Cronología de la muerte

Capítulo 52

Walter heard their curses, not bothering to tell if they were farmers or ghosts. He shoved the people relieving themselves into the car. Several dark figures, pulling up their trousers, ran towards the car.

But Berhali was leisurely strolling around, urinating at a leisurely pace, completely unaware of what was happening. He walked further and further away, and when he heard the sound, he was looking at the stars in the sky. He turned around and found them getting into the car.

He walked back slowly, just as he had come. A moment later, the car started, the rear brake lights came on—why were they in such a hurry? Berhali began to walk faster. A sharp pain shot through his right knee, and he bent over, clutching the painful spot. The skiing injury had flared up again. He slowed his pace, pondering how to apologize to his companions for being late.

When he was only twenty feet away from the car, he was surprised to find that it had sped away.

Hey, what about me?

He staggered forward shouting, the car spewing out a plume of black smoke. Under the attack of this harmful gas, Berhali jumped to the right and fell into the ditch, landing on his left shoulder, unable to move his arm.

A few minutes later he crawled out, coughing and cursing. Was he kidding?

Of course, he was the unlucky guy. He was lucky he hadn't dislocated his shoulder; they could stop at any moment and turn back to find him. He'd better hurry; he'd been waiting a while. Hurry, he imagined hearing the car door open.

"Come on up." He imagined Mo Fei's voice, and that Berhali would jokingly pounce on him.

But his hopes seemed to fade further and further away. The red headlights grew smaller and weaker until they disappeared completely, leaving only a pitch-black road in front of him.

"Damn it!" Berhali said, "What do we do now?"

Two drunken policemen emerged from the field as if answering his question, holding flashlights and aiming their guns at his nose.

One person is missing (1)

Walter had never made such a mistake before; he was usually very careful about counting the number of tourists. Before Mr. Joe drove off, Walter turned on his headlights and counted the number of people.

Eyes gleamed in the light, and they groaned, covering their faces with their hands. "One, two..." he called out to Benny and Vera, then Mr. Marseille and his capricious wife Rocco, and fifth was beautiful Heidi, who was very reserved, much like his girlfriend in Blue Wave. "Six, seven," came Murphy and his son, then a mother and her daughter with her dog... Walter stopped.

Had he just counted to seven? He wasn't feeling well either; he had a headache and felt weak from inhaling the car exhaust. So he went back to the right side of the car and counted the conical rattan hat in as well—the one Wendy had bought for a hundred dollars.

In the dim light, the hat and backpack looked like a tourist's head and shoulders. "...Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve," Walter counted, "They're all here, let's go."

Actually, before I describe Berhali's situation, it's necessary to mention Jumarin's as well. She was probably the first to discover Berhali was missing. But she was struggling with stomach pains, counting the duration of each contraction, like practicing psychological midwifery. She didn't want to tell Berhali about her discomfort; he might frown at it. Even a simple frown might be interpreted as indifference.

I completely understand her situation. I've found that the British, unlike Americans, and even the Welsh and Irish, have very few expressions. Happiness, pain, confusion—their facial muscles make only the slightest changes, making them extremely difficult to discern for those unfamiliar with these expressions. Yet people say that Chinese people are hard to understand.

When Beryl wasn't around, she interpreted it as a sign of his displeasure. She hated that kind of behavior, especially from men, and that kind of displeasure annoyed her.

Benny frowned in pain, resting his forehead on the back of the front seat and his right knee on a bulging pink plastic bag from which juice had been squeezed out of pickled turnips.

For the last half hour, he was sweating profusely from the pain. Benny forgot about charity and pickles; he was only concerned with his aching stomach. Another wave of pain hit, and he squeezed his knee even harder. The pink bag burst open, and pickled turnips and spicy juices splattered onto the floor. The cramped carriage was immediately filled with the stench of dead rat entrails floating in the sewers.

Actually, I've always loved pickled turnips. They're delicious no matter how you cook them, and I especially love having some with my porridge in the morning.

When my friends arrived at the Mandala Hotel at 8 p.m., they discovered that Berhali was missing.

Walter began collecting passports—eleven? Why only eleven? He scanned them, comparing each passport to a face. Mr. Joe was busy unloading luggage; tourists were unpacking their suitcases. The men all carried canvas bags; Benny had a faux-vintage faux-leather bag. The women favored wheeled bags, adorned with bright yarn.