Chapter 6 — Listening to the Rain to Read Hearts

He was an intelligent man. He did not pry too deeply, but every single day, he dug just a little bit further. A week later, he changed his approach and proposed a compromise.

No face of hers would be shown. Only her hands, the process of reading palms, and her voice. Her actual voice would be dubbed over by someone else. How did that sound?

I spent two full days pondering over it.

What kind of program is it?

It is called Marvels of Southern River. It is about ordinary townsfolk with extraordinary hidden talents within the county. The last episode featured a seventy-year-old grandfather who could meticulously cut an entire newspaper into the shape of a dragon. After it aired, the public reception was quite good.

What do I stand to gain from this?

A broadcast fee of one hundred yuan per episode.

In those days, one hundred yuan was by no means a small sum. Spending an entire day reading palms at best only brought in fifty or sixty yuan.

Very well. But on one condition: you must not disclose any of my personal information whatsoever. No showing my face, no mentioning my name, no revealing my address.

Then what should the audience call you?

As you please. Figure it out yourselves.

In the end, they bestowed upon me the pseudonym Eastern Gate Master. The very first episode was broadcast in October of 1998. The screen displayed only my hands and the hands of the client sitting across from me. In the background, the familiar ambient noise of the bustling marketplace could be heard. The voiceover was handled by a female colleague whom Gao Yuanzheng had enlisted to read the lines in a professional broadcast tone. To be entirely honest, I did not feel as though it was anything momentous. Yet on the evening the program aired, the woman who sold socks in the stall right next to mine came knocking at my door holding a radio.

Little Chu! Little Chu! The county station is talking about you right now! That Eastern Gate Master on the screen! Is that you?

I pulled the door open and looked at her.

How did you know it was me?

They filmed your hands, didn't they? I look at those exact hands every single day, how could I possibly fail to recognize them? The callus on your middle finger is far too familiar to me!

By the following day, practically everyone in the entire market knew. The line of people waiting for their turn grew even longer than before. Some individuals even took bus rides from neighboring townships just to consult with me. Even more exaggeratedly, a few people traveled all the way from the distant city. Gao Yuanzheng was beside himself with irrepressible joy. Viewer ratings had doubled overnight, and the station director himself summoned him for a private chat, instructing him to continue producing this series of programs. In the end, a total of six episodes were filmed. Every single installment featured me reading palms for different individuals. During one particular episode, after I read the palm of an elderly woman, she instantly broke down in tears. I told her that her long-lost young grandson was still alive and currently located in the southwest. Later on, that very family actually managed to locate the abducted child safely in Guizhou. After that episode was broadcast, my reputation spread far and wide, echoing across the region. Yet the greater my fame grew, the closer trouble crept in its shadow. One evening in November, as I was preparing to sleep in my small home, someone knocked gently on the door. When I opened it, I found Shen Zheng standing there. He did not step inside, merely lingering in the doorway with an expression that appeared quite grim.

Have you been filming segments at the television station recently?

Yes.

Stop doing it.

Why?

His expression was exceptionally solemn.

Following the case from some time ago, Sun Weibing made a confession while being held in the detention center. He stated that during his final days at large, he had actually contemplated changing his target. Take a guess at who he considered switching to.

My heart sank heavily into my chest.

He had encountered you in the marketplace. And not just once.

Shen Zheng lowered his voice.

He said he had observed you for a while. But then he decided you did not seem quite like ordinary people, so he ultimately gave up the idea. I cannot be entirely certain what he meant by that phrase, but I refuse to allow anyone else to start paying unwanted attention to you in the future.

I stood there in the doorway, my fingers gripping the wooden frame tightly.

That business with the television station... Think it over very carefully.

With those words, he turned and walked away into the night. That entire evening, I lay awake until dawn painted the sky. The next morning, I called Gao Yuanzheng and informed him that I would no longer participate in the program. He was thoroughly astonished, bombarding me with numerous questions regarding the reasons behind my sudden withdrawal, but I refused to offer a single explanation.

I simply do not wish to do it anymore.

He let out a long, heavy sigh.

Very well. If you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.

07

The year 1999 arrived. I continued to set up my humble stall every single day, though I adopted a much lower profile. The old wooden sign had been replaced; it no longer bore the pretentious title of Little Divine Diviner, but simply displayed four plain characters:

Palm reading, eight yuan.

With the price increased, the number of visitors naturally dwindled. I no longer accepted major inquiries from complete strangers either. Locating missing persons, divining good or ill fortune—all of those services were firmly refused. I restricted myself to the most fundamental practices: reading lines of the palm, romantic affinities, and basic financial prospects. It was stable, and it was safe. From time to time, Shen Zheng would still make an appearance. It was never an appearance born of a need for my assistance in solving a criminal case, but rather someone merely passing by. Sometimes at noon, while I sat gnawing on a simple steamed bun at my stall, his vehicle would drive past the entrance of the market. Sometimes in the evening, as I packed up my wares, I would spot him from afar standing at the corner of the alley smoking a cigarette. Whether he did so intentionally or if it was merely a series of coincidences, I could not tell. In any case, he never approached me, and I never called out to him. Until the month of March arrived. On that particular day, while I was examining the palm of a young man, a woman approached. She appeared to be around thirty-five or thirty-six years of age, dressed in attire that was far from inexpensive, her makeup applied with exquisite precision. She stood near the stall waiting patiently for a brief moment, and when her turn finally arrived, she sat down. She extended her hand—not for me to read. Instead, she tightly grasped my wrist. Her grip was remarkably strong.

Are you Chu Tingyu?

I exerted strength to pull my hand back.

Who are you?

She refused to let go, her gaze locked unblinkingly onto my face. That look carried a heavy sense of scrutiny alongside a deeply complex undercurrent of emotion.

My name is Fang Xiuzhi.

I did not recognize the name.

Your mother's name is Chu Guifen, is it not?

My entire body instantly stiffened into stone.