Selected Cronicas

SATURDAY

I find Saturday is the rose of the week; on Saturday afternoon curtains blow in the breeze, and someone empties a bucket of water over the terrace. Saturday with a breeze blowing is the rose of the week. Saturday morning I associated with the yard, the bee flying from plant to plant, and the breeze: a bee-sting, a swollen face, blood and honey, the bee has left its mark. Other bees will follow the scent and on the following Saturday morning I shall see if the yard is full of bees. It was on a Saturday that the ants swarmed over paving-stones in the backyards of my childhood. It was on a Saturday that I saw a man sitting in the shade on the pavement, eating stew and manioc meal out of a gourd. It was Saturday afternoon and we had already bathed in the sea. At two o’clock, a bell announced in the breeze the matinée performance at the local cinema: Saturday with a breeze was the rose of the week. If it rained, I alone knew that it was Saturday; Saturday transformed into a drenched rose? In Rio de Janeiro, just when you think the exhausted week is about to die, the week suddenly opens out into a rose. On the Avenida Atlantica a car slams on its brakes and, suddenly, before the startled breeze can blow once more, I sense it is Saturday afternoon. It has been Saturday, but is no longer the same. I say nothing, seemingly resigned. But I have already gathered my things and moved on to Sunday morning. Sunday morning is also the rose of the week. Although not to be compared with Saturday. I shall never know why.