The tourist said, “I imagine you know some, ‘ey? Being a cab driver.”
“All kinds,” Isidro said.
“I don’t go for hoors,” the tourist said. “I don’t want any parts of ’em.”
“No, of course not. These girls you pay and then you do it. There are other girls, you don’t pay them but you leave a gift.”
“What kind of gift?”
“Well, you could leave money, is okay.”
“Then what’s the difference?”
“One is a payment,” Isidro said. “The other, is for her to buy her own gift. Save the man the trouble.”
The tourist said, “What about, you know of any that aren’t hoors but like to, you know, do it?”
“Let me see,” Isidro said. “A girl who’s very pretty? Has light skin, nice perfume on?”
The tourist said, “ ‘Ey, sounds good. But don’t bother.”
“Please, is no trouble.”
The tourist said, “No, see, I’m not gonna need you no more. I know my way around now. I’m gonna rent a car.”
Isidro’s wife was no help. He asked her how this could happen to him, losing his prize, his dream tourist. His wife told him to pray to Saint Barbara, thank her for sending him away, this Mr. Magic.
The next morning Isidro said, “An idea came to me. I believe I can talk to him and make him see he needs me.” His wife didn’t say anything. But as he drove away in his black Chevrolet taxi that had traveled 170,000 miles and always returned to this home, he saw her standing in the doorway with their four children, watching him leave. Something she had never done before.
Here was the plan. Pick up the tourist’s prints at the Fast Foto place, deliver them to him and refuse to accept payment. A risk, but look at it as an investment. No, please, it’s my gift for the pleasure of driving you and for your generosity. Something like that. Then… It’s too bad you haven’t been out on the island, have the pleasure of the drive to Luquillo. Or… Oh, what a fine day to go to El Yunque, the rain forest. Or Utuado to see the pottery.
The goddamn prints cost him more than twenty-seven dollars.
He sat in his taxi outside the Fast Foto, still thinking, getting the words in his mind. He opened one of the envelopes of prints, not curious, but to be doing something. They were pictures the tourist had taken of the beach during the past three days. Twenty-four prints-Isidro began to go through them-all in beautiful color.
Less than halfway through he stopped and started over, already feeling an excitement. He looked at the first prints again quickly before continuing on, wanting to be sure the subject of nearly all these pictures was the same and not there by accident. Isidro felt himself becoming inspired but nervous and laughed out loud. He became calm again looking at pictures from the second envelope, taken in the Old City. Fortaleza, Casa del Callejón, those places…
But in the third envelope he was back at the beach of Escambron. Here was an ice-cream vendor, here was a man displaying jewelry on a straw mat. Girls, yes, pictures of girls and a number of shots that were so bright they showed almost nothing. But of the forty-two prints in the two envelopes of beach pictures-count them-twenty were of Iris Ruiz. It seemed more than that, one after another, so many views of her in different poses. Wherever the tourist went on that beach he must have been watching Iris, taking pictures of her through his long lens.
Iris talking to the man with the cane, Vincent. Gesturing, posing. Iris lying next to him on a towel. Standing behind him, her hands in his hair as he tried to read his book. Kissing him. Walking with him…
Oh, man. Isidro saw those pictures and had the best idea of his life. He drove to Iris Ruiz’s house on Calle del Parque and knocked on the door to her upstairs flat.
She was dressed to leave, white purse under her arm, a scowl on her face. He believed at first she scowled because she didn’t recognize him and was annoyed, but soon found it was her nature to scowl. When he explained who he was and reminded her of a few things she shook her head and said in English, “I think you have the wrong person.”
Isidro said, “It’s okay with me,” following her down the stairs. “But let me tell you about this guy who’s too good to be true. One in at least a million… Listen, where you going? Come on, I drive you, free.” Like that, getting her in the taxi, the steps of his plan falling into place. Until he handed her the pictures-letting her open the envelope herself, curious now, sure-because everyone liked to look at pictures. She looked at five or six of them, scowling again, said in English, “Why you showing me these? I never want to see him again!” And threw the pictures at the windshield.
Isidro had to stop the taxi, reach down to gather some that were on the floor, wipe them on his leg, look to see if any were damaged. He could scowl too, saying, “What’s wrong with you? I’m not showing you him, your frien’, whoever he is-”
“He’s not my frien’ no more.”
“That’s okay-who cares who he is? I’m showing you pictures of you.” He made his voice soft, with an effort, and said in English, “Every one of them, you look good enough to eat.” Offering her the prints again. “This guy I mention, Teddy, I never saw a guy with the look he has in his eyes. I think he adores you.”
“Yeah?”
“Listen, he’s my prize. He’s polite. He smells good. He cleans his fingernails. I believe he’ll take you to Howard Johnson for dinner.”
“I’m going to the States pretty soon. Couple of days.”
“He keeps his hundred-dollar bills in a money belt, under his shirt.”
Iris said, “Oh? Where’s he stay?”
At the DuPont Plaza. But he wasn’t there. The doorman said oh, that guy, he went out with his camera. For the next minute Isidro crept his taxi along Ashford Avenue, suffering anxiety, trying to concentrate on the tourists, Iris scowling, telling him she was late for her appointment… And there he was, the flowered shirt, the camera bag-thank you, Jesus-coming out of Walgreen’s. Look what a nice guy he was.
Iris said, “He looks like the kind who’s afraid of the dark.”
Isidro said, “You’ll love him, as I do.”
“You believe it?” Isidro said to Teddy. “She saw you at the beach and would like to meet you.” The two of them standing in front of Walgreen’s, tourists walking past them, Isidro’s own tourist adjusting his sunglasses as he glanced at the taxi, shy.
“How’d you run into her?”
“At the Foto place. It was lucky, uh? She recognize me because of you. I tole her, sure, I know him. I think he would like to meet you also.”
“What’d she say exactly?”
“Ask me if I drive for the photographer. I say, sure. Maybe he like to take your picture.” Isidro took a chance, a liberty, and winked at the tourist. “She’s a very nice girl. She has an appointment in Isla Verde, but I think she can be free this evening.”
Like that, getting him in the taxi.
What was disappointing-Iris remained in front, to show she was a nice girl, and didn’t turn all the way around, rest her chin on the back of the seat and give the tourist the business with her eyes and her tongue. Isidro hoped she knew what she was doing. They were so polite he couldn’t believe it.
Are you enjoying your vacation? Very much. Do you like Puerto Rico? Yeah, it’s really nice. Is a nice climate, uh? Perfect.
Jesus Christ. Isidro wanted to say to the rearview mirror, You got twenty pictures of this whore. You desire her or not? But he kept quiet. At least the tourist was in his taxi again. Now she was telling him she was going to the States pretty soon. Atlantic City. “I have a position offered me with the company I’m going to see.”
And she knows all the positions, Isidro was thinking-when the tourist surprised him.
He said, “Yeah? I’m from right near there. Born in Camden, New Jersey. My mom lives in Margate now, that’s practically right next door to Atlantic City. You ever been there?”