A Sense of Placement

Zeng steps back from a poster of a Chinese god on horseback in the dining room. Even this, it turns out, is adding to poor Chan's misfortune. On the mantelpiece below the image stands a small statue of Buddha. Unfortunately, says Zeng, the Buddha's rank exceeds that of the horseman god. One of the two images must go. Then Zeng makes his way to the porch for a smoke and a final assessment.

As birds converse in the budding tree beside the deck, Zeng lights his cigarette.

"Anybody who lives in this house will have a problem," he tells Chan. "Basically, it's not really fit for human habitation." For a few minutes more he goes over his findings with Chan in Cantonese. But there's really not much more to say, and Chan finally thanks him and leads him out. In Chan's front room, a handful of friends are waiting for Master Zeng to read their fortunes.

Back out on the sunny deck, Chan, still a little stunned, mulls over his options. Despite the litany of bad news, he doesn't regret asking Zeng to visit. After all, he says, Master Zeng doesn't create the luck, he merely spells it out. And a good feng shui master can at least tell you how to fix things.

"If I can afford it, I'll make the alterations," Chan says finally. "If not, I'll keep living with it. And if my luck continues badly, I'll try to sell the house."

Then he asks me not to print his address or his last name. After all, for someone else -- some buyer who maybe hasn't heard of feng shui, or doesn't believe it -- what they don't know about Chan's house won't hurt them.