Geistergrab einer buddhistischen Pagode

Kapitel 53

Heidi is distributing antibiotics: "Two tablets a day for three days. If it's just mild dysentery, you'll feel better in the morning. Drink plenty of water."

Perhaps, Rupert and Benny nodded weakly, like dying Catholics receiving their last communion.

Has anyone seen Berhari?

Walter asked the group. But no one responded; they didn't want anything to delay them from getting into the room.

"Berhali!" Mo Fei shouted, "Berhali, you bastard, come out here!"

They all looked around, hoping he would jump out of the bushes.

Next to it was a huge neon sign that read "Golden Land Hotel," and below it was another neon candlestick. My friends were sick and tired, so they didn't notice this strange decoration, and naturally they didn't notice the scenery of this old city.

The hotel was a two-story colonial building that likely offered some upscale services for its time. Its staircase was rickety, and the red carpet was old and dirty. The owners were a Chinese couple who identified themselves as Jewish. They claimed their ancestors were from one of the twelve Jewish tribes, some of whom came from the Mediterranean over a thousand years ago, while others went to Kaifeng, then the capital of China. They even had Hagada written in both Chinese and Hebrew.

Oh, and by the way, the reason I booked this hotel wasn't because the owner is Chinese, but simply because I had no other choice. No other hotel had a private bathroom. However, the privacy in the bathroom here is terrible. The walls are thin cardboard, like props from a Hollywood movie; a sneeze or other unintentional movement will cause the walls to vibrate as if they're about to collapse, and the sound will echo throughout the entire floor.

My friends checked into this echoing room. Walter registered them, but Beryl hadn't shown up yet. Actually, only Walter was worried; the others assumed Beryl was chasing a pretty bird or sitting in a bar, sipping exotic cocktails. But when Walter saw Wendy come out with her ridiculous hat, he suddenly remembered counting heads in the car—twelve.

Good heavens, how could he have made such a mistake? The moment the question formed in his mind, he knew the answer.

Miss Chen, that ghost. Trouble has arrived; some are sick, some have disappeared.

"This is absurd!" I cried, but he couldn't hear me. Mentally ill people usually don't think they're sick, and I don't believe I've become a haunting ghost! I have to find a way to prove I'm not.

The sun has set, and the temperature is 65 degrees Fahrenheit.

My friends are too weak to move at all.

“Those who want to grab a bite,” Walter said, “meet at the restaurant at eight o’clock, which is an hour from now. After dinner, those who are interested can go to the recreation room and sing with the locals. I’ve heard their karaoke is pretty good.”

Then, Walter went back to the car to find Mr. Joe. The driver had covered the lower half of his face with a cloth soaked in lime juice. Before that, he had opened all the windows and spent twenty minutes cleaning up the vomit and filth.

One person is missing (2)

Walter said they had to go back to where they had rested.

"Can you recognize that place?" Walter asked the driver.

The driver nervously scratched his head and said, "Yes, of course, forty-five minutes, that road." He turned his head toward the asphalt road.

Walter thought that Berhali might have fallen, or he might have been drunk. He'd had similar problems with tourists on his previous tours. Of course, Berhali could also be sick and unable to walk, like the others.

“Slow down when we get there,” Walter said, having no other option but to try anything, “He might be lying on the side of the road.”

Finally, the driver mustered his courage, started the bus, and drove back. He believed he could find the place where a deity riding a white horse was approaching him, beside a jacaranda tree. Without a doubt, the deity had captured Berhali; finding him would be lucky, but taking him away from the deity might be troublesome.

Before shifting gears, Mr. Joe opened the glove box, where he kept his emergency supplies. Inside was a small, dollhouse-like structure, with an elaborately crafted roof and eaves that curled upwards like my Persian slippers. It was a miniature shrine, and he pushed a cigarette through the tiny doorway.