The Sadness of English Saturday (from Aguafuertes Porteñas) Roberto Arlt

The Sadness of English Saturday (from Aguafuertes Porteñas)

Roberto Arlt

Could it be that because I have been wandering throughout the week that Saturday and Sunday became the most boring days of my life? I think Sunday is pure old boredom and English Saturday is a sad day – with sadness characterized by the name of the race.

English Saturday is a colourless and tasteless day; a day "with neither kicks nor pricks" [no corta ni pincha] in the routine of the people. A hybrid day, without character, without gestures.

It is a day for marital brawls to thrive, and for drunkenness which are more lugubrious than the "de profundis" in the twilight of a cloudy day. A grave silence hangs over the city. In England or Puritan countries, that is.  The lack of sun, which is surely the natural source of all joy. And when it rains or snows, there is nowhere to go, not even to run. So people stay at home by the fire, and tired from reading Punch, they browse the Bible.

But for us the English Saturday is a very modern gift that failed to convince us. We already have plenty of Sundays. Without money, nowhere to go and no desire to go anywhere, why would we want Sunday? Sunday was an institution which humanity could live without very comfortably.

Daddy God rested on Sunday, because he was tired of having made this complicated thing called ‘world’. But what has been done during the six days, all those slackers out there walking around, to rest on Sunday? Besides, no one has the right to impose a day of idleness. Who asked for it? What for?

Humanity had to impose a day from the week dedicated to doing nothing. And mankind was bored. A ‘lean’ day is suffice. Here comes the British gentleman, what a great idea! Let’s add another day more, on Saturday.

Regardless of the amount of work, one day off per week is more than enough. Two are unbearable in any city in the world. I am, as you see, a sworn enemy of English Saturday.

The necktie used for a week left in the trunk. Suit with ostensible stiffness well-kept. Boots creaking. Glasses with gold frame, for Saturday and Sunday. And this is the self-satisfying aspect that made you want to kill him. Like the kind of boyfriend, one of those couples that bought a house on monthly installment. One of those couples kssing to fixed term.

So carefully polishing his boots when getting out of the car that I did not forget to step on one of his foot. If there are no people the man would kill me.

After this fool, there is another man on Saturday, the sad man, the man grieves me deeply every time I see him.

I've seen him numerous times, and he has always given me the same painful impression.

I was walking down a sidewalk one Saturady, under the shade, by Calle Alsina - the most dismal street of Buenos Aires, when at the opposite sidewalk, along the path of the sun, I saw a hunchback employee, walking slowly, carrying a three year old child.

The creature exhibited her innocence with one of those little hats with cintajos, already deplorable without being old. A freshly pressed pink dress. Some shoes for the holidays. The girl walked slowly, and the father, even more slowly. And suddenly I had a vision of the room in a lodging house, and the mother of the child, [urea] young woman wrinkled by hardship, ironing the baby’s hat with cintajos.

The man walked slowly. Sad. Bored. In him I saw the product of working twenty years by the sentry box, of fourteen hours a day and with starving wages, twenty years of deprivation, of stupid sacrifices and holy terror being fired and left unemployed in the street. Saw him at Santana, the character of Roberto Mariani.

And in the city centre, during Saturday afternoon is horrible. When businesses are exhibited with hideous nakedness. The metal shutters have aggressive rigidness.

Basements of importing houses vomit the stink of tar, benzol and overseas items. Stores stink of rubber. The hardware stores by paint. The sky seems so blue, which is illuminating an inconspicuous factory in Africa. Taverns for stockbrokers remain empty and dismal. A gatekeeper playing mus with floor cleaners by the edge of a table. Guys procreated by the spontaneous generation from the moss-house benches, appearing at the door of "employee entrance" of the cash deposits. And has experienced the terror, the awful horror of thinking that at the same hour in many countries people are forced to do nothing, but are willing to work or die.

No, no turning back, no day sadder than English Saturday, and those employees on a Saturday, still checking, at twelve o'clock, for a company that has seven million of capital, the two cents discrepancy of the end of the month balance.

Translated by J. Loke (Nov 2014)