A fortuneteller’s place in a changing China

XINMIN, CHINA -- Most of Yu Fuqiang’s assets fit on the small plastic sheet he spreads on the sidewalk.

But in a country changing so fast that one year rarely resembles the last, the 72-year-old’s most valuable resource is something intangible, something that people are willing to pay for: a peek at the future.

He is a fortuneteller who works in an alley in Xinmin, a dirt-road town hugging the Min River in southwestern China. A business card displayed at his feet lists his services: “Selection of Baby Names, Feng Shui Consultation, Fortunetelling, Conflict Resolution, Marriage and Relationship Counseling.” He also removes moles and freckles, which can alter a person’s fortune, he says.

“Sit, sit,” Yu says, appraising me through glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Traditional fortunetellers thrive in today’s China, seemingly at odds with a nation intoxicated by modernization. But their role is something more than mystical. They serve as part management consultant, part couples counselor and part shrink. In a country addled by new pressures and choices -- to find a better job, a better mate, a better you -- many seek advice from those they can afford, even on the sidewalk.

They can be found in cities as well, ministering to office workers on the streets of Beijing. Political wags like to whisper that high-ranking Communist Party officials turn to fortunetellers to help divine the party’s inner dealings.

“When were you born?” Yu asks, using the year, month, date and hour of my birth to deduce my destiny. He picks up a yellowed volume at his feet and hunts through pages.

China has an uneasy relationship with its fortunetellers. For years, the Communist Party railed against “superstitions” as a sign of backwardness. Still, Yu, who inherited his craft from his uncle, has practiced for 50 years, except during the Cultural Revolution, when Red Guard zealots forced him to stop.

“Chinese Scientists Are Against Fortune Telling,” declared a headline in the state-run New China News Agency a decade ago. The story concluded with the warning that “those who make money by telling fortunes should be punished according to the law.” The crackdown, if there was one, didn’t take.

“Your year is an earth year,” Yu says, explaining which of the basic elements is associated with my birth date. “Your month is wood, your day is metal and your hour is also metal.

“You have good luck. You will make money. You have a good combination of elements.”

So what if the economics of his trade favor good news? A happy customer, after all, is more likely a repeat customer.

Many Chinese couples go so far as to plan the year of a child’s birth. This year, for instance, Chinese pregnant women have inundated delivery rooms, having calculated their due dates to fall within what astrologers call the auspicious “year of the golden pig.” However, a dissident wing of astrologers contends that 2007 is, in fact, the “year of the fire pig,” suggesting, instead, an increase in natural disasters and violence worldwide.

We had attracted a small crowd. Kong Youqun, a 40-year-old mother, dressed as if she had paused on her way to work, offered her endorsement of Yu’s services.

“He did it for me. Very accurate,” she says. “My son was working far away, so I came out here to ask about him, find out when he would come back. He said, ‘Your son will call on you.’ And, like that, in winter, my son came back.”

Of his own fortune, Yu was not as sanguine. He is old now, he says. He just gets by. And his birth date includes conflicts, he says. There are some questions he cannot answer -- for instance, why his sons, who moved away to find work, no longer visit him.

For another $1.25, Yu set about predicting the coming year of my life. He picked up a metal tin holding 64 tiny scrolls and advised me to choose four, one for each season. He unrolled each scroll, and things began well: “Strong luck in finding money,” he says of the coming summer, adding something positive about the spring.

But when he reached the autumn scroll, he frowned.

“You will fall into a trap and drink your own bitter tears,” he says. “It will be easy to get involved, but hard to pull out of it. You will encounter difficulties and criticize yourself. Your problem is related to words that will be spoken.”

Wait, that’s it? I said, sounding more frantic than I wish I had.

Zhang Xiaoguang, our guide, who had been expertly translating our session, shrugged. “It’s not clear who will speak the words that cause the problem -- you or someone else.”

So much for the good news. As we packed up, Yu offered some parting advice that helped me understand why he has survived 50 years in his tiny town: “You have many things on your mind. As time goes on, you will have more perspective. So go ahead and live your life. You will be at peace.”