The Jet-Age Geomancer
1
Mr Bagua was an anonymous, in-transit mystery. A jet-age geomancer. Morgan, one of his best clients was about to collect, bring him to the office, then send him on home.
“Shall I fix him lunch?”
“He’s between flights.”
“Will there be time?” she worried.
Morgan felt for the Singapore dollar given by Bagua years back — the talisman that had started their luck. It still had embossed flowers and lion crest reversed, both within their octagons, their baguas.
“I’m worried,” she said.
“Here,” flipping her the coin. “Relax. Bagua has always been true to his name, has he?”
2
The new rising tower had eight sides. Morgan was terribly proud of it.
“Very good,” the old Chinese said, approving.
“Put goldfish fountain here,” Bagua pointed as they passed through the lobby.
Then they rode the elevator to the 88th floor.
The property developer’s open plan spaceo was noisily productive.
Bagua sniffed. “Put work cubicles in eights,” he said.
In Morgan’s office Bagua unscrolled the feng shui grid, dividing Fame, Marriage, Children Travel, Career, Health, Wealth and Wisdom. All looked fine, except for the ’Children’ square.
“Future leaking down the toilet.” Bagua sniffed.
Morgan knew already. “What can I do?”
3
Mr Bagua had fixes for everything – sometimes simple shifting of furniture, placing an octagonal mirror above doorways (for protection), or mumbling Om Mane Padme Hum inside cupboards and hallways to flush away bad energies. His injunctions were:
“No goldfish in bedroom – give you sinus, allergy. Suck out your chi.
No bookshelf behind desk – these sharp knives – people gossip behind your back.
Keep phone, computer in north-west of room.
Keep picture of tortoise, or mountain behind for support, built confidence.”
As for parent-child issues, he had re-decorating strategies, but would Christo and Christie his twin sister play along?
4
Morgan had always wanted a big large family, but after the twins’ caesarian birth, Cheryl couldn’t risk more kids. Thus, they over-indulged their offspring hoping that love would rebound tenfold one day like a maturing insurance policy. Instead, privilege begat poison. Christo had had scrapes with the police and Christie just slothed along for the ride. They partied away as much time and parental allowance as possible. Christie’s friends were her sidekicks in excess, while Christo’s cuties became expensive fashion projects. Morgan was worried, but had faith.
“I go residence now,” Bagua said. “Time short. Must do my work.”
5
“Show me Christa room,” Mr Bagua asked. Cheryl had trouble with his clipped English, but thinking her son the problem, brought Bagua directly into the disaster area of his bedroom. A mobile lampshade reflected a hooded figure with raised sword slicing through swirling snakes. It cast dizzy patterns on red walls. There were heavy metal and zombie movie posters and a mural of phantasmagoric creatures entwined on the wall. Whether possessed or soul-abducted by aliens, Bagua knew Christa had definitely turned into some kind of she-wolf with nocturnally raging hormones.
“Blocked chi. Too much yang! Poison arrow everywhere!”
6
In a rush, Mr Bagua, pointed to the clutter and violent iconography. “Remove. “Need happy colour. Green wall, pink bed quilt. Wind-chime. Hang crystal.”
Strange, though Cheryl, but noted everything, liking most the mounting of a parental portrait somewhere to exert ‘gentle authority.’
Meanwhile Christa Number 2 room, quite ‘yin’ and girly was to be ‘strengthened’ with sky-blue walls, sporty pictures, a stripy bedspread and the dressing table mirror was to be removed, or shrouded at night.
Satisfied, Bagua looked at his watch.
“Please, have some lunch, Mr Bagua,” Cheryl implored.
“Sorry. In transit. Must go airport now.”
7
Two months passed and Mr Bagua the jet-age geomancer from here or there was on a follow up visit to his Australian clients (and collect cheques). He had a string of similar rich clients in neighbouring countries. Morgan sent a limousine to bring Bagua to the Octagon Tower.
“Business good?” asked Bagua.
“Yes, business is very good.”
“You and wife are healthy?”
“We are both fine, Mr Bagua.”
“Family problem ok now?”
“Well yes,” Morgan started. “Christie is more confident and Christo, well, he stays home at night.”
Then Morgan’s phone rang. “They have? Ask them to come up.”
8
Morgan sat in uncomfortable silence. The patient wall clock continued its sluggish story.
Finally, Christo arrived. He had transformed to combed hair, lime green shirt and cream slacks. Greeting Bagua, he sat attentively crossing his legs.
Then, Christie burst in – a born again Goth girl yelling at her mobile: “Listen dude! No one’s messing with my band!”
“Christie!” Morgan interrupted.
“Whatever, creep!” And ended her call.
“Hey, Bagua. Very cool redecoration job you did. I put in some of Christo’s old stuff too.”
Mr Bagua usually inscrutable and unshakeable, now looked slightly embarrassed. “Maybe, you two better swap room, ok?”