How to be poor

respected. Signora T was the only person who did her shopping in
the way Mrs Salamone had been taught to do hers. She felt contempt for the
sheeplike English whom even she, an uneducated Italian peasant, could twist
around her little finger. Far from not bothering with Signora T, Mrs Salamone
considered her visits the highlights of her day. Bargaining was no chore to
either woman, but a game, a pastime, a battle of wits and great fun. The aim of
the exercise was not to gain a few pennies; the aim of bargaining was the pleasure
of bargaining.
    (Mrs Salamone is a cherished, an
unforgettable person in my memory. One day, during the darkest part of the war,
there were reports in the newspapers that a consignment of oranges had arrived
and that people with green ration books — i.e. people with children — could buy
one pound of oranges per green book. W e had not seen an orange for a year, but
as we had no children yet, I did not even ask Mrs Salamone about the oranges.
When I finished my daily shopping for cabbages, turnips and sour apples, she
turned to me and asked me quite casually: “Would you like four pounds of
oranges?” My heart nearly stopped beating and I remarked timidly: “I thought
oranges were for babies.” Her eyes flashed and she shouted in a stentorian
voice: “Bugger the babies!” And gave me five pounds of oranges. Mutatis
mutandis, “Bugger the babies” has become the national slogan of Britain.)
    Back to bargaining. It is not only a
game, and fun; it is also a disease. Some people fight desperately for a little
glory; they need victories of some sort. A friend of mine, who lives in Australia, once described a scene to me with great vividness. He went on a cruise, visiting
Fiji, Tahiti, Tonga and other islands in the South Pacific. When passengers
went ashore in Tonga, a large number of small traders were waiting to offer
them their wares — mostly baskets and various bric-à-brac. People who go on
South Pacific cruises are, as a rule, richer than people who try to sell them
hand-woven baskets. These Tongan natives who try to sell their baskets etc to
the tourists are not only very poor, but they have worked hard all the Southern
winter weaving baskets and making other bric-à-brac. Their well-being during
the coming months depends on whether they can sell them at a reasonable price.
It seemed to my friend that when a well-to-do tourist is asked two dollars for
a pretty sewing basket, he might give the poor Tongan three. How naïve of him!
The passengers instantly joined battle with the Tongan traders, bargaining
fiercely, calling them robbers and beating the price down a dollar here, fifty
cents there. He said that Wellington could not have described his victory over
Napoleon in terms half as glowing as those used by the tourists when they
described their victories at the Battle of the Baskets. “He wanted seven
dollars for a small rattan table, but I’ve got it for 4.75!” They were not only
fighting the poor Tongans, they were competing with one another as to who had
made the biggest bargain, who had been cleverer, who had brought off the
dirtier tricks. As to who, in fact had succeeded in depriving some poor woman —
very probably a mother of five — of a dollar or two. My friend said that the
bargains at Tonga remained the chief topic of conversation for the rest of the
luxury cruise. The tourists were self-righteous: they refused to be cheated — that
was their moral justification. I don’t see why. I like to be cheated. Anyway, I
prefer to be cheated rather than to cheat others.
    Some time after hearing the story of
that cruise, I was walking with some friends in the streets of Dakar, Senegal. An African street jeweller joined us, and started talking to a young
American in our company. The trader told Joe that he had a particularly
beautiful golden necklace, worth 20,000 francs, but he would give it to Joe — as
a personal favour — for the ridiculous price of 11,ooo.
    “No, thank you,” said Joe, and walked
on.
    The street trader fell in beside him,
took out an elegant little box from his pocket, unwrapped a chain, hung it on
his index finger and went on with his sales talk: “It’s worth a fortune. 11,000
is a ridiculous price. I would not sell it to anyone even for that price. But you can have it for 10,000.”
    Joe did not enquire how, on their
very first encounter, the jeweller knew that he deserved this very special
treatment. He tried to rejoin our conversation.