I was walking down Obispo street , heading to the Cuban Book Institute, as I used to do every morning, and a policeman, standing in front of the Ambos Mundos Hotel, was looking at me suspiciously. That is: he had a suspicious look and, besides, that look beheld certain suspicion towards me. I tried not to face him as I was not looking forward to stumbling with a policeman that morning. Not that there were other days I was wanting to stumble with a policeman, but particularly that morning I was not in the mood because just at 6:00 am, when I was maybe dreaming that I was been awarded with the National Prize of Literature, a truck drove in front of my house fumigating against mosquitoes.
It is not proper to wonder why the fumigation process had to happen so early, or why it had to be on a Saturday morning when, supposedly, normal people rest after a week working, that noisy truck had to drive in front of my house fumigating against mosquitoes. I just had to get up because the oily smoke started to get in through the gaps under the window and the air turned unbreathable. Of course I was upset, so I got dressed and after half an hour, a good estimate compared to other mornings´ trip, I started to walk down Obispo street and suddenly I found myself in the Mercaderes intersection, in front of that policeman who was looking at me as if my picture was glued to the walls with a “Wanted” poster.
I wondered what price would my head have, and I smiled, and I quickly hid that smile because the policeman might think I was making fun of him. So I looked down at the worn-out paving stones and I forgave the cop who was still staring at me with a suspicious glance. Because he didn´t know I was heading to work. Because he didn´t know I am a writer. Because I didn´t have a poster announcing I am a writer. Because I am just a black man and it was suspicious that I walked so early and slowly down Obispo street listening to suspicious music with a suspicious device. And I wondered what would happen, what would be the officer´s face if he knew I am a writer. Or is it that the cop was staring at me because he remembered my face from a TV show the night before? I doubted it. Is a writer a better person than the “common” citizen? Pretentious idea, above all when a certain image came to my mind, the image of some poets, friends of mine, who worked for a long time as watchmen, and I remembered the one who was doorman in a hotel, and the one who was in jail for some crime he didn´t commit, and the one who jumped over a raft and didn´t make to the other shore, and the one I usually met in the market buying fruits, and the one who is a prostitute, and the one who wanders around the streets of Havana selling sweets. And I realized that in Cuba a writer is a common person, someone who happens to be not that illustrious unless he or she is awarded with the National Prize of Literature or is invited to international fairs, or if, by any chance, has made a contract with a foreign publishing house. In the first case, there are some well-deserving authors, and it´s better not to even dream of being awarded with that Prize because that means, besides the monthly salary, that death is hanging around you. In the second case, there will be lots of people, especially institutions who will say you are selling your work to those publishing houses for pennies that are, in the worst case scenario, ten times more than what the national publishing houses are able to pay.
At that time, I was suspicious that walking down Obispo street that early was not a crime, but who knows. In other occasions the police had asked for my ID just because I must look like a criminal. Sometimes, in my writings, I have been a criminal. I have been a thief, rapist, dirty old man, assassin, pimp. But just in my writings. And it is possible that the policeman, as everybody else, knew it, and maybe he also knew it is hard to separate the author from his characters, that there are always features of the writer on them, that, at the end, you write about your own experience disguised with a bit of fiction.
I was suspicious that I was common, a common guy, a common black man with anything printed in his face except the word “writer”. I even deserved that the policeman would have stopped me and asked for my documents and prosecuted me for walking down Obispo street so early; and I deserved been called citizen. I would have told him that I am not a citizen, that I am a poet, that, one day, I will be awarded with the National Prize of Literature, but that would have worsen my situation, because a poet is a suspicious person, and a suspicious person is someone who looks like a poet, and policemen, generally, don´t like suspicious guys, nor poets.
It is not proper to wonder why the fumigation process had to happen so early, or why it had to be on a Saturday morning when, supposedly, normal people rest after a week working, that noisy truck had to drive in front of my house fumigating against mosquitoes. I just had to get up because the oily smoke started to get in through the gaps under the window and the air turned unbreathable. Of course I was upset, so I got dressed and after half an hour, a good estimate compared to other mornings´ trip, I started to walk down Obispo street and suddenly I found myself in the Mercaderes intersection, in front of that policeman who was looking at me as if my picture was glued to the walls with a “Wanted” poster.
I wondered what price would my head have, and I smiled, and I quickly hid that smile because the policeman might think I was making fun of him. So I looked down at the worn-out paving stones and I forgave the cop who was still staring at me with a suspicious glance. Because he didn´t know I was heading to work. Because he didn´t know I am a writer. Because I didn´t have a poster announcing I am a writer. Because I am just a black man and it was suspicious that I walked so early and slowly down Obispo street listening to suspicious music with a suspicious device. And I wondered what would happen, what would be the officer´s face if he knew I am a writer. Or is it that the cop was staring at me because he remembered my face from a TV show the night before? I doubted it. Is a writer a better person than the “common” citizen? Pretentious idea, above all when a certain image came to my mind, the image of some poets, friends of mine, who worked for a long time as watchmen, and I remembered the one who was doorman in a hotel, and the one who was in jail for some crime he didn´t commit, and the one who jumped over a raft and didn´t make to the other shore, and the one I usually met in the market buying fruits, and the one who is a prostitute, and the one who wanders around the streets of Havana selling sweets. And I realized that in Cuba a writer is a common person, someone who happens to be not that illustrious unless he or she is awarded with the National Prize of Literature or is invited to international fairs, or if, by any chance, has made a contract with a foreign publishing house. In the first case, there are some well-deserving authors, and it´s better not to even dream of being awarded with that Prize because that means, besides the monthly salary, that death is hanging around you. In the second case, there will be lots of people, especially institutions who will say you are selling your work to those publishing houses for pennies that are, in the worst case scenario, ten times more than what the national publishing houses are able to pay.
At that time, I was suspicious that walking down Obispo street that early was not a crime, but who knows. In other occasions the police had asked for my ID just because I must look like a criminal. Sometimes, in my writings, I have been a criminal. I have been a thief, rapist, dirty old man, assassin, pimp. But just in my writings. And it is possible that the policeman, as everybody else, knew it, and maybe he also knew it is hard to separate the author from his characters, that there are always features of the writer on them, that, at the end, you write about your own experience disguised with a bit of fiction.
I was suspicious that I was common, a common guy, a common black man with anything printed in his face except the word “writer”. I even deserved that the policeman would have stopped me and asked for my documents and prosecuted me for walking down Obispo street so early; and I deserved been called citizen. I would have told him that I am not a citizen, that I am a poet, that, one day, I will be awarded with the National Prize of Literature, but that would have worsen my situation, because a poet is a suspicious person, and a suspicious person is someone who looks like a poet, and policemen, generally, don´t like suspicious guys, nor poets.
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