THE SADDEST GIRL SINCE THE SONG DYNASTY

DAR-FOR MOUNTAIN VIA PURGATORY - PART III

Once they had their entitlements to spots on the three-thirty service safely tucked in their pockets, the three disparate travellers used the hour they had spare to queue for refreshments, then for bathrooms; finally they boarded the ferry that would take them, in thirty nauseating minutes, across the rough, sepia colored strait congested with trawlers and container ships. Ander went directly to a restroom cubicle and stayed there for the duration of the crossing, unperturbed by impatient knocks at the door, grumbles of the defecationally concerned, repeated attempts at entry. Ander could hear, "Are you sure someone's in there?" and, "I think he's throwing up," and "No matter how sick, I wouldn't stay in here with this smell." Ander, who himself had a sensitive nose, would testify to the contrary. The vessel was a large catamaran with no passenger access to an outside railing – anyone feeling the way he did, Ander thought, would be right where he was, kneeling on the floor, rocking between toilet paper dispenser and a plastic wall with every roll of the ship, continuously prepared for another round of gut evacuation.

The sky was gray, the jagged peaks of the island were darker shades of gray, and the dense forests that covered the land ahead of the ship contrasted markedly with the concrete and infrastructure that flattened out the continent behind.

Regrouping at the other end having at last set foot on the island they had to that point spent eight hours getting to (metro-plus-bus-plus-ferry), they had to endure one last line before entering the designated heritage zone, passing through a barrier that deprived Ander of yet another sizable chunk of his budget.

"This whole thing was a mistake," said Ander, wearily. These were his first words in four-or-so hours.

"Stop thinking like that. Here, look at this," said Lady Zhao, getting out her phone. She then explained to Ander and Bingbing using an email from her fortuneteller that the first temple they were heading to (based on a more detailed schedule for the rest of the weekend she had developed while on the ferry) was dedicated to wealth and wealth accumulation. This was different from wealth protection somehow, she elaborated in an effort to show enthusiasm as well as induce some in her companions. Really, all Lady Zhao wanted at that moment was to be somewhere warm (it had suddenly gotten cold), dry (the fog seemed to have begun precipitating into rain drops), and in better company (someone more spirited than Ander, and anyone characteristically opposite to Bingbing). All Ander seemed capable of doing was fainting. Bingbing herself was by now complaining about hunger and an ache in her leg. But Lady Zhao did this – tried to rally and buoy Ander and Bingbing – because they were all there now, together, and to look dejected, unenthusiastic, was an effective admission that the journey was an error of her judgment. This far into the venture, such a sign of weakness, Lady Zhao calculated, would only worsen future prospects. And yet how long could she keep this up?