I live on Mercaderes Street, one of the oldest in Havana, and one of the first to have a name related to the predominant activity that took place there.
In the middle of the 18th century, woolen, silk and linen fabrics were sold, as well as gold, silver and everything that helped to highlight the luxury of the richest neighbors. One hundred years later, several “chinchales”, where Spaniards, Creoles and Chinese shared work, dedicated themselves to producing cigarettes and cigars, while over two blocks, an open-air market offered loudly the best exchange rates for pesos, pesetas, pounds, francs and coins from distant countries.
Since then, the bustle of town criers and passersby would compete with Art classes at the Artistic and Literary Lyceum of the old house of the Marquises of Arco, prayers in the church of Santo Domingo, studies at the Pontifical University of San Gerónimo in the same building, the bureaucratic bustle in the Palace of the General Captains and the tranquility of the orphans of the Casa de la Obra Pía.
In the twentieth century, Mercaderes — along with almost all of Old Havana — was losing its luster, and with it, the presence of vendors and shops. A project was even managed to demolish that historic part of the city and "modernize" it.
Thanks to the work carried out for several decades by the Office of the Historian of Havana, the old splendor of the old Calle de los Mercaderes has been recovered. Beautiful colonial and republican buildings occupy most of the section that today goes from Empedrado, very close to the Cathedral, to Teniente Rey, within sight of the Plaza Vieja.
A must for foreign tourists and Cuban families in search of solace, Mercaderes has long become, together with Obispo, the space with the greatest public attention and, of course, commercial attraction. Museums, restaurants, rental houses, a boutique hotel, shops and cafes compete for the attention of those who pass through the place.
The "sonorous party" begins very early, with the rolling of the cleaning carts and the conversations between street sweepers and museum custodians waiting to be replaced; shortly after, wheelbarrows loaded with books and antiques, on the way to the market, rattle on the cobblestones of the street that, block by block, is being restored, with the blow of a pneumatic hammer and a dozen workers who impose their conversations above the noise; Later the entry of trucks with materials for the reconstruction and maintenance of buildings such as the old Armory begins, where a brigade, raising mandarins, knocks down walls, while another prepares the mixture to raise them again.
Starting at nine in the morning, the parade of tourists begins, most in groups with guides who, with a flag in hand and with the help of a portable or loud speaker, turn the street into a small representation of the UN.
And the music begins. Melodies that spring from the houses, and, above all, from "street performers": a trio sitting very close to the Havana 1791 perfumery, shreds each piece no less than twenty times a day, the Guantanamera and Chanchán, while some tourist; a trumpeter who has excelled through practice and dedication, plays international hits, now with background; a colorful guitarist, still distant from the best players, strives to reach them; a group of old men reel off traditional Cuban songs in Mercaderes y Obispo, very close to a man who makes his dog — tucked into a bicycle basket — greet the public with “intelligent barks”; further afield, at the entrance of La Dominica restaurant, a professional quartet encourages tourists who brave the Havana heat with a lunch outdoors.
However, the star of the "concert" is a round and good-natured black woman who, with the tuning and vocal power of a professional mezzo-soprano, announces her merchandise: "Maní, manisero se va ...", and you can take a picture and even Earn a kiss from the friendly hawker for a modest sum. The peanut cone is a bit more expensive.
When there seems to be a break for the ears, it is time for the “stilt walkers”. For years these young people have walked and occupied the streets with their music of drums and Chinese cornet, some mounted on stilts, followed by a crowd gathered as they passed to take photos and videos - the best moment is when one of the artists carries some child of the public. The tour, with its roar, is repeated up to five times in a few hours ...
Only the "living statues" escape the sound contribution to Old Havana.
But the Coronavirus arrived. Merchants fell silent. Tourists and street musicians disappeared. Restaurants and shops closed. It made the silence.
Just for a minute, at nine o'clock, with the cannon shot that once warned of the closing of the walls, the hubbub returns. From all the houses, through doors and balconies, faces with nasobucos appear to pay a daily and well-deserved tribute to the medical personnel fighting the pandemic. Applause, whistles and even saucepans serve to raise a heterogeneous, respectful, heartfelt sound.
Without a doubt, sooner rather than later we will recover. The street performers and the noise and the music will return, and Mercaderes will once again be the bustling street I know. So, at least for the first few days, I will listen carefully to identify the singers, the instruments, the voices, the cries. Later I will return to the regime of working at dawn, when neither the Chinese bugle nor the irreverent Chanchan bother me to write.
I will only miss the applause and greetings between neighbors at the time of the cannon shot.