On Friday, Hector and I drove to Las Palmas with the 4x5 outfit. I brought film holders with both black and white and color film. I took black and white shots of old Spanish-style buildings, corridors, windows, and architectural details that caught my eye. I took color photos of targets of opportunity: seedy street musician smiling broadly with his bandoneo; a taxi driver posed beside his decorated VW coach; a happy group of firemen with a 1930s fire truck they were restoring. The proofs of these pictures were more satisfactory than the first day’s shooting—especially the color shots and the images of people. Best by far were the firemen.
Maybe, there was a lesson here for me to learn. Even Vega, whose duty was to look after us that day, agreed. He picked up the picture of the firemen and admired it. “These are men like me,” he said. “I think you have taken a good picture of them.”
“Thank you, Vega,” I said. “Maybe I can take pictures of the Las Palmas police force.”
“Would you like to do that?”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know if the capitan would approve.”
“Does the capitan ride a horse?”
“Yes, sir. He is an excellent horseman. He has a big ranch inland and stables.”
I got Vega to pose for me in his uniform by the police car. Then, out on the beach, shirtless and with his Colt .45 drawn and aimed at something out of the picture frame. Inadvertently, in a repeat of this photo, Vega squeezed off a deafening shot; I caught his expression the moment he turned to laugh. It was both a beautiful and terrifying picture.
I caught Reclino that evening as he stood at the grill, burning meat. He was a young man who loved food, living life for the moment, reacting to his senses. It was all there in the picture and left to the observer to figure out what was missing.
Hector took off for the weekend, leaving me alone with Elsie. Without Hector, I was not inclined to haul the 4x5 around and take pictures. Even with the Leica, I was in no mood to wander, waiting for inspiration to strike. It felt like a long weekend ahead. On Saturday morning, Elsie and I had breakfast together on Hector’s porch. As I saw her sitting there—lean, spare, suntanned, serious—I raised the Leica and shot a candid.
“Don’t do that,” she said. “I don’t like having my picture taken.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Why not?”
“I don’t like the way I look. I’m getting old, and it shows.”
“No, Elsie. You’re beautiful,” I said.
She laughed, her mouth scornful. “Like hell, you say.”
Another shot, a quick one.
“Damn it, Carlos. Put away that damn camera.”
I set it on the table. After a long silence, “That was a good one, too, better than the first. Now, if I can just get you worked up a little more, I’ll have a string of masterpieces.”
The weekend passed uneventfully.
Monday morning, Hector and I drove to Las Palmas. I wanted to photograph some cops but did not go directly to the Police Department. Vega had expressed doubt that Capitan Navarro would approve, so I decided to use psychology to entice him. First, we went to the Fire Department, located next to the Police Department. I showed the fire capitan the pictures I had taken of his men restoring the old fire truck. He was pleased with them and invited members of his fire crew into his office to admire them. “I would like copies of these,” he said.
“How many?” I said.
He asked for ten, and I agreed. “I would like to take pictures of you and your officers in a formal pose.”
“That would be wonderful,” the Capitan said, “but we cannot pay you for them.”
“The pictures are for me. I’ll give you copies for the favor. They won’t cost you a centavo.”
The capitan was happy to hear this and in the half-hour following, was most helpful in posing his men and equipment according to my directions. While taking the pictures, several pedestrians stopped on the sidewalk to watch, as did several cops going in and out of the Police Department. When we finished, I promised the capitan I would bring back his copies of the photos in a week.
“How do you think that went?” I asked Hector as we left the Fire Department.
Hector said, “Some good pictures, but all those men looked stiff, like in school pictures. The ones we took of them fixing that old wreck were more natural. I like them more, I think.”
We entered the Police Department. I asked the desk Sargento for Capitan Navarro, whom I could see in a big glass office next to Teniente Garcia’s. Garcia was in his office, in suit and tie, busy with paperwork. The Sargento rang through to Navarro and pointed me toward his office. I left Hector in the lobby with our equipment and saw Navarro alone. Navarro, in his blue police capitan’s uniform, looked up but did not offer a greeting as I entered his office.
“Buenos dias, Capitan,” I began.
Navarro waved away the greeting and looked up. “You were taking pictures at the Fire Department.”
“You are observant, Capitan. Firefighters make fine subjects. They are men of dignity and honor. Policemen are also men of dignity and honor, risking their lives for our protection and welfare. I like to take pictures of policemen as well. I wonder.”
“You wonder?”
“Capitan Navarro, I picture you on a white horse.”
Navarro tried to suppress a smile. “I love horses.”
“I have a proposition to make.”
We started with Capitan Navarro alone, standing in front of the Police Department.
Next, I posed a contingent of policemen in a group shot.
Then Teniente Garcia, in his suit, looking most dignified.
Navarro sent a man to round up the horse patrol. When they showed up, I photographed the pair of them high atop their horses in front of the Police Department.
By now, the parking lot was filled with most of the police force. Capitan Navarro climbed up on his own proud white stallion, looking most imposing. I took one shot, in close, showing Navarro alone. He was a sight to see, a leader among men, tall and above them all.
Then I moved the camera back enough to include some of the onlookers who, in their facial expressions, were reacting to the spectacle of their leader playing the part of his given name, Napoleano. It would be best, I thought, later, to show Capitan Navarro the picture without the audience reacting to him.
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Man on a White Horse
by Henry Simpson
Bio:
Henry Simpson is the author of novels, short stories, and technical works, e.g., Amazon fiction. He studied engineering and did graduate work in English and Psychology at UC Santa Barbara. He lives in Monterey, California.
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