They are like any neighbor’s son, and that is precisely why they become almost invisible thieves.
I owe my paternal grandfather, and also my father, a great passion for reading. Today I was remembering one of those titles that I discovered thanks to one of them. I thought again about The loneliness of the long-distance runner, the novel that came from the head of Alan Sillitoe and that Seix Barral published a few years ago, and of which—at least as far as I know—there is still no Cuban edition.
I have thought about long-distance runners again, but not about those boys locked in an English Borstal. I thought, rather, of the Cuban long-distance runners: those who roam the streets of Havana and also in other parts of the national geography, beyond the capital.
Our distance runners don’t attract attention. They prefer to go unnoticed. Some have the appearance of the simple schoolboy, the common boy walking the road to school. They could appear on the Paseo del Prado, that place where you walk slowly, entertained, calmly enjoying the urban landscape.
They are identical to the rest of the Cubans. They even seem neat, restrained; They could help an elderly woman cross the street without arousing suspicion. They are like any neighbor’s son, and that is precisely why they become almost invisible thieves. They are deceivers, and some even carry a clearly visible book to reinforce the appearance of the diligent young man.
Our long-distance runners study their victims. They follow them from a distance, calculate the exact moment and snatch the purse, the old woman’s purse, the older man’s wallet or the backpack of the thin, weak young boy, with that clear appearance of the bitongo, from whom he does not have the necessary strength to defend himself.
They are as sneaky as that runner that Sillitoe left us. And also cruel. They are the human waste that has become increasingly common in a progressively more rotten city. They walk down any street, although they prefer the most prosperous neighborhoods, those arteries where money flows most clearly.
They prefer the Vedado and some public spaces in the west of the city. They monitor the exits of stores where any merchandise is paid in dollars. They lie in wait, observe, measure signs, and when the moment arrives they launch themselves at the victim. Then they run. They run a lot. As much as Sillitoe’s long-distance runners.
Cuba today is a country full of thieves. White-collar thieves, thieves in olive green suits. Cuba is that Borstal that Sillitoe left us as a metaphor. On this island a new version of The loneliness of the long-distance runner. And I hope I have the strength to get involved in such an endeavor.
