百年孤独(英文版)-第15部分

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ting　themselves　be　borne　along　by　the　natural　flow　of　their　hearth　they　reached　a　point　where　all　that　was　left　to　do　was　set　a　wedding　date。　They　did　not　encounter　any　obstacles。　？rsula　accused　herself　inwardly　of　having　twisted　Rebecca’s　destiny　with　repeated　postponements　and　she　was　not　about　to　add　more　remorse。　The　rigor　of　the　mourning　for　Remedios　had　been　relegated　to　the　background　by　the　mortifications　of　the　war；　Aureliano’s　absence；　Arcadio’s　brutality；　and　the　expulsion　of　Jos？Arcadio　and　Rebeca。　With　the　imminence　of　the　wedding；　Pietro　Crespi　had　hinted　that　Aureliano　Jos？　in　whom　he　had　stirred　up　a　love　that　was　almost　filial；　would　be　considered　their　oldest　child。　Everything　made　Amaranta　think　that　she　was　heading　toward　a　smooth　happiness。　But　unlike　Rebeca；　she　did　not　reveal　the　slightest　anxiety。　With　the　same　patience　with　which　she　dyed　tablecloths；　sewed　lace　masterpieces；　and　embroidered　needlepoint　peacocks；　she　waited　for　Pietro　Crespi　to　be　unable　to　bear　the　urges　of　his　heart　and　more。　Her　day　came　with　the　illfated　October　rains。　Pietro　Crespi　took　the　sewing　basket　from　her　lap　and　he　told　her；　“We’ll　get　married　next　month。？Amaranta　did　not　tremble　at　the　contact　with　his　icy　hands。　She　withdrew　hers　like　a　timid　little　animal　and　went　back　to　her　work。
　　　“Don’t　be　simple；　Crespi。？She　smiled。　“I　wouldn’t　marry　you　even　if　I　were　dead。？
　　　Pietro　Crespi　lost　control　of　himself。　He　wept　shamelessly；　almost　breaking　his　fingers　with　desperation；　but　he　could　not　break　her　down。　“Don’t　waste　your　time；？was　all　that　Amaranta　said。　“If　you　really　love　me　so　much；　don’t　set　foot　in　this　house　again。？？rsula　thought　she　would　go　mad　with　shame。　Pietro　Crespi　exhausted　all　manner　of　pleas。　He　went　through　incredible　extremes　of　humiliation。　He　wept　one　whole　afternoon　in　？rsula’s　lap　and　she　would　have　sold　her　soul　in　order　to　fort　him。　On　rainy　nights　he　could　be　seen　prowling　about　the　house　with　an　umbrella；　waiting　for　a　light　in　Amaranta’s　bedroom。　He　was　never　better　dressed　than　at　that　time。　His　august　head　of　a　tormented　emperor　had　acquired　a　strange　air　of　grandeur。　He　begged　Amaranta’s　friends；　the　ones　who　sewed　with　her　on　the　porch；　to　try　to　persuade　her。　He　neglected　his　business。　He　would　spend　the　day　in　the　rear　of　the　store　writing　wild　notes；　which　he　would　send　to　Amaranta　with　flower　petals　and　dried　butterflies；　and　which　she　would　return　unopened。　He　would　shut　himself　up　for　hours　on　end　to　play　the　zither。　One　night　he　sang。　Macondo　woke　up　in　a　kind　of　angelic　stupor　that　was　caused　by　a　zither　that　deserved　more　than　this　world　and　a　voice　that　led　one　to　believe　that　no　other　person　on　earth　could　feel　such　love。　Pietro　Crespi　then　saw　the　lights　go　on　in　every　window　in　town　except　that　of　Amaranta。　On　November　second；　All　Souls？Day；　his　brother　opened　the　store　and　found　all　the　lamps　lighted；　all　the　music　boxes　opened；　and　all　the　docks　striking　an　interminable　hour；　and　in　the　midst　of　that　mad　concert　he　found　Pietro　Crespi　at　the　desk　in　the　rear　with　his　wrists　cut　by　a　razor　and　his　hands　thrust　into　a　basin　of　benzoin。
　　　？rsula　decreed　that　the　wake　would　be　in　her　house。　Father　Nicanor　was　against　a　religious　ceremony　and　burial　in　consecrated　ground。　？rsula　stood　up　to　him。　“In　a　way　that　neither　you　nor　I　can　understand；　that　man　was　a　saint；？she　said。　“So　I　am　going　to　bury　him；　against　your　wishes；　beside　Melquíades？grave。？She　did　it　with　the　support　of　the　whole　town　and　with　a　magnificent　funeral。　Amaranta　did　not　leave　her　bedroom。　From　her　bed　she　heard　？rsula’s　weeping；　the　steps　and　whispers　of　the　multitude　that　invaded　the　house；　the　wailing　of　the　mourners；　and　then　a　deep　silence　that　smelled　of　trampled　flowers。　For　a　long　time　she　kept　on　smelling　Pietro　Crespi’s　lavender　breath　at　dusk；　but　she　had　the　strength　not　to　succumb　to　delirium。　？rsula　abandoned　her。　She　did　not　even　raise　her　eyes　to　pity　her　on　the　afternoon　when　Amaranta　went　into　the　kitchen　and　put　her　hand　into　the　coals　of　the　stove　until　it　hurt　her　so　much　that　she　felt　no　more　pain　but　instead　smelled　the　pestilence　of　her　own　singed　flesh。　It　was　a　stupid　cure　for　her　remorse。　For　several　days　she　went　about　the　house　with　her　hand　in　a　pot　of　egg　whites；　and　when　the　burns　healed　it　appeared　as　if　the　whites　had　also　scarred　over　the　sores　on　her　heart。　The　only　external　trace　that　the　tragedy　left　was　the　bandage　of　black　gauze　that　she　put　on　her　burned　hand　and　that　she　wore　until　her　death。
　　　Arcadio　gave　a　rare　display　of　generosity　by　decreeing　official　mourning　for　Pietro　Crespi。　？rsula　interpreted　it　as　the　return　of　the　strayed　lamb。　But　she　was　mistaken。　She　had　lost　Arcadio；　not　when　he　had　put　on　his　military　uniform；　but　from　the　beginning。　She　thought　she　had　raised　him　as　a　son；　as　she　had　raised　Rebeca；　with　no　privileges　or　discrimination。　Nevertheless；　Arcadio　was　a　solitary　and　frightened　child　during　the　insomnia　plague；　in　the　midst　of　？rsula’s　utilitarian　fervor；　during　the　delirium　of　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía；　the　hermetism　of　Aureliano；　and　the　mortal　rivalry　between　Amaranta　and　Rebeca。　Aureliano　had　taught　him　to　read　and　write；　thinking　about　other　things；　as　he　would　have　done　with　a　stranger。　He　gave　him　his　clothing　so　that　Visitación　could　take　it　in　when　it　was　ready　to　be　thrown　away。　Arcadio　suffered　from　shoes　that　were　too　large；　from　his　patched　pants；　from　his　female　buttocks。　He　never　succeeded　in　municating　with　anyone　better　than　he　did　with　Visitación　and　Cataure　in　their　language。　Melquíades　was　the　only　one　who　really　was　concerned　with　him　as　he　made　him　listen　to　his　inprehensible　texts　and　gave　him　lessons　in　the　art　of　daguerreotype。　No　one　imagined　how　much　he　wept　in　secret　and　the　desperation　with　which　he　tried　to　revive　Melquíades　with　the　useless　study　of　his　papers。　The　school；　where　they　paid　attention　to　him　and　respected　him；　and　then　power；　with　his　endless　decrees　and　his　glorious　uniform；　freed　him　from　the　weight　of　an　old　bitterness。　One　night　in　Catarino’s　store　someone　dared　tell　him；　“you　don’t　deserve　the　last　name　you　carry。？Contrary　to　what　everyone　expected；　Arcadio　did　not　have　him　shot。
　　　“To　my　great　honor；？he　said；　“I　am　not　a　Buendía。？
　　　Those　who　knew　the　secret　of　his　parentage　thought　that　the　answer　meant　that　he　too　was　aware　of　it；　but　he　had　really　never　been。　Pilar　Ternera；　his　mother；　who　had　made　his　blood　boil　in　the　darkroom；　was　as　much　an　irresistible　obsession　for　him　as　she　had　been　first　for　Jos？Arcadio　and　then　for　Aureliano。　In　spite　of　her　having　lost　her　charms　and　the　splendor　of　her　laugh；　he　sought　her　out　and　found　her　by　the　trail　of　her　smell　of　smoke。　A　short　time　before　the　war；　one　noon　when　she　was　later　than　usual　in　ing　for　her　younger　son　at　school；　Arcadio　was　waiting　for　her　in　the　room　where　he　was　accustomed　to　take　his　siesta　and　where　he　later　set　up　the　stocks。　While　the　child　played　in　the　courtyard；　he　waited　in　his　hammock；　trembling　with　anxiety；　knowing　that　Pillar　Ternera　would　have　to　pass　through　there。　She　arrived。　Arcadio　grabbed　her　by　the　wrist　and　tried　to　pull　her　into　the　hammock。　“I　can’t；　I　can’t；？Pilar　Ternera　said　in　horror。　“You　can’t　imagine　how　much　I　would　like　to　make　you　happy；　but　as　God　is　my　witness　I　can’t。？Arcadio　took　her　by　the　waist　with　his　tremendous　hereditary　strength　and　he　felt　the　world　disappear　with　the　contact　of　her　skin。　“Don’t　play　the　saint；？he　said。　“After　all；　everybody　knows　that　you’re　a　whore。？Pilar　overcame　the　disgust　that　her　miserable　fate　inspired　in　her。
　　　“The　children　will　find　out；？she　murmured。　“It　will　be　better　if　you　leave　the　bar　off　the　door　tonight。？
　　　Arcadio　waited　for　her　that　night　trembling　with　fever　in　his　hammock。　He　waited　without　sleeping；　listening　to　the　aroused　crickets　in　the　endless　hours　of　early　morning　and　the　implacable　telling　of　time　by　the　curlews；　more　and　more　convinced　that　he　had　been　deceived。　Suddenly；　when　anxiety　had　broken　down　into　rage；　the　door　opened。　A　few　months　later；　facing　the　firing　squad；　Arcadio　would　relive　the　wandering　steps　in　the　classroom；　the　stumbling　against　benches；　and　finally　the　bulk　of　a　body　in　the　shadows　of　the　room　and　the　breathing　of　air　that　was　pumped　by　a　heart　that　was　not　his。　He　stretched　out　his　hand　and　found　another　hand　with　two　rings　on　the　same　finger　about　to　go　astray　in　the　darkness。　He　felt　the　structure　of　the　veins；　the　pulse　of　its　misfortune；　and　felt　the　damp　palm　with　a　lifeline　cut　off　at　the　base　of　the　thumb　by　the　claws　of　death。　Then　he　realized　that　this　was　not　the　woman　he　was　waiting　for；　because　she　did　not　smell　of　smoke　but　of　flower　lotion；　and　she　had　inflated；　blind　breasts　with　nipples　like。　a　man’s；　a　sex　as　stony　and　round　as　a　nut；　and　the　chaotic　tenderness　of　excited　inexperience。　She　was　a　virgin　and　she　had　the　unlikely　name　of　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad。　Pilar　Ternera　had　paid　her　fifty　pesos；　half　of　her　life　savings；　to　do　what　she　was　doing。　Arcadio；　had　seen　her　many　times　working　in　her　parents？small　food　store　but　he　had　never　taken　a　good　look　at　her　because　she　had　that　rare　virtue　of　never　existing　pletely　except　at　the　opportune　moment。　But　from　that　day　on　he　huddled　like　a　cat　in　the　warmth　of　her　armpit　She　would　go　to　the　school　at　siesta　time　with　the　consent　of　her　parents；　to　whom　Pilar　Ternera　hid　paid　the　other　half　of　her　savings。　Later　on；　when　the　government　troops　dislodged　them　from　the　place　where　they　had　made　love；　they　did　it　among　the　cans　of　lard　and　sacks　of　corn　in　the　back　of　the　store。　About　the　time　that　Arcadio　was　named　civil　and　military　leader　they　had　a　daughter。
　　　The　only　relatives　who　knew　about　it　were　Jos？Arcadio　and　Rebeca；　with　whom　Arcadio　maintained　close　relations　at　that　time；　based　not　so　much　on　kinship　as　on　plicity。　Jos？Arcadio　had　put　his　neck　into　the　marital　yoke。　Rebeca’s　firm　character；　the　voracity　of　her　stomach；　her　tenacious　ambition　absorbed　the　tremendous　energy　of　her　husband；　who　had　been　changed　from　a　lazy；　womanchasing　man　into　an　enormous　work　animal。　They　kept　a　clean　and　neat　house。　Rebeca　would　open　it　wide　at　dawn　and　the　wind　from　the　graveyard　would　e　in　through　the　windows　and　go　out　through　the　doors　to　the　yard　and　leave　the　whitewashed　walls　and　furniture　tanned　by　the　saltpeter　of　the　dead。　Her　hunger　for　earth；　the　cloccloc　of　her　parents？bones；　the　impatience　of　her　blood　as　it　faced　Pietro　Crespi’s　passivity　were　relegated　to　the　attic　of　her　memory。　All　day　long　she　would　embroider　beside　the　window；　withdrawn　from　the　uneasiness　of　the　war；　until　the　ceramic　pots　would　begin　to　vibrate　in　the　cupboard　and　she　would　get　up　to　warm　the　meal；　much　before　the　appearance；　first；　of　the　mangy　hounds；　and　then　of　the　colossus　in　leggings　and　spurs　with　a　doublebarreled　shotgun；　who　sometimes　carried　a　deer　on　his　shoulder　and　almost　always　a　string　of　rabbits　or　wild　ducks。　One　afternoon；　at　the　beginning　of　his　rule；　Arcadio　paid　them　a　surprise　visit。　They　had　not　seen　him　since　they　had　left　the　house；　but　he　seemed　so　friendly　and　familiar　that　they　invited　him　to　share　the　stew。
　　　Only　when　they　were　having　coffee　did　Arcadio　reveal　the　motive　behind　his　visit：　he　had　received　a　plaint　against　Jos？Arcadio。　It　was　said　that　he　had　begun　by　plowing　his　own　yard　and　had　gone　straight　ahead　into　neighboring　lands；　knocking　down　fences　and　buildings　with　his　oxen　until　he　took　forcible　possession　of　the　best　plots　of　land　around。　On　the　peasants　whom　he　had　not　despoiled　because　he　was　not　interested　in　their　lands；　he　levied　a　contribution　which　he　collected　every　Saturday　with　his　hunting　dogs　and　his　doublebarreled　shotgun。　He　did　not　deny　it。　He　based　his　right　on　the　fact　that　the　usurped　lands　had　been　distributed　by　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　at　the　time　of　the　founding；　and　he　thought　it　possible　to　prove　that　his　father　had　been　crazy　ever　since　that　time；　for　he　had　disposed　of　a　patrimony　that　really　belonged　to　the　family。　It　was　an　unnecessary　allegation；　because　Arcadio　had　not　e　to　do　justice。　He　simply　offered　to　set　up　a　registry　office　so　that　Jos？Arcadio　could　legalize　his　title　to　the　usurped　land；　under　the　condition　that　he　delegate　to　the　local　government　the　right　to　collect　the　contributions。　They　made　an　agreement。　Years　later；　when　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía　examined　the　titles　to　property；　he　found　registered　in　his　brother’s　name　all　of　the　land　between　the　hill　where　his　yard　was　on　up　to　the　horizon；　including　the　cemetery；　and　discovered　that　during　the　eleven　months　of　his　rule；　Arcadio　had　collected　not　only　the　money　of　the　contributions；　but　had　also　collected　fees　from　people　for　the　right　to　bury　their　dead　in　Jos？Arcadio’s　land。
　　　It　took　？rsula　several　months　to　find　out　what　was　already　public　knowledge　because　people　hid　it　from　her　so　as　not　to　increase　her　suffering。　At　first　she　suspected　it。　“Arcadio　is　building　a　house；？she　confided　with　feigned　pride　to　her　husband　as　she　tried　to　put　a　spoonful　of　calabash　syrup　into　his　mouth。　Nevertheless；　she　involuntarily　sighed　and　said；　“I　don’t　know　why；　but　all　this　has　a　bad　smell　to　me。？Later　on；　when　she　found　out　that　Arcadio　had　not　only　built　a　house　but　had　ordered　some　Viennese　furniture；　she　confirmed　her　suspicion　that　he　was　using　public　funds。　“You’re　the　shame　of　our　family　name；？she　shouted　at　him　one　Sunday　after　mass　when　she　saw　him　in　his　new　house　playing　cards　with　his　officers。　Arcadio　paid　no　attention　to　her。　Only　then　did　？rsula　know　that　he　had　a　sixmonthold　daughter　and　that　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad；　with　whom　he　was　living　outside　of　marriage；　was　pregnant　again。　She　decided　to　write　to　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía；　wherever　he　was；　to　bring　him　up　to　date　on　the　situation。　But　the　fastmoving　events　of　those　days　not　only　prevented　her　plans　from　being　carried　out；　they　made　her　regret　having　conceived　them。　The　war；　which　until　then　had　been　only　a　word　to　designate　a　vague　and　remote　circumstance；　became　a　concrete　and　dramatic　reality。　Around　the　end　of　February　an　old　woman　with　an　ashen　look　arrived　in　Macondo　riding　a　donkey　loaded　down　with　brooms。　She　seemed　so　inoffensive　that　the　sentries　let　her　pass　without　any　questions　as　another　vendor；　one　of　the　many　who　often　arrived　from　the　towns　in　the　swamp。　She　went　directly　to　the　barracks。　Arcadio　received　her　in　the　place　where　the　classroom　used　to　be　and　which　at　that　time　had　been　transformed　into　a　kind　of　rearguard　encampment；　with　roiled　hammocks　hanging　on　hooks　and　mats　piled　up　in　the　corners；　and　rifles　and　carbines　and　even　hunting　shotguns　scattered　on　the　floor。　The　old　woman　stiffened　into　a　military　salute　before　identifying　herself：
　　　“I　am　Colonel　Gregorio　Stevenson。？
　　　He　brought　bad　news。　The　last　centers　of　Liberal　resistance；　according　to　what　he　said；　were　being　wiped　out。　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía；　whom　he　had　left　fighting　in　retreat　near　Riohacha；　had　given　him　a　message　for　Arcadio。　He　should　surrender　the　town　without　resistance　on　the　condition　that　the　lives　and　property　of　Liberals　would　be　respected。　Arcadio　examined　that　strange　messenger　who　could　have　been　a　fugitive　grandmother　with　a　look　of　pity。
　　　“You　have　brought　something　in　writing；　naturally；？he　said。