The diviner works at the west end of the market. Folding table, a sheet of glass over the top with old newspaper pressed underneath it. Brush. Squares of paper cut eight centimetres to a side.
The first time he wrote 安. The diviner said: a roof, and a woman under it. There is someone at the centre of that house. How many of you live there?
One, he said.
The second time he wrote 問. Ask. The diviner said: a mouth inside a gate. Someone inside the gate is talking.
The third time he wrote 閒. The diviner said: the moon inside a gate. Light is coming through the gap. Do you shut your door at night?
He said yes.
The fourth time he did not want another gate. He thought about it for a while and wrote 永. Eternal. Nothing to do with doors.
The diviner looked at it a long time, put the brush down, and said: that is the character for water with one stroke added. Where the water is, the gate is.
He went home. There was no water in the house. It rained the next day, all day.
Six months later he went back and the diviner was gone; the son had taken over the pitch. The son said his father had left something for him and nobody had come for it.
Four sheets of paper, held together with a clip, in order. His father kept a copy every time.
The son stacked the four and held them up to the sun.
Overlaid, the four characters make one character. It is the family's surname.