City of Ghosts by J.H. Moncrieff

Author:J.H. Moncrieff [Moncrieff, J.H.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DeathZone Books
Published: 2017-04-15T05:00:00+00:00

~ Chapter Sixteen ~

I immediately regretted my decision.

Why on earth had I signed up for a Chinese cooking class? The most complicated thing I’d mastered in the kitchen so far was mac ’n’ cheese. Thankfully, most of the other guys had signed up too, but I felt more than a little envious when Erik sauntered past us that morning, headed for a walk along the waterfront. Free time was precious on this tour, and I hated parting with some of it.

“I don’t think I want to do this,” Kate whispered. She looked as tired as I felt.

“Stay,” I said, trying to hide the fact that I felt the same. “It’s better if we stick with the rest of the group today.”

So we stayed. Wrong decision.

Harold introduced us to our chef, a tiny man who told us we could call him Peter. He spoke heavily accented English at a volume slightly above a whisper. As I strained to hear him, he led us to one of Yangshuo’s famous food markets.

The place was enormous, a warehouse full of every edible you could imagine, and a lot of things you probably wouldn’t want to. There were piles upon piles of glistening tentacles, shrimp that still squirmed, frogs in net bags, and various heavily veined genitalia. The options were overwhelming, which would have impressed me if we hadn’t already seen at least five markets like it in other Chinese cities. The monotony didn’t faze Todd or Larry, though, who whipped out their cameras to take photos of the vegetable towers.

“Um, guys,” I said, leaning between them. “Those are bell peppers. We do have them at home, you know.”

“Screw off, Jacks. You don’t have our eye,” Larry said in a mock growl, so I left them to it.

He’d been joking, but he was right—I didn’t have their eye. Sure, the peppers were bright, pretty colors, thanks to their waxy coating of tasty pesticides, but I couldn’t see a damn thing about them that was interesting. While I enjoyed taking a few snapshots during my travels, I’d never be what anyone would call a serious photographer.

Our sandals squelched on the wet concrete. I tried not to think about what I was stepping in.

There were some shrieks of protest up ahead. A few of the women in our group had spotted the rabbits, who were still in their fluffy coats but who wouldn’t be hopping away anytime soon. Jennifer ran for the exit with a hand clamped over her mouth. I glanced at Kate, not sure how sensitive she was about things like that, and noticed she was focused on the other side of the market—where the most disturbing thing she would see was a guy picking his nose while he sorted through the cucumbers.

After twenty minutes of gazing at vegetables, Peter gestured for us to gather around him. It would be the first time during the tour that I’d actually be able to hear what he was saying.

“Ahead is the wet market. This will be very disturbing for some of you.

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