Читать книгу The Ball. Volume#1. “Kuluangwa” - Michael Ouzikov - Страница 14

21° 20» 70» N

86° 80» 81» W

Mexico, Yucatan Peninsula

December 14, 1971

The trip to Mexico, which Dalma mentioned in a conversation with her husband, happened just over a year ago, before Christmas. Dalma had strongly insisted that the whole family was to be back home in Buenos Aires for the holy feast. «No exceptions! Otherwise, your things will be in a suitcase at the door!»

At the time, Diego Sr. worked for a small construction company that temporarily employed many seasonal workers who were often quite illiterate and unskilled. They were sent to prepare construction sites, removing trees and debris, building fences, cleaning the beaches, and guarding the area. Diego had worked for the company for a full twelve years, had good skills in construction, laying brick walls, decorating interiors, and even reading blueprints. And most importantly – he knew English, which was necessary for communicating at construction sites abroad. The chief of the firm by now already trusted Diego to manage the construction brigades of a few more or less professional builders and a couple of dozen general labourers. His salary increased and Dalma was grilling the head of the family much less for his meager income.

In May 1971, the company was chosen by an American construction giant to lay the groundwork for a chain of resorts in Cancun, a fast-developing coast of the Yucatan Peninsula. The contract turned out to be beneficial to both parties. The Americans got relatively inexpensive and skilled labour, without having to spend on training local workers. Diego, for the first time, received an international contract – in particularly, such a profitable one by Argentinian standards. His duties included, among other things, the delivery of the construction crew to Cancun and placing them in the territory. There they were to prepare the construction site for the Hotel Caracol, which was to be part of the American-controlled Stanebridge chain. So, an Argentinian crew was headed to Mexico, crammed inside five rusty school buses, of bright-yellow colour and Californian origin in a former life. The buses were accompanied by a 1964 Volkswagen caravan painted with bright exotic flowers, leaves, marijuana, and fingers in a «V» gesture. Diego bought this vehicle for three hundred dollars (and two bottles of good house wine from Aunt Amia) from a young American couple that decided to permanently remain in such a glorious corner of the world, Argentina.

The two weeks in Mexico flew by swiftly. Diego Gonzalez, Sr. only returned to his sleeping trailer late at night, spending all the days at the construction site. All these days, Diego, Jr. was completely on his own. Running around on miles of white beaches, he discovered more and more secrets. His friends from school could only envy how much Diego was able to discover in the past week. Sometimes, while wandering in the thickets of the dry jungle, he found a peculiar house with strange statues carved from white limestone. The figures were scary, with bulging eyes and bared fangs. Their gaze was constantly fixed on Diego, no matter where he went. He was taken by panic. That is why he couldn’t get close to any of them.

One day, while playing in the woods, Diego got lost. There was only a dirt road here leading to the construction site. There was just the sound of the sea, which Diego would have readily followed. But it all disappeared. Diego was frightened, because all the landmarks that his father had pointed out in case he’d get lost were no longer there. He let out a few shouts from between the palms of his hands, but he only heard back the singing of the birds and the rustle of dry leaves.

Suddenly, a man of small height emerged into the clearing where Diego stood. The man raised his eyes at the sky. He had a crooked walk and was dressed in a ridiculous loin skirt, coarse, but bright. This black-tanned man with a big, lumping head asked Diego something in a guttural and completely incomprehensible language. Seeing that the boy did not understand, the old man smiled broadly and made a hand gesture inviting Diego to follow him. What could Diego do? The sun was setting, and he could not find his way back without assistance in any case. And, of course, spending such a long day under the sun, the last few hours of which the boy was without food and water, was taking its toll on Diego’s body. Not to mention, the stranger did not look evil at all.

The small village to which the stranger brought the young traveller had already plunged into darkness and sleep. All that Diego heard were hens clucking, babies crying, and the crackling embers of a smoldering campfire. The stranger led Diego into a small hut and gave him a drink of fresh water, although warm and stale, and offered a couple of tortillas from a small table. Then, Diego’s saviour fished out a pile of hard, striped blankets, spread them out on the floor of the hut, and folded one of the blankets into a pillow. Diego fell on all of this benevolence and quickly fell asleep.

The saviour waited until Diego’s breathing levelled off and then covered the boy with a light blanket, quietly closed the simple door, and exited to the clearing in the centre of the village. Beside a smoldering campfire in a clearing sat a motionless figure of a dried-up old man, who was silently staring either at the embers or at a myriad of stars on the black and blue horizon. He had the jaw of a power-seeker and the forehead of a philosopher. This forehead was cut up by numerous wrinkles and one deep, vertical scar that must have stopped healing a long time ago. He sat on the ground, legs crossed and covered by a round, dark object the size of a coconut. Diego’s saviour approached the old man, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. The old man subtly nodded and again was left alone without even turning his head towards the tribesman.