Was I Lucky to Have Been Brave?
HAVANA TIMES – We were all there at our chosen spots for selling – the ones we grabbed, then said: “This is my spot and I want to work here.” But the authorities supervising the open markets have their own logic, so the fines rain down and the money remains beyond our reach.
What’s certain is that according to our criteria everything was in its place, each vendor all set up with their products, when the police arrived. They’re usually not too aggressive with me – I imagine because I sell books, and this in Cuba could be a reminder that education was one of the conquests of socialism. But with my male companions, who sell other products, they can be really gross.
In this battle trench (in Cuba, it’s like we’re constantly preparing for war) all kinds of things are sold – vegetables, sweets, medicine, plants. Those who sell Aloe Vera stalks, coconuts, or vegetables can also feel more or less at ease, because they’re never going to get rich, nor will they ever come close to deposing Fidel or his brother from power.
The one who repair lighters and things like that is the other poor slob [who is spared]; but not the one now selling poisons (to combat cockroaches, fleas, ticks). That guy gets queried: “Where did you get that stuff, kid?” And if things get nasty, they go from scolding to the stronger stuff, at which point you have to pay the country’s number one gangster, which we all know is the one most of us disapprove of: the government.
I’m peacefully waiting there, with my Marti notebooks, and my novels and poetry books, when all of a sudden a whole troop of them is nearly right in front of me. “It’s the landscape full of colors,” I say to myself. Because they’re all descending together: police in their bright blue or clear blue uniforms, inspectors with their white t-shirts and black folders under their arm, and you can see a lot of people. My colleague on the right has so much merchandise I had begun to envy him: turmeric, coconuts, honey, herbs, and his poisons to kill rats – or if you ask, anything else – in little glass penicillin bottles.
He himself isn’t sitting there beside me, but his things are, and a little ways back he’s seated in a wheelbarrow. The troop is watching closely, talking amongst themselves in low voices. I turn my gaze to the horizon, looking out at the clouds, the changeless hills, away from the soldiers further to my left, as if I wasn’t working, but on a leisurely trip to the countryside.
Finally a police in clear blue, with his clipboard and white papers fixed there with an aluminum binder clip, comes up to me and asks: “Is this yours?” His question is understandable – I was at a very believable distance, his products just a tad beyond my textbooks.
“No,” I responded, “I’m with those books over there.”
“Whose is that?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know,” I said, without daring to look over at the skinny, dark-skinned, and badly dressed man who was my fellow vendor, sitting over on the wheelbarrow. The same one I point out to the buyers when they ask about the poisons. “The gentleman over there,” I tell them.
I continue without looking directly at the police officer, something a Uruguayan taught me: “use all possible measures to avoid offending the egos of your superiors. They have over-sensitive egos, and sometimes whether they save you or kill you depends only on how their egos feel about you.”
“You don’t know,” the policeman repeats. I nod my head, fearfully. Incredibly, the troop continues on their way.
When they were gone, my companion comes over and says: “You can’t show those people you’re afraid, or it’s worse.” I don’t contradict him. I’m just trying to sell my blessed old books.
I sense that my colleague is pleased with me. I’m proud of myself, and I haven’t felt proud of myself in a long time. Quite the opposite – I’ve been sad. But now, this encounter has boosted my self-esteem to the point where I’m overflowing with joy. And I know it’s not bravery that I showed. I find that business of courage very questionable.
We’re composed of so many things! What if my nerves had betrayed me and I said quickly – “it’s him”? What if the malicious urge to screw someone had taken me over – as in “I feel screwed myself and why shouldn’t I see the other guy screwed as well”? Or what if my psyche had betrayed me when faced with the pressures of authority, as I’ve betrayed myself thousands of times? Or what if…?
But, with all that, I’m happy because this time I reacted the way I should. And I feel fabulous. That day I only sold the cheapest book I have to offer. But it wasn’t a bad day at all. Feeling good about yourself is one of life’s great gifts.