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"There is a photographer two blocks over," said Ricardo, pacing him. "They have cutouts. You stand in front of them. It says 'GRAND HOTEL.' They take a picture of you and it looks like you are in the Grand Hotel. Do you see what I mean? My alley is my alley, my life is my life, my son is my son. My son is not cardboard! I saw you putting my son against the wall, so, and thus, in the background. What do you call it--for the correct air? To make the whole attractive, and the lovely lady in front of him?"
"It's getting late," said the photographer, sweating. The model trotted along on the other side of him.
"We are poor people," said Ricardo. "Our doors peel paint, our walls are chipped and cracked, our gutters fume in the street, the alleys are all cobbles. But it fills me with a terrible rage when I see you make over these things as if I had planned it this way, as if I had years ago induced the wall to crack. Did you think I knew you were coming and aged the paint? Or that I knew you were coming and put my boy in his dirtiest clothes? We are not a studio! We are people and must be given attention as people. Have I made it clear?"
"With abundant detail," said the photographer, not looking at him, hurrying.
"Now that you know my wishes and my reasoning, you will do the friendly thing and go home?"
"You are a hilarious man," said the photographer. "Hey!" They had joined a group of five other models and a second photographer at the base of a vast stone stairway which in layers, like a bridal cake, led up to the white town square. "How you doing, Joe?"
"We got some beautiful shots near the Church of the Virgin, some statuary without any noses, lovely stuff," said Joe. "What's the commotion?"
"Pancho here got in an uproar. Seems we leaned against his house and knocked it down."
"My name is Ricardo. My house is completely intact."
"We'll shoot it here, dear," said the first photographer. "Stand by the archway of that store. There's a nice antique wall going up there." He peered into the mysteries of his camera.
"So!" A dreadful quiet came upon Ricardo. He watched them prepare. When they were ready to take the picture he hurried forward, calling to a man in a doorway. "Jorge! What are you doing?"
"I'm standing here," said the man.
"Well," said Ricardo, "isn't that your archway? Are you going to let them use it?"
"I'm not bothered," said Jorge.
Ricardo shook his arm. "They're treating your property like a movie actor's place. Aren't you insulted?"
"I haven't thought about it." Jorge picked his nose.
"Jesus upon earth, man, think!"
"I can't see any harm," said Jorge.
"Am I the only one in the world with a tongue in my mouth?" said Ricardo to his empty hands. "And taste on my tongue? Is this a town of backdrops and picture sets? Won't anyone do something about this except me?"
The crowd had followed them down the street, gathering others to it as it came; now it was of a fair size and more were coming, drawn by Ricardo's bullish shouts. He stomped his feet. He made fists. He spat The cameraman and the models watched him nervously. "Do you want a quaint man in the background?" he said wildly to the cameraman. "I'll pose back here. Do you want me near this wall, my hat so, my feet so, the light so and thus on my sandals which I made myself? Do you want me to rip this hole in my shirt a bit larger, eh, like this? So! Is my face smeared with enough perspiration? Is my hair long enough, kind sir?"
"Stand there if you want," said the photographer.
"I won't look in the camera," Ricardo assured him.
The photographer smiled and lifted his machine. "Over to your left one step, dear." The model moved. "Now turn your right leg. That's fine. Fine, fine. Hold it!"
The model froze, chin tilted up.
Ricardo dropped his pants.
"Oh, my God!" said the photographer.
Some of the models squealed. The crowd laughed and pummeled each other a bit. Ricardo quietly raised his pants and leaned against the wall.
"Was that quaint enough?" he said.
"Oh, my God!" muttered the photographer.
"Let's go down to the docks," said his assistant.
