People did not know when Old Peng started fortune telling at the stall in the market, but there he was, every morning, with four stools, a perpetual calendar, two pens, a compass, and a cup. Old Peng was a fiftyish man. His face was brown and rough, like a walnut. His jaw bulged like he was chewing on something. There were perennial bags beneath his eyes. Most of the time, he sat there, his head drooping and from time to time he opened his eyes a touch to see if anyone was approaching.

True, no one knows what his or her future is like and no one can really tell other people’s future, but since there are always some people who are desperate to know, a fortune can profit by telling other people’s future – not because he knows their future, but because he has a way of telling what is imminent, by observing his clients, carefully, suggesting ways to eliminate their own disasters and misfortunes.

Old Peng started his business when he was twenty, soon after, he dropped out of school. In the beginning, he was inexperienced and diffident. He often made mistakes and failed to accurately tell people’s futures, which had cost him many clients. He tallied these losses as the inevitable expenses of becoming a master fortune teller. Gradually, he accumulated some experiences and became more confident. He found that the bolder he was in his, the more clients he had, though he often found himself wrestling with his conscience.

He knew it was all bullshit. 

It was one of his favorite tricks to deliver bad news about someone’s fortune first, then demand payment for solutions. Once a woman in her thirties and an old man came to him. She wore a white sleeveless dress and a pair of high heeled shoes. She had pearls and Chinese jade earrings, with thick black liner and glossy scarlet lips. Her black hair tousled on her shoulders and her nails were painted the color of pink geraniums. The man was stocky and his head appeared to have grown, unaided by a neck, directly from his shoulders. 

 “Sit, please,” said Old Peng, motioning them to the stools. The woman sat first and the man next to her, wrapping her waist with his left hand. The man’s legs bounced. He looked a bit coy, like he was struggling to disguise something. 

Old Peng was certain they were not husband and wife. To be on the safe side, he asked to look at their palms. Usually, the man would offer his hand first but this time the woman offered her’s. Old Peng read their palms one by one. He asked their ages. According to his observation of many couples in the past, when a wife was telling her age, she would involuntarily look at her husband for confirmation. However, this woman told him her age, confidently –  no turning to the man who accompanied her. Old Peng picked up a sheet from the table in front of him and scribbled some unrecognizable symbols, then raised it high and let it flutter on the table. 

He asked the woman to pick it up. She did, but couldn’t make out what was on it. She handed it back to Old Peng. She combed her long bangs out of her eyes with her delicate fingers, waiting patiently. Old Peng, sneaking a glance at it, screwed up his forehead and leaned toward them. 

“You have a good life and you were born beautiful. Many people loved you.” He said to the woman. She laughed. Her laugh was sharp, high and clipped. The man laughed, too, his eyes shrinking to points and his gums showing. In a moment, Old Peng’s voice changed to an intimate murmur. 

“But many women hated you. You need to be aware of them.” 

The woman stopped laughing.

 

 Old Peng scooped up the cards on the table and palmed them back and forth. He asked the woman to pick one of the cards and show it to him. After a quick glance at the card the woman showed him, he rolled his eyes back, like he was in deep thought. Suddenly, he jerked and picked up the compass, fiddling with it. 

“If you are not careful enough, you will receive a great hurt in about a month.”

“Why?” the woman asked, the tiny lines of her forehead drawing together. The man sitting beside him wrapped his arm tighter around her waist. He tilted his head to one side and pursed his lips. He opened his mouth to say something, but she shushed him. 

Old Peng coughed, like he was an actor, playing a sick old man. As if she’d received a signal, the woman nudged the man with her elbow. The man, with zero hesitation, took out his wallet and peeled off a wad of money, which he stuffed into Old Peng’s palm. Old Peng put the money into his pocket and put on his chummy professional look, assuring them not to worry. He suggested they buy some fish in the market and set it free in a river. 

“When this is done, you’ll have nothing to worry about,” Old Peng said. The woman nodded disgustedly, while the man swiped a hand over his face, a wash of relief. Watching them leave, Old Peng stroked his beard with one hand and patted his bulging pocket with the other. 

 

Once, a middle-aged woman, who looked older up close, with drawn on eyebrows and applied rouge, paid him a visit. There were deep creases around her eyes. Her face was lumpish and she tied a gauze scarf around her nose and mouth. There were snips of thread along her sweater. She sat down in front of Old Peng and asked him if he would tell her son’s future. She told him her son was eighteen years old and was born in the year of the monkey. Old Peng made his first judgment: if her son did well in school, it would be unlikely that she would have come to him to ask about his future. He said her son’s grades were not very good and that he simply did not have any luck in examinations.

 “That is quite true,” the woman said, sulking for her son, yet blushing at Peng’s prophecy. She showed him a picture of a young man with twitchy noses and big dark eyes. It could be that her son was mischievous, so Old Peng said the boy was not good at studies and was often involved in fighting, causing her a lot of trouble. The expressions on the woman’s face said he was right. The woman explained she was disappointed with her son and worried something terrible would happen to him. Her forehead tensed. 

“What do you think my son is going to be?” 

Old Peng heard a bitter note in her tone. He blinked, his eyes closed a beat or two longer than necessary, then opened his eyes as he took in a great draft of breath. 

“Your child has encountered the ‘white tiger evil spirit’ and was made stupid. He will be doomed in two years’ time.” 

She froze, then began to weep unrestrained.

This is the time to mention money. In their conspiratorial knowledge, money could be spent to eliminate disasters. Old Peng made a gesture of counting money. The woman opened her purse and started to dig in it. She plucked some bills out from her gaping purse, and forked them over to Old Peng. Her nose crinkled and her eyes were pleading. After securing the money, Old Peng suggested the woman send her son to the army, become a monk, or get married as soon as possible. The woman was so grateful that she kowtowed to Old Peng for saving her son’s life while Old Peng swept his hand to the side, like he’d actually solved something really terrible. 

 

Old Peng could tell with great accuracy once he had certain knowledge of people’s background. One day, a young man, wedging a mobile phone between ear and shoulder came to him to ask about his future. He had a long, narrow face. His hair was neatly combed in the front but in the back looked slept-on. He sat across from Old Peng, and flipped the phone shut and slid it into his pocket. He pinched the bridge of his nose and drummed his fingers on his knees. 

 “Tell me if I’m going to go broke.” 

Judging from his slicked back hair, glistening with oil, Old Peng was certain he was a businessman. Though Old Peng did not know the man, his accent told him he was from a neighboring county. He knew many of the local customs. With such knowledge, it was not difficult for him to give a detailed account of his fortune. He asked the young man to shake a box with three ancient coins, then pour the coins on the compass. Then, Old Peng asked him to use his finger to move the compass. The young man’s chair scraped loudly against the ground so he could be closer. He perched on the edge of the chair to reach the compass. When the compass finally stopped, Old Peng made a face and after a dramatic pause, said 

“I see your ancestral grave is low in front and high behind. There is also a small ditch in front of the grave.” 

The young man’s face twitched. He rubbed his palms against the knees of his pants. Old Peng continued. 

“It seems that your courtyard is influenced by an evil spirit.” He inhaled, “Why did you build a shed on the west side of your yard? It has brought you bad luck.”

The young man went pale. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck! Snaking fingers through his hair until his temples stretched taut. He suddenly realized something and took out his fat wallet, from which he produced a thick wad of money. Old Peng smiled and suggested the young man plant a peach tree beside the shed to eliminate evil spirits. 

“When this is done, nothing horrible will happen to you and your business will get better and better.” 

Old Peng patted the young man’s shoulder. The fear in the young man’s eyes dimmed. He was profoundly relieved. 

 

His clients spread the word. Many people knew that Old Peng was a master fortune teller. More and more people came to him, especially on holidays, for advice on business, relationships, difficult decisions and even cures for incurable diseases. Old Peng accumulated a nice sum of money over the years and he planned to retire as soon as he had earned enough to buy an apartment in town.  

Guo had not been home for a long time. He seldom came back to visit his family for more than 10 years. In many people’s memory, he was a kid, pointed chin, flaunting cheekbones, slanted eyes and his trousers slid down his skeletal waist and hips. 

He dropped out when he was sixteen. He went to Shanghai, Tianjin and other places to work, but did not make a lot of money. Then, he went to Guangzhou to work at a construction site, where he accidentally hurt his eyes. The boss gave him a sum of money as compensation. With the money, he went back home. He played mahjong in the street then squandered most of the money. He couldn’t get a job easily on account of his physical defect. 

One day he was walking through the market, where he was stopped by a fortune teller who beckoned to him with a grin. Guo flicked back his forelock of hair and loosened his stride a little. Perhaps he could tell him what his future would be like, so he went and sat on the stool in front of the fortune teller. The fortune teller first asked about his eight characters. Then he took up the calendar and started to look up something. Finally, the fortune teller put down the calendar and frowned. 

“Something horrible will happen to you very soon.” 

The divination made Guo shudder with fear. His brain shrank in the cave of his skull. It took a moment for him to take in the teller’s words. He had to swallow many times before he could speak, his voice wire-thin. 

“How? What have I done to deserve this?” His eyes dulled and his taut lips shifted from side to side. All of sudden, he whiplashed himself upright and confronted the fortune teller. 

“This has to be a mistake!” 

“There can be no mistake about it. It is all written here,” the fortune teller said, his words like cement, shaking the calendar in his hand. 

Guo gulped. He tried to leave, but his knees wobbled. Another effort and he was on his feet. He started to walk when the fortune teller jumped up and grabbed his wrist, pulling him back to the stool. 

“Wait a minute.” He told him he could be saved from all his troubles if he seeked Buddha’s protection. 

“How can I have Buddha’s protection?” Guo’s heart, clanging in his chest. 

“You have to pay me before I can tell you how.” 

Hope was billowing in Guo. He fished some cash from his pocket and without counting it, handed it all to the fortune teller, who tucked the money into the pocket of his grimy shirt. 

“You need to become a monk before you turn 30. Buddha will protect you, and you will be saved.” 

A look of anguish fleeted across Guo’s face. The fortune teller gave him a pat on the shoulder. 

“No worries,” he said. “Everything’ll be fine after you become a monk.”

Guo stood up, his body heavy and limp, a wave of light-headedness washed over him. 

The number 30 lingered in the air. 

 

On his way home, he thought of the words of the fortune teller—you have to be a monk before you turn 30—jangled in his mind, taunting him.  

At night, he couldn’t sleep. The more he considered the divination, the more likely it seemed. When he got up the next morning, he had a headache and he could feel gluey lumps forming around the edge of his dry lips. He made the decision to become a monk. His mother sobbed in his chest, begging him not to go. He was flooded with a desire to embrace her. However, he let his arms hang limp at his sides. 

He lived in a temple. Every day he had class, made prayers, swept the floor, and sold incense. Most of the time, he was brooding. After one year, his mother came to visit. He did not recognize her. The gray in her hair looked as if it had been applied with chalk. She embraced him, her face was washed in tears. She begged him not to listen to the fortune teller, to come home. 

“I will bring bad luck to you if I go back.” He avoided looking her in the eye, without saying another word. His mother patted her eyes with wrinkled handkerchiefs.

Finally, she stopped, but her nose still leaked. She opened a bag she carried all the way from their village. It was crammed solid with food, the sight of which made the sore on his lip pulse. He gazed into the bag, unable to see their contents. 

“When will you be back?” Her eyes, a spring of tears.

His mouth wrinkled. A sob sucked back, as fast as it was released. He shook his head. She left. 

 

Sometimes, he went out with the masters on business. He was dressed in monk’s clothing, holding beads, wearing cloth shoes. He could hear sputtered laughter and muffled giggles from behind him walking in the street. In town, he met a young woman and spent a night with her. After that, he contracted Stranguria. He kept it a secret. He became weak. He couldn’t hold on for even a two-hour class. Unbearable pain behind his knees and in his neck. He was 170 cm in height but weighed just over 50 kg. His forearms, skinny and veiny, his cheekbones prominent. 

He had nightmares. He was afraid of sleeping alone because he saw ghosts when he closed his eyes. He awoke, biting his own tongue in terror, blood dribbling down his chin. Once, he awoke at midnight in a panic. He pushed open the window. The chill air splashed on his face. It was so quiet he could hear the whoosh of his pulse. His stomach clenched, his palms sticky. He strained his head forward, listening for a call from the distance, but there was nothing except a strange humming void. Mosquitoes swirled around. He slapped them, and he slapped himself. With a muffled groan, he sank back into his bed.

Then, there was news of his mother’s death. He hurried home for her funeral. His neighbors told him how she died. She had missed him so much, she became demented. In winter, she walked in the village, bare-foot, with a fan in her hands. Sometimes, she was spotted talking to a tree, for hours. She asked anyone she came across if they’d seen her son or if they knew when he would be back. One night she walked alone and fell into a pond. She wasn’t found until early the next morning, drowned in the pond. 

They led him to his mother’s side. Tears dribbled on his chest and collarbone. He crumpled. He was disintegrating like a stone wall to powder.

Since his mother was dead, he no longer had worry of bad luck. He would not return to the temple. He began to wear ordinary clothes and rock a crew cut. A patchy growth of whiskers soon framed his face. If only he had not become a monk in the first place. That fortune teller was the cause of his mother’s death. He had to have been a moron to believe in a fortune teller.

He couldn’t let go of the feeling that he’d been fooled, terribly wronged. It plagued him day and night. He couldn’t shake the image of his mother floating in the pond, tattered and pallid. One morning he got up and looked at himself in the mirror, scrutinizing his veined and clouded eyes. Sour fluids burned their way up his esophagus. He started to gag. The fortune teller had ruined his life and his whole family. He had to tidy up.  

After a sleepless night, he tucked a knife in his pants and pulled his shirt over the top of it. He trudged off to the market, in search of the fortune teller, his head still foggy. 

It was hot. The blinding sun was all encompassing, reflecting off the cement and white pebbles. Drops of sweat slid down his temple, leaving a salty taste on his lip. When he made it to the market, he surveyed it, shading his dazzled eyes from the glare. The market could be swept in a glance. He saw the fortune teller sitting where he had always been. The blood was surging in his veins.

I will kill you!  His lips trembled and his breath was coming in gulps. He approached the fortune teller, his footsteps were loud and sloppy. He gave the sleeping fortune teller a shove on the shoulder and he snapped awake. He looked up and greeted him with his wide grin. Obviously, he did not recognize the man with the skinny physique. Guo saw prominent brown age spots on his face. Limp hair swept over his crown. His eyes were duller than he remembered. 

Guo flared. “Do you know who I am?” His voice was reedy. He curled his fingers into a fist.

The fortune teller smothered a yawn and leaned in for a closer look. “Who are you?” he asked, shoving his chin out, still grinning. Guo shoved him again. “I am your father,” he brayed. On the wall behind the fortune teller there was a poster of his blown-up photograph in grainy black, making eye contact with the camera. A corner of the poster had peeled off the wall. Guo reached up and with a flick of his wrist yanked the entire thing down. 

The grin drained from the fortune teller’s face. He seemed confused, like a man roused from sleep. He stared for several seconds, uncomprehending. Guo banged his fist on the table so hard that all of the stuff on it jumped. The veins in his neck bulged and his eyes were wild. 

“Help!” the fortune teller screeched. He stood up and tried to back away. Guo grabbed him by the yoke of his shirt. Misery all came up, like vomit. The fortune teller was screaming hysterically, struggling like an animal off to the slaughter.

Guo slapped the fortune teller’s face. “Why did you do this to me?” he asked, tensing his lips so that his clenched teeth showed. “You have killed my mother.” His neck twitched with anger. 

The fortune teller cowered, his eyes darting and panicky. “I don’t even know you,” he said. Sweat made a glossy layer on his face. “I did not kill your mother, I killed no one.” He waved his arms in the air, as though physically scattering the accusation. 

A fresh flash of rage took Guo’s breath. “How do you not know me? Aren’t you a fortune teller? Don’t you know what will happen in the future?” There was an exhausted whininess in his voice.

“Bro, relax. Let’s have a good talk,” the fortune teller said shakily. His teeth chattered with frustration and bewildered fright. He kept wiping his swollen and dazzling forehead.

“We can talk about nothing. You have ruined my life.” Tears sprang to Guo’s eyes. 

The fortune teller made a sound that was halfway between a chuckle and a sigh. “Let me tell your future… for free,” he mumbled. His chin trembled like he was fixing to cry.

“Tell your fucking own future. You can tell no one’s future.” Guo’s voice was eardrums splitting. Adrenaline was rocketing through his veins. There was a glint in his eye, something annihilating, bitter. 

He took out the knife.

The fortune teller dropped to his knees. Then, Guo threw the knife on the ground. His hands were covered in blood and spots splattered on his pants. He washed his hands with water from a bucket. Then, he sat beside the bleeding man, knowing it was useless to run away from the disaster the fortune teller had prophesied.