Tales of Accidental Genius by Simon van Booy Page A

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.
    â€œThere is a machine for everything nowadays,” Mrs. Fun said.
    Little Weng stood up from the table,
    â€œOne day I will be rich enough to buy Dad this machine
    so he can learn the language of dots.”
    â€œBut you are already the richest person in China,”
    said Mrs. Fun wisely.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œThat’s such good news,” his mother said.
    â€œBut 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.
    â€œThink how many rainfalls made each one grow.”
    Weng went barefoot into the
    kitchen, climbed into his father’s lap. “Sixteen?” he said.
    â€œHard to say,” replied his father, lifting a tomato to his son’s ear,
    â€œbut 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.
    â€œYou need to speak to our son,” Mrs. Fun said,
    standing in the doorway.
    â€œHe’s been sneaking food into his room.”
    â€œSneaking food?”
    Mrs. Fun found her husband’s hands.
    â€œWhat is this?” he said. “A tomato?”
    â€œIt 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,
    â€œMost 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.
    â€œBut 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