brad Pitt

in the old days of America.

In the movie, the voice of Brad Pitt got younger and younger

until he could only cry, and not say to those around him,

“I was born an old man who played cards, smoking.”

When the house was quiet, Mr. Fun imagined living every day

of his own life again in reverse.

. . . sitting around as Little Weng gets younger and shorter,

until he stops walking, becomes very small,

disappears back into his mother.

He would get younger too, until an eager, sprightly Mr. Fun,

sat listening to a pretty girl (Mrs. Fun) wash clothes

in a bucket for the first and last time.

Little Weng would be lost first, though,

dead without having to die.

What a good thing, he told Mrs. Fun in bed,

that the street of life is one-way.

One of his customers once told Mr. Fun

about a household machine

that could press thoughts into waves of dots,

then be read and understood by anyone

willing to learn this new language.

Mr. Fun described it to his family one night eating dinner.

“There is a machine for everything nowadays,” Mrs. Fun said.

Little Weng stood up from the table,

“One day
I
will be rich enough to buy Dad this machine

so he can learn the language of dots.”

“But you are already the richest person in China,”

said Mrs. Fun wisely.

“I mean with money,” Weng said. “I'm going to be the first
person in our family to attend university. Then after years of
hard work, will provide a life of comfort for you and dad—
no more bok choy, no more celery—
farewell, bitter melon.”

“That's such good news,” his mother said.

“But first step: finish noodles.”

One night Little Weng couldn't sleep.

And a light in the kitchen meant his father was awake too.

Peeking around the door, Weng saw tomorrow's vegetables

all over the table.

Then he heard his father's voice.

“Think how many rainfalls made each one grow.”

Weng went barefoot into the

kitchen, climbed into his father's lap. “Sixteen?” he said.

“Hard to say,” replied his father, lifting a tomato to his son's ear,

“but everything inside has entered from the roots.”

The windows were violet when blind Mr. Fun

carried his son back to bed.

Day was in night's arms.

The following afternoon when Weng was in school,

his mother had a fright while making his bed.

Mr. Fun was oiling the family tricycle in the kitchen.

It would soon be time for Mr. Fun and his wife

to pick up the afternoon vegetables

and pedal them back to the corner for selling.

“You need to speak to our son,” Mrs. Fun said,

standing in the doorway.

“He's been sneaking food into his room.”

“Sneaking food?”

Mrs. Fun found her husband's hands.

“What is this?” he said. “A tomato?”

“It was under his pillow!”

Over dinner that night Mrs. Fun saw the funny side.

When she stood to get second helpings, Mr. Fun reached

for her arm and held on. “Mrs. Fun,” he said,

“Most of the work in this family falls on you because I am blind,

without you all would be lost . . . you are our golden helper.”

Mrs. Fun blushed and went to the stove.

“But you don't know what golden means!”

The words floated around Little Weng's head

as he fell asleep that night.

Moments like this between parents

give children the courage they will need to watch them die.

That was the evening Mr. Fun remembered his latest invention.

And when everyone was in bed, he went to the drawer

(that wouldn't close)

and found the pieces of newspaper

he had folded in a special way

so the idea would not escape.

As a worrier, he knew that life would be hard

for his wife and son

if he happened to die one night on the old spring bed;

Mrs. Fun was captain of the Fun family ship,

But he was the anchor.

That's why he knew this latest invention had to be made,

and how it came to be called Golden Helper II.

He instinctively knew the different parts

and how they should piece together.

Golden Helper II would also be a family of three,

but in metal, with oil for blood.

Over the next several months, Mrs. Fun procured

the different pieces her husband would need to assemble the

mechanism for real.

Some parts were not the right size

and had to be cut again by angry men in the metal shop.

Some pieces were too heavy,

others too light.

Part of the mainspring had to be wound from different metals

to account for summer heat and winter cold.

Mr. Fun could not have asked for a better wife.

When it was finally built, they took turns

holding Golden Helper II in their hands.

“Heavy,” Mrs. Fun said. “But I still don't get what it does.”

Then she helped her husband put on welding gloves

that reached up to his elbow.

“Think of it like this,” Mr. Fun said. “Imagine that, when you
give me a kiss, I take that kiss and turn it into something else,
like a compliment for our son, who turns it into a good deed at
school, and so on and so on, and the energy keeps going, keeps
turning through the universe on the same course, forever and
with no one name.”

Little Weng's job was to make sure Mr. Fun didn't catch fire.

The water in his bucket was heavy.

He remembered his father telling him about the sea,

and how it undresses the earth every night.

The welding torch made Mrs. Fun think of New Year.

The dazzle and scent of solder hypnotized her.

How blind Mr. Fun scorched Golden Helper II onto the frame

of the family tricycle is—to this day—a complete miracle.

When it was finished, Mr. Fun stood back

while his family stared

at the smoking, blackened, cabbage-shaped bundle,

bulging with oily strips of metal.

“I have a good feeling about your new invention,” said Mrs. Fun.

Her husband thanked her. “Let's hope it works.”

Once Golden Helper II had cooled,

Mr. Fun began gathering the other parts,

including three chains, which over the next few evenings

he would thread with painful slowness

through openings in Golden Helper II.

With a few minor adjustments

Golden Helper II
did
work.

Imagine freezing Weng on the backseat of the tricycle,

teeth rattling—small hands pressed into the bun

of his father's belly

who hardly had to pedal on account

of Golden Helper II's magic touch.

Then tiny Mrs. Fun at the front on a horse cushion,

steering around holes in the road, shouting at pedestrians.

By the time their son turned sixteen,

nothing seemed like it would ever change,

which usually means it's about to.

One morning Mrs. Fun put on a Sunday dress and a silk scarf

because she had to go out.

Mr. Fun gave her money to pay their neighbor Hui

who sometimes drove them places,

but Mrs. Fun saved it and took the bus.

When she got to the hospital, she told the doctor

she had been uncomfortable for some time.

The pain had been coming and going,
as though it couldn't make up its mind.

She got back late with the smell of chemicals on her.

When she saw her husband and son

at the kitchen table with no bowls

Mrs. Fun started to cry and rushed to the sink,

but her husband stood and said firmly,

“Put down that wok!”

A few days later she went back for the results.

Other people were waiting noisily outside the room,

but the doctor gave Mrs. Fun time to digest the news.

As she waited for the bus home her bag got heavy

and she fell headfirst into the street.

Road sweepers dropped their brushes,

then helped get her a seat when the bus came.

On the journey home Mrs. Fun realized it was time for action

and started making a long list to record for her husband

on the family cassette player.

She imagined the sounds of her voice in the machine,

years after the real one had gone silent.

Here are some of the things on Mrs. Fun's list:

当我们的儿子表现不好的时候
，
和他开个玩笑，这样他在
承认错误的时候就不会不好意思
。

虽然小翁长大了，还是要每天给他一个拥抱。

一定要让他吃，直到他打嗝
。

直到他打嗝
。
直都在看着他
，
除非他想独处的时候
。

独处的时候
。
谢谢你在天坛公园邀请我做你的新娘
。

你送我的那些蓝色的花
，
这些年来我都把它们养
的很好
。

When our son acts badly, make a joke so he's not

embarrassed to admit he was wrong.

Although Little Weng is big now, put your arms
around him once a day.

Make him eat until bursting.

Reassure him I am watching (except
when he wants to be alone).

And thank you, Mr. Fun, for asking me to be your bride
in Tiantan Park. The blue flowers you gave me
I have kept alive all these years.