I Was an Elephant Salesman: Adventures between Dakar, Paris, and Milan

Changes

I Was an Elephant Salesman 119 Fights in the Metro Before the permesso di soggiorno, though, we have some run-ins with the Moroccans—and they with us. I think the final count is in our favor in the sense that they’ve taken more punches. I am a karate champion and Samba’s not exactly a beginner. I’m not bragging: we’re really something. And anyway, just let me smile a little. It makes me sad to think of the fistfights in the metro, and a little sorry, even if I am convinced that we were right. If I boast a little now about myself, it’s only to make our little war seem less squalid and humiliating. After a shy start, in which I was a protagonist, selling in the metro became common practice, especially with the new arrivals. It pulls in a lot of money and you don’t have to move around constantly. There’s no wear and tear on your legs and feet. Plus, you always have a roof over your head and a warm place to work. You just have to be on guard and take off like lightning at the first alarm. After the first trial months and good results, the imitators multiply like rapid fire, forming a little army of their own. I’m thinking of Piazzale Loreto, but really you can say the same of any major metro station where an increasingly aggressive and numerous group of vendors contend for the last square inch of black rubber floor. For now there is one rule that everyone 120 Pap Khouma follows religiously: the first to arrive, Moroccan or Senegalese , gets the spot he wants. The others just have to make do with what’s left. Whoever goes down too late gets a bad spot or doesn’t get a spot at all. Everyone, though, has to respect two corners: the first belongs to a pretty elderly gentleman, and the second to a Neapolitan who has a family, a wife and two kids. He also has a big soft belly that sticks out over his belt, and a big crease that runs across his face, making him look sinister. He’s a lot older than us and one time he threatened to shoot whoever else tried to sell earrings. He didn’t kill anyone, but we still have to show him respect, at least for his age. Abdallah, a Moroccan, is always the quickest . It seems like he never leaves the piazza. He’s always the first, always in the best spot. Good for him. But he’s not satisfied with just having his spot. He takes another, then another, and another still, planting a row of bags here and there. Whoever arrives first has the best chance of setting up his stuff in the best way. The dawn is priceless. These are the rules and we have to follow them. But Abdallah goes too far. After a few weeks he says he doesn’t even want to see us in the metro. We protest—without going too far. Abdallah starts to gather his friends together, all shady characters. They’re not vendors. I wouldn’t even know how to begin to tell you who they are. It’s just a waste of time. . . . In any case, it so happens that our bags start to disappear. That’s because the first thing we used to do when we arrived was to leave our bags alone without anyone watching them so that we could go shake hands with our friends, just as a form of common courtesy. But then the bags, one by one, are either confiscated or stolen: it is as if the local police and Abdallah ’s friends have formed an alliance against us Senegalese. Abdallah denies it: “I don’t know them. I have nothing to do with them. And, anyway, Moroccans don’t steal.” But I am sure that they are the ones stealing. But we guys from Cassano always arrive too late, when everything has already happened. The other Senegalese guys, who are the first to arrive, are scared and don’t know what to do when Abdallah ’s friends start causing trouble. Things go on like this for I Was an Elephant Salesman 121 some time. The guys all come to us to complain. We don’t know what to do. The right moment will...