On Set in Lugardo

Tourists

I remember that day. It was twenty-seven degrees, and Alfred never showed up to fix the air conditioner. Well, I'll wait until you call me again to borrow money, you old scum...

I turned on the fan, called Savannah, and began to check the expiration date of the milk, glancing at the small TV near the cash register. The national football team selection was underway, and they were featuring my nephew.

In a little while, I'll take a break. Where is that girl?...

"Savannah!" I called again.

Finally, she appeared from the staff room with a box of plastic tableware. I had forgotten that I sent her to fetch supplies ten minutes ago...

"What?!" she grumbled.

"Can you make some cold coffee for your old man?"

She rolled her eyes, tossed the box on the floor, and disappeared into the staff room again. That little witch was not in the mood, rolling her eyes at me...

Two people entered the store: a guy and a girl. At first, I thought they were tourists, another couple on vacation. How could I know what was about to happen?

"They're still quite pale, it means they're a fresh arrival" I noted, coming behind the counter. They split up: the guy in a baseball cap, tall and slow, lingered by the drink cooler, examining and contemplating something, perhaps counting calories or converting prices into his currency, like all tourists; and the girl, a blonde with wet hair, just off the beach apparently, browsed among the last shelves with spices and dried fruits. Let me guess: she's looking for cashews...

Once again, I noticed that all the European girls were too thin and reminded myself to suggest our signature mango pie to these two when they reach the checkout. Not that I depended on tourists so much; after all, the main income comes from locals, but I never missed a chance to feed a tourist: he'll tell his friends at the hotel that he tried the most delicious mango pie, and not in a restaurant, but in an ordinary grocery store! Only a fool would refuse such advertising...

A couple of minutes later, two local guys entered. They went to pass the guy at the cooler to grab a beer and immediately froze staring at him. They started whispering, "It's Balthazar, it's Balthazar." I didn't understand anything. Maybe he was their friend? But they pulled out their phones and started taking pictures of him. The tourist asked them to stop and then asked again. The girl hid behind the shelves. Then Savannah came to the rescue, looked at all of this, and scolded me right away:

"Dad, why are you just standing there?"

My daughter is emotional; she started telling off the would-be photographers. But more people entered the store and also stared at this "Baltazar."

"Dad! He's a famous actor; they won't leave him alone!"

I had to escort the tourists to the staff room while Savannah was asking the crowd to leave and trying to lock the door.

– Is he really an actor? – I asked my daughter as quietly as possible when she joined us. The "star" heard me, smiled and extended his hand to me:

– Oscar Nordin. Sorry for the inconvenience.

I shook his hand:

– So, it's Oscar, not Baltazar, right? I haven't seen you before.

– Dad! – Savannah exclaimed.

– It's okay, I'm not very popular, – he replied.

– My name is Philip; this is my daughter Savannah. And you? – I asked the actor's companion. She stood aside, afraid to look at us.

– I'm... Liza, – she replied, nodding briefly, then turned to the guy. – What do we do now?

– I think we need a taxi.

– I can get you one, – Savannah offered. Look at how sweet she is to this guy. She's much less sweet with her own father.

I gave her a stern look:

– While you wait, my daughter will offer you some tea. I have to go upstairs and open the store; excuse me...

– Yes, of course, – the actor said, – I apologize again for this incident...

– No worries, it's extra publicity for us, – my daughter smiled at this lanky dude as wide as she hadn't smiled at her own father in ten years. What a brat.

I left, leaving the guests with Savannah, not yet knowing that our store would now turn into an information desk for Oscar Nordin's whereabouts, and the actor and his girlfriend would become part of our family.

***

I glanced at Liz; she kept looking nervously at the door through which the store owner led us into the staff room. Probably afraid that the crowd would burst in here. But I knew that we should expect trouble from the other door as I could already hear the noise from behind the black entrance, on which so many hopes for retreat were pinned.

Liz bit her lip and held onto the beach bag, with its woven handles digging into her delicate white shoulder. Probably, it was the first time for her: anyone would squirm if blinded by camera flashes. I hate it myself: no matter how long you live in this, it's impossible to start loving uninvited paparazzi raids.

However, it becomes easier when you know from experience that these episodes have a beginning and an end. And I understood that it would end as soon as we got into the taxi. But Liz, judging by the panic in her eyes, didn't know that. I tried to radiate confidence to show her that everything was under control, but she was too jittery.

The girl who worked in the store, Savannah, announced that the taxi had arrived, and I called Liz to the exit. But as soon as she approached, the presence of photographers on the other side of the door ceased to be a secret for her. I had already reached for the wooden handle when she grabbed my wrist.

Liz stood too close not to notice that her chest was rising excessively, and her gray eyes showed horror. "What's wrong with you?" I asked, reassuringly squeezing her hand. "You've turned pale..."

She absentmindedly nodded her head and said, "You go; I'll come later. They'll leave eventually, won't they?" She anxiously sought confirmation in my eyes.

"Yeah, I think right after me," I replied confidently, but my hoarse voice revealed the growing unease inside. I wavered between talking to her and getting away as quickly as possible to end this mess.

"Sorry," Liz's voice trembled, she took a step back, "I really can't go with you. Please, just..."

Not wanting to torment Liz for another moment, I pulled the handle, and camera flashes erupted like a storm. The crowd boiled with cheers and greetings, and standing before the lenses, I succumbed to their expectations.

How come there were so many people on such a small island?

I played my role, giving them what they wanted so badly. But I couldn't shake off the sense of guilt: first, I showed myself as an absolute jerk there on the beach, uttering a brutal remark about her body, and then dragged her on a walk, dreaming that at least here, on this island far from home, everything would be different.

When I got into the taxi, a realization hit me like a sledgehammer: Liz wasn't just afraid of paparazzi. She was afraid that they would see her next to me.