Tales of Accidental Genius
Page 14
IN 2013, I was approached by executives representing Waldorf Astoria resorts to write a short story set in one of their hotels. The only condition was that I cast a woman as the main character, as they had already selected a Hollywood actress to be photographed as the protagonist.
This commission was a lot of fun to work on, as I’ve always loved lounging around in luxury hotels, plus the executives in charge gave me creative carte blanche. I think big business working with writers of any kind is marvelous—and any company that values short stories enough to include them in an international marketing campaign deserves respect from the literary establishment, which I feel often undervalues the shorter form.
The version in this collection, however, is slightly different from the one I composed for the Waldorf Astoria campaign. It’s not a better story (nor a worse one I hope); it’s just different. I think you get to a point, after extensive rewriting, where a story is basically the best work you can do at that time.
There are countless variations of any single story, each with its own strengths and weaknesses. We all might do well to give up the idea of that one perfect piece because, thankfully, in this world there is no perfect anything.
Behind the Scenes: “Golden Helper II”
THE CHINESE FABLE in this collection was by far the hardest piece of fiction I’ve ever written.
Although writing is certainly a solitary profession (I spend sixteen hours a week in total silence if I’m lucky), the presence of “Golden Helper II” is very much a team effort.
The initial problem with “Golden Helper II” was that I didn’t know enough about China or Chinese culture or Mandarin to write with confidence. I knew I wanted to write a fable set in the country of my ancestors, but did not realize how much teamwork would go into it. Now, years later, with “Golden Helper II” completed (or “abandoned,” as Barbara might say), I can admit that much of the story is directly inspired by my recent travels through China (made possible by my dear friend and editor, Peng Lun, of the publishing house Shanghai 99); by weekly visits to Chinatown (Manhattan), and Flushing (Queens); by a documentary on visually impaired children in rural China by filmmaker Carol Liu (who has since become a friend and collaborator); by my ongoing study of Northern Chinese martial arts with David Kaplan; by my wife’s teachings on meditation and mindfulness; by Stephen Mitchell’s translation of the Tao Te Ching; by Peter Hessler’s marvelous book Country Driving: A Journey from Farm to Factory; by all the strange videos on YouTube of Chinese pop music; Zach Johnson, Guillaume and Delphine Gauvain, and Li Chen of the Bethel orphanage for visually impaired children (see separate note below); by my foolish attempt to learn Mandarin; and by my mysterious Cantonese great-grandfather, about whom we know nothing except what you see in this photograph.
Photo courtesy of the author.
“Golden Helper II” is the sum of these parts, explored in a fashion I have long admired.
Translator of “Golden Helper II”
Our brilliant translator, Li Chen (Rebecca), was born in 1991 and grew up in the Guizhou Province of China. At sixteen years old, Ms. Li found herself at Bethel (China’s first orphanage for children who are visually impaired).
© Guillaume Gauvain
Li Chen (Rebecca)
She quickly learned the Chinese and American Braille systems, and then progressed swiftly through first, second, and third grades. After she completed her elementary school education, a scholarship and sponsorship made it possible for Rebecca to attend high school and college in the United States. Now fluent in English and with several years of formal education, she handles public relations for Bethel. Her long-term hope is to return to the United States to take her education even further. Through her professional work in public relations, and through translation projects such as this, Rebecca is able to support herself financially—despite her disability.
I was thrilled that (through Bethel) Rebecca and I were able to find each other, as it gave me a chance to collaborate with a talented young translator—who through hard work and the will to succeed is living proof that children like her with visual impairment and other disabilities can grow up to do remarkable things and have professional careers.
Like most of us, all Rebecca needed was a little help to get started, and working with her on the text enabled the ideas and feelings that initially inspired “Golden Helper II” to have some real-world influence.
Although stories like “Golden Helper II” are what we might call “imaginary” I believe that it’s through a person’s imagination that miraculous things first become possible. And that’s why stories are so important to society—that’s why books can change lives and become tools of empowerment—they show us not only what was or what is—but what can be.
A Note About Bethel
In China, Bethel runs fully staffed centers for visually impaired children. Each home has a different focus, including early intervention, primary school, high school, and long-term care. Each center provides a loving environment, education, life skills, and livelihood opportunities. Children attend Bethel from more than thirty-five orphanages across the country to receive individual care and education.
Bethel was founded when Guillaume and Delphine Gauvain moved to Beijing in 2003 and opened a foster home for visually impaired orphans. Starting with just three children, they have expanded during the past decade, and help thousands of orphans through training and outreach. There are currently more than a hundred children living full-time in Bethel’s four foster homes throughout China.
Without Bethel, our translator’s life would have turned out very differently. To help children like Rebecca, it costs thirty-five dollars per month to provide the support for the chance to become self-sustaining in the future. Anyone can sponsor a child at Bethel, and sponsors can even become involved in the lives of the children through sending letters, Skype calls, and organizing visits. Support such as this gives children hope that someone in the world cares about happens to them, and from the confidence that comes with feeling loved—anything is possible.
For more information on Bethel, or to hire Rebecca for translations into Chinese, please write to info@bethelchina.org.
Read on
Excerpt from Father’s Day
HARVEY WAS BORN in a redbrick hospital on a hill. It was the hardest day of her mother’s life and she cried for a long time after.
There was a park near the hospital where children went on swings and ran away from their parents. Harvey’s mother used to go there when she was pregnant. She sat on a bench and ate little things from her purse.
There was also a duck pond that froze in winter. People came early, in twos and threes. They held hands going around in loose circles. There was no music, just human voices and the clopping of skates.
When Harvey was old enough to feed the ducks, her parents brought her to the park with a stale loaf. Her father put his hand inside the bag, tearing the bread into small pieces.
“You were born here,” he told her.
“In the park?”
“No, in a hospital,” her father said. “But in this town.”
Some of the ducks came right up to Harvey. They tilted their heads to the one side and opened their beaks. When the bag was empty, her father shook out the crumbs.
Harvey wanted to see the hospital where she was born, but her mother said next time, for sure.
Harvey asked how many babies are born in the world on one day.
“Thousands,” her father replied. “Maybe millions.”
Harvey imagined the babies in her room. So many it was hard to open the door. Some of them were crying, their faces red and glistening. Other crawled around touching things, or just lay on their backs. Harvey imagined sweeping the babies up with her play broom.
“When can I have a baby, Daddy?”
“When you get married,” said her father. “When you’re in
love.”
“I only want two. Two little sisters.”
At lunchtime, they went into town. Harvey clambered into her stroller. She knew how to get in without making it tip. Her doll Duncan had been waiting for her. He was just a baby and needed looking after.
Sometimes on long car trips he threw up doll pizza.
The crackle of stroller wheels on the sidewalk. Winter salt not yet washed away. Town very busy. Lines of cars at red lights. People inside the cars looking at them. Harvey reaching under the seat to poke the shape of her butt. It was like a big tummy. A big tummy with a person inside.
She put Duncan under her shirt. “Look,” she said. “I’m married, and this is my first baby.”
Harvey’s mother laughed but then felt hollow and afraid. Her husband’s arm came around her.
“Everything we’re feeling, they said we were gonna feel,” he said.
The restaurant in town was famous for a life-size statue of a donkey. Everyone coming in had to touch it for good luck, even Duncan with his plastic doll hand.
Harvey watched her mother’s face when their orange soda arrived in glass bottles. She couldn’t read but knew what writing was. Harvey would get soda for being good—which meant not talking, or at Easter—after giving up candy for Lent.
Harvey plopped Duncan on her mother’s lap. It was a sacrifice to let him go, but sudden generosity made her feel safe. Her mother sucked down the orange liquid, tipping back the bottle, the pop fizzing as though angry, making her lips shine. Harvey wanted to wear lipstick too, but wasn’t allowed. She wanted to touch it with her tongue but was definitely not allowed. It was like the skin of a red apple. Poor Snow White, Harvey suddenly thought. She had to sleep for a million years, all because of fruit.
At McDonald’s she sometimes painted her lips with ketchup, using a french fry, but then retched.
Harvey’s mother patted Duncan’s head, then cupped her daughter’s hand inside her own as though it were a secret she was keeping. Two waiters in fancy hats brought a cart to their table and mashed avocados in a stone bowl. They all watched. The waiters were getting it on their hands.
“It’s like green poop,” Harvey said.
Harvey’s father owned a jewelry store at the mall. He left early in a gray two-piece suit. Aftershave made him feel important.
Sometimes he came home with a bag of food from McDonald’s or Burger King. (Other restaurants didn’t put toys in the bag.) Her father’s business did well during the holidays. One of Harvey’s first memories was watching a woman try on a gold necklace. It was around Christmas, so the shop was decorated. Harvey and her mother were waiting for him to close, but then a man and a woman came in holding hands.
The necklace was brought to the woman on a red cushion, the way Harvey had seen things carried at church. Her mother said that people liked gold crosses at Christmas because Jesus had died on one. Harvey once saw a picture of Jesus dying. His head hung low like he was upset about something. There were spikes too. People stood watching in sandals and bathrobes. Harvey knew there were bad people who hurt others. She had seen them on TV. They had guns and rode motorcycles and came for you at night or in the city.
The woman looked at the necklace on the cushion, then at her husband.
“Where was Jesus born?” Harvey asked her mother.
“You should know that.”
“I forgot.”
“In a stable,” her mother reminded her. “With animals watching and presents from three wise men.”
Harvey wished she had been born in a stable on Christmas Day. Santa Claus could have been her wise man. Santa could have given the animals a chance to fly with magic dust. Jesus too if he wanted.
Harvey’s father watched the man fasten the necklace around his partner’s neck. When the woman felt his hands, she closed her eyes and stroked the cross with her fingers.
Harvey wondered how something that had hurt Jesus could make people happy. Sometimes she would lose count of the things that didn’t make sense.
When Harvey was a little older, the mall got bigger and other jewelry stores opened up. Harvey’s father tried to drum up business with coupons in the Penny Saver, radio ads, and a man outside the mall in a Statue of Liberty costume. The man was supposed to dance and get everyone excited, but whenever Harvey and her father drove by, he was sitting on the curb.
When Harvey was four years old, her mother had to start working.
Harvey was sent to day care and wept uncontrollably when her mother came for her in the evening.
“We’ve never seen her cry like this,” the caregivers used to say.
Harvey’s mother made a face. “Don’t you love your mommy?”
But that wasn’t it. She hadn’t been able to cry all day because the people there didn’t love her and she was afraid of them.
Her father said the food they served was trash.
At home, Harvey’s mother made pasta sauce with canned tomatoes, fresh garlic, and onion. She said sugar was the secret ingredient. She also made fresh mashed potatoes. Harvey poured in cream, then watched it gloop in the mixer. On television, she saw a commercial with a girl doing the same thing. Years later, Harvey wondered if it was only that she was remembering, because all life is pieced together from memory where nothing is certain, even feeling.
In late January, icicles formed outside Harvey’s window, dripping into a shallow pool. In winter, nothing grew under the hard leaves that clawed the flowerbeds.
Harvey remembers taking off her mittens to palm the frozen earth. Her hands then were small and fleshy. Garden tools left out were drained of color by winter. The cold handles of a wheelbarrow she used to ride in barefoot, when it was hot and the air rang with green grass.
Sometimes she helped her mother plant bulbs. Eyes that would open in the earth once a year. She had on a cable-knit sweater that came up to her chin. Her mother would press on her hands—press them into the soil and laugh. “Let’s grow a Harvey tree!”
Sometimes worms nosed through the grass, strings of flesh that had neither eyes nor mouths but lived and moved through light and darkness, recognizing neither one. If a worm got chopped in half, her mother said it would have to grow another piece to keep on living.
There is a book of photos somewhere, of Harvey when she was five or six. In one picture she is standing in the driveway with a backpack, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. On another page, she poses on the front step in a red sweater and gray wool skirt. She was told to smile because in pictures it’s how you’re supposed to feel that counts.
The night before Harvey’s first day of big-girl school, her mother cut her hair in the kitchen. She first wet it under the faucet, then spread a towel on her shoulders.
Harvey’s father got upset watching his wife sweep the fallen pieces.
“It’s only first grade,” she told him.
“I know,” he said. “I can’t believe it.”
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Also by Simon Van Booy
FICTION
The Secret Lives of People in Love
Love Begins in Winter
Everything Beautiful Began After
The Illusion of Separateness
Father’s Day (forthcoming)
NONFICTION
Why We Fight
Why Our Decisions Don’t Matter
Why We Need Love
PLAYS
Hindsight
Apples
As Much Below as Up Above
The City of Windy Trees
The Coming and Going of Strangers
Conception
Distant Ships
Everyday Things
Everything is a Beautiful Trick
French Artist Killed in Sunday’s Earthquake
Little Birds
Love Begins in Winter and Other Stories
The Missing
Statues
The Mute Ventriloquist
No Greater Gift
Not the Same Shoes
The Reappearance of Strawberries
Save as Many as You Ruin
The Shepherd on the Rock
Snow Falls and Then Disappears
Some Bloom in Darkness
The Still but Falling World
Tiger, Tiger
Where They Hide Is a Mystery
The World Laughs in Flowers
Credits
COVER DESIGN BY ALISON FORNER
COVER PHOTOGRAPH: YAO HUI
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Copyright
P.S.™ is a trademark of HarperCollins Publishers.
TALES OF ACCIDENTAL GENIUS. Copyright © 2015 by Simon Van Booy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Rolls-Royce illustrated by Michael Gellatly.
Illustration on page 182 by musri/iStock by Getty Images.
FIRST EDITION
ISBN 978-0-06-240897-6 (pbk.)
EPub Edition November 2015 ISBN 9780062408983
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