This book made available by the Internet Archive.
For all of my Acapulco friends and for ThuUy
f^>3-21.578
TREASURE OF ACAPULCO
Summons From Uncle Juan
Dawn filtered slowly into Acapulco, spreading a pale sheen over the bowl of the town and the crescent-shaped bay. Roosters crowed lustily. Insistent bells clanged from the big church on the plaza.
Tony Castillo stepped out of one of the small houses on the slope above the bay and drew a deep-chested breath of early morning coolness. His hair was still sleep rumpled, but his black eyes were wide awake and eager. This was the time of day he liked best.
He watched eagerly as the sunrise exploded over the eastern mountains. Perched on the Mexican hilltops, the luxurious tourist hotels emerged in the growing Hght like fantastic palaces. But in the foothills below, near the edge of the sea, the coast people lived very much as they always had, in adobe houses of pastel colors, bordering worn footpaths which led to the docks.
The light grew until it flooded the sky, made a silver mirror of the bay and finally crept into the palm-shaded patios.
It was November. The humid months of the rainy season were over. From now until April the skies would
be cloudless, each day more perfect than the last. Except for a few more weeks at school, time stretched luxuriously ahead of Tony—time to fish, to dive into the depths of bay and ocean, to lie on the golden beaches.
The years of obedience to his uncle were almost over, he thought to himself with satisfaction. From now on, surely, at almost sixteen, he would be allowed to live life the way he wanted to—the way his fisherman father had lived it.
''Psst! Tony!" Aunt Raquel's ample figure appeared in the doorway behind him. "Here's the money for the fish. Tell Don Clemente I want huachinango—still wiggling! And hurry. Your uncle will be ready for breakfast soon."
"The idea of our buying fish," Tony muttered, "when we have a fisherman in the family. If I had a boat—"
"Yes, well, but you don't have," his aunt interrupted practically. "Run now!"
But I will have soon, Tony thought to himself, his bare feet slapping on the hard dirt path and then down a flight of cement steps to the coast boulevard and across that to the docks. There he stood for a moment, gazing thoughtfully at the fleet of fishing cruisers rocking in the light breeze.
Someday I'll have one of those, he told himself. But that day was probably rather distant. Those fancy fishing boats cost real money! In the meantime, a canoa—one of the dugouts the night fishermen used for smaller game—was more within the realms of possibility. Tony had decided to wait until New Year's to approach his uncle about a loan for a canoa. Perhaps the festive season of Christmas and the good business it brought to the
small family grocery store would soften Uncle Juan's severity a little. . . . Tony!
The boy wheeled quickly to see a lad of about his own age, also dressed in rolled-up denims and an open shirt with the tails tied loosely around his waist. In this he resembled most of the Acapulco boys. But in other respects he was diflFerent. Bright blue eyes seemed too large for the thin, sunburned face, and the blond hair was bleached almost white. Although the boys were almost the same height, Peter appeared frail in contrast to Tony, whose mahogany-brown body was well-muscled and robust.
"Hola, Pedro!" Tony grinned. "What brings you to the docks so early?"
"I was hoping Td see you here." The boy smiled, a little shyly. "I wanted to tell you that I've got the promise of two aqualungs today. You remember you promised to teach me skin diving with a lung?"
"Si, hombre!" Tony's black eyes sparkled. "I'll not only teach you—we'll find a lobster for dinner, if we're lucky! You come and eat it with us. If not lobster, then octopus in its own ink. Aunt Raquel cooks them—" He kissed the tips of his fingers in the Mexican gesture that meant a mouth-watering delicacy. "Exquisitor
The blond boy laughed. "I don't know about the octopus," he said, making a face. "The lobster, yes!"
"You haven't tasted octopus yet?" Tony was shocked. "You don't know! Besides, it might put a little meat on that skeleton of yours." He tapped Peter's bony chest.
"Nothing seems to do that," the thin boy said lightly.
"But aren't the octopuses dangerous, Tony? I always thought—"
He stopped as Tony grinned broadly. "You always thought they were one of the awful monsters of the ocean, eh? I guess the poor octopus is one of the most slandered creatures in existence! Even the big ones are shy and get away from people as fast as they can. And the little ones we find here in the bay couldn't hurt you if they wanted to."
"I guess I have a lot to learn," Peter said.
"Well, you haven't been here very long yet." Tony's voice was kind. "Look, Pedro, why don't you come now and breakfast with us?" he added impulsively. "I'm down here buying fish—red snapper, right from the ocean into the frying pan."
"Sounds good." The other boy smiled. "But Dad's expecting me for breakfast in the pension. Thanks anyway, Tony. I'll see you about ten o'clock, then? On Caleta Beach, by the almond trees?"
"At ten." Tony nodded. "Hasta luego!"
He stood for a moment, watching the thin figure dart across the boulevard and up one of the side streets which were Hned with inexpensive boardinghouses.
He is a nice boy, Tony thought tolerantly, even if he is a gringo. And I think he is a lonely boy.
At the beginning of the fall term, Pedro, whose name in English was Peter Carson, had registered in the high school which Tony attended. He was the only Norte-americano in the school and at first the Acapulco boys had given him a rough time. But Peter had quietly hung on, ignoring the jibes, being as friendly as they would
allow him to be, but not pushing it. He spoke Spanish understandably though imperfectly, and he grinned readily when the boys laughed at his language mistakes.
Gradually, they had accepted him. Three things had helped to overcome the natural standoffishness toward a "foreigner." One was Peter's obvious poverty; another was his good humor; but the clinching factor was his abiHty to draw caricatinres. With pen, pencil or crayon, Peter could characterize his schoolmates and teachers in clever, exaggerated portraiture which gave him his turn to ridicule gently, and the naturally artistic Mexicans loved it.
Tony had been one of the first to make casual overtures of friendship. And walking home with the huero—the blond one—he had learned a few facts about him. Peter was here with his father, who had formerly been a newspaperman and was now writing a book. His mother was dead. The two Carsons had lived in Guadalajara for a year before coming to Acapulco in August. Peter loved the sea and he loved Acapulco and he yearned for a boat—all of which was enough to make him Tony's brother in spirit, foreigner or not!
As Tony trotted now to the fishermen's beach that curved out from one end of the docks, he wondered where the blond boy had gotten enough money to rent two aqualungs. But speculation about Peter faded to the back of his mind as he haggled good-natiu^edly with Don Clemente over the price of the fish which he delivered to his aunt a few minutes later.
"Still wiggling." He grinned at her.
"You didn't wiggle much, though," she retorted. "What
kept you? Your uncle wants to see you, Tony, before the store gets busy. He's in the office."
"I don't have to work in the store today?" Tony asked, alarmed. "You said yesterday that with the girls home—"
"No," Aunt Raquel replied calmly. "This is about something else, I think."
Afterward Tony wondered why, from that mild statement, he had felt a presentiment of disaster. There was nothing unusual about Uncle Juan wanting to see him. It could have concerned a hundred relatively unimportant things: his not-too-good
record in school, a Saturday errand to be done, a mistake in the store accounts. . . .
But Tony felt, even as he walked slowly to the cubbyhole office at the back of the adjoining store, that it was not any of these. It was a big thing.
"You wanted to see me, Tio?" he asked from the door, looking at his uncle's pale lean face, with sharp amber-colored eyes which were now running over a column of figures, the thin lips moving as he checked them.
"Come in, Antonio, and close the door." Juan Gonzales leaned back in his chair and turned his penetrating eyes on Tony. "Sit down."
Tony's heart thumped. His uncle rarely called him Antonio. This was bad. He knew it was something bad, though his uncle's pale lips were smiling now.
Half prepared as he was, the blow was still staggering when it came. . . .
"We're moving to Mexico City at the end of January, Antonio. All of us." Uncle Juan's voice was complacent.
*'I have a fair enough offer for this store and I'm going back to my small hotel business in the city. The girls will have better schooUng and for you there's a fine hotel school where you can learn the business from experts."
Tony was stunned. He opened his mouth but no sound came out. His uncle was not looking at him. He was rolling a pencil in his fingers, the smile of satisfaction still on his face.
"Your school record is not startling, Tony, as you know, but you have managed to do well in English. And since you've been helping around the store, I have realized that you actually know more of the language than I thought. English is very important now, with more North Americans coming to Mexico every year. You're good at handling the customers, too. With the tourist business booming as it is, a career in a hotel is the ideal thing for you. You can work in our small place, perhaps as bellboy, while you learn the latest methods in this new hotel school. And then—"
"You mean—" Tony's incredulous voice was ragged and he cleared his throat. "You mean you want me to go with you to Mexico City and never come back to Acapulco?"
The anguish in his tone was so undisguised that his uncle really looked at him for the first time, startled.
"Ah yes, you're an Acapulqueno, aren't you?" he said after a moment, with dry sarcasm. "Well, perhaps in a few years, after you've learned the business thoroughly, you might find an opening here in Acapulco. I was hoping, however, that you'd want to carry on my hotel and stay with the family, at least until you marry."
Tony drew a long gasping breath, as though he had just emerged from a too-deep dive.
"Uncle Juan," he said slowly, trying to be calm and to choose his words carefully, "ever since you and Aunt Raquel first came to Acapulco and took my sister Marta and me into your family, I have done whatever you asked and tried to please you. I went to school. I worked at English. I helped in the store—when the other boys were out on the beaches and on the bay. I appreciated what you did for us, most of all for Marta's sake. But for me—all that time, I was thinking of the sea. Nothing but the sea! Waiting till I'd be old enough to be on my own so I could go back to my own work. My father was a coast fisherman. I was born to be a fisherman. I can't leave Acapulco. This is my town—my home! I wouldn't be any good in Mexico City. I wouldn't work out in the hotel business—ever!"
He paused for breath, seeing the gathering frown on his uncle's face but, for once, not heeding it. This was a matter of life and death to him and it had to be straightened out now.
"Take Marta, if you want," he added in a voice that was almost a whisper. "She likes the city. But I must stay here, where I belong."
The silence lengthened and grew ominous. Finally his uncle broke it.
"I suppose I should have expected this," he said with cold bitterness, "but somehow I thought you had given up long ago that childish idea about living from the sea. You know what I think of beach bums."
"Fishermen and skin divers are not beach bums!" Tony cried hotly. "My father was a fisherman and he made our hving from the sea!"
Uncle Juan gave an almost imperceptible shrug. "I have no wish to criticize your father, Antonio. He was your Aunt Raquel's stepbrother and he was a good man, according to his own lights. But you must admit that the living he made was not very adequate. When your aunt and I came to Acapulco, after his death, you and Marta were penniless and hungry and in rags."
"He'd had bad luck for a while before that," Tony muttered defensively. "It had been a bad season—"
"It's always a bad season for small fishermen," his uncle interrupted shortly. "You can see that from looking around our own neighborhood here, where they live, and looking at the debts they owe on our books. Either there are too many storms or the fish are scarce or the price goes down. Always something! I want to see you established in a business that will pay you a decent salary, boy! Something stable that you can count on!"
"Eventually I planned to get a fishing cruiser," Tony said. "You just can't fail with that—tourist business or commercial fishing, on your own."
"You know what they cost?" his uncle asked relentlessly. "More money than you'll ever see, if you insist on making your living from the ocean!"
"I was going to ask you, after New Year's, to lend me the money for a canoa," Tony said, feeling his throat dry and scratchy. "I could pay it back in a couple of months and then begin saving for a launch."
His uncle looked at him for several minutes. When he spoke, there was a finahty to his words that Tony knew from experience would brook no further appeal.
"I have told you my plans for you, Antonio. If you insist on trying it your own way, go ahead. For three months. If, by the end of January, when the family moves, you have saved a sizable amount toward a boat— with no assistance from me—then I'll say no more. You can stay here. If not, you will go with us to the city and follow the career I have chosen for you. Remember, I am your legal guardian and I can force you to come!"
Tony stared at him. "What do you call a 'sizable amount' toward a launch?" he asked cautiously.
"Not less than two thousand pesos," his uncle answered coolly.
Two thousand pesos! Tony gulped in despair. It was impossible. And Uncle Juan knew that it was impossible.
"You have the best time of the year to do it—no rain, lots of tourists," his uncle reminded him. "If you can't save that much now, you can't even make a living the rest of the year."
"But school—helping in the store-"
"The school term will be over in a few weeks. And I release you from all work in the store. From now on, you're on your own, for three months."
Implacably, he turned back to his figures. And after a moment, Tony stumbled out and walked through the patio with unseeing eyes.
Tony's Other World
"Tony!" His sister Marta's voice stopped him on the way to the street door. "Where have you been? Your breakfast is ready."
"I don't want any—" His eyes fell on the golden fried fish, the bowls of red and green chile. A moment before, he would have sworn he couldn't swallow a mouthful but the sight and smell of the appetizing food was too much for him. He slumped at the veranda table and picked up a tortilla.
"What's the matter?" Marta asked sympathetically. "Did Uncle Juan scold you for something?"
"Not exactly." He patted her hand. "I'll tell you later, chiquita."
He was very fond of his sister but he didn't feel like discussing this proposed move to the city with her right now. She would probably be pleased by the change. She was ambitious—though not in the way Uncle Juan was. She wanted to be a teacher and Tony was proud of her aspirations. For that reason, if for no other, he wanted to do nothing that would antagonize Uncle Juan.
But as he ate the fish and chile, with Marta bringing
him warm tortillas from the kitchen, Tony looked around sadly at this place that had been his home for the last six years. It was modest but comfortable, with several rooms sprawled haphazardly around a big tree-filled patio through which the morning sun now slanted bril-hantly. One hammock swung in the shade of a full, glossy-leafed mango and
another hung in the broad open-air corridor which ran the length of the house and served as both dining room and sitting room. Pancho Villa, the family parrot, chuckled to himself in an orange tree. A jet-black cat was industriously washing the faces of her six kittens in one corner of the veranda.
It was home—and the thought of leaving it made the tortillas stick in Tony's throat.
He knew the city. He had visited there on two occasions with his uncle and the memory made him shudder. It was like another country to him—a foreign land. Beautiful, yes, with its wide boulevards, skyscrapers, glittering shops and fine schools. But it was a place completely alien to the coast people.
There, on the great plateau more than seven thousand feet high, the air was dry and thin. The nights were cold and even the days were usually chilly. One had to dress in stiff woolen clothes and heavy shoes. The bustle and roar of the traffic was appalling. But worst of all, there was a cool formafity about the people that froze Tony's heart, accustomed as he was to the easygoing, friendly casualness of the Acapulquefios.
Uncle Juan doubtless belonged in that atmosphere. And Tony had no quarrel with the preferences of other people. He only knew, with absolute certainty, that he
himself would die in those surroundings. Literally die. Waste and wither as the tropical plants did when they were transported to a colder climate.
Suddenly he got up from the table with an abrupt movement that toppled his chair back.
"I've had enough," he called to Marta in the kitchen. "Don't heat more tortillas for me. I'll see you later."
And before she could answer, he was gone. He just had to get away by himself to think, to make plans, to consider this terrible, impossible ultimatum that Uncle Juan had forced on him!
He was halfway to the docks when he suddenly remembered his diving date with Peter. After a moment's hesitation, he went back to the house for his diving mask and rubber kick fins. The expedition underwater would help to clear his mind, he thought. And a chance to use an aqualung was not to be spurned—not by Tony—even during a crisis like this.
Treasure of Acapulco Page 1