百年孤独(英文版)-第47部分

快捷操作: 按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页 按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页 按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部! 如果本书没有阅读完，想下次继续接着阅读，可使用上方 "收藏到我的浏览器" 功能 和 "加入书签" 功能！


hat　she　was　happy　and　in　reality　she　was；　precisely　because　she　felt　free　from　any　promise；　as　if　life　were　pulling　her　once　more　toward　the　world　of　her　parents；　where　one　did　not　suffer　with　daytoday　problems　because　they　were　solved　beforehand　in　one’s　imagination。　That　endless　correspondence　made　her　lose　her　sense　of　time；　especially　after　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad　had　left。　She　had　been　accustomed　to　keep　track　of　the　days；　months；　and　years；　using　as　points　of　reference　the　dates　set　for　the　return　of　her　children。　But　when　they　changed　their　plans　time　and　time　again；　the　dates　became　confused；　the　periods　were　mislaid；　and　one　day　seemed　so　much　like　another　that　one　could　not　feel　them　pass。　Instead　of　being　impatient；　she　felt　a　deep　pleasure　in　the　delay。　It　did　not　worry　her　that　many　years　after　announcing　the　eve　of　his　final　vows；　Jos？Arcadio　was　still　saying　that　he　was　waiting　to　finish　his　studies　in　advanced　theology　in　order　to　undertake　those　in　diplomacy；　because　she　understood　how　steep　and　paved　with　obstacles　was　the　spiral　stairway　that　led　to　the　throne　of　Saint　Peter。　On　the　other　hand；　her　spirits　rose　with　news　that　would　have　been　insignificant　for　other　people；　such　as　the　fact　that　her　son　had　seen　the　Pope。　She　felt　a　similar　pleasure　when　Amaranta　？rsula　wrote　to　tell　her　that　her　studies　would　last　longer　than　the　time　foreseen　because　her　excellent　grades　had　earned　her　privileges　that　her　father　had　not　taken　into　account　in　his　calculations。
　　　More　than　three　years　had　passed　since　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad　had　brought　him　the　grammar　when　Aureliano　succeeded　in　translating　the　first　sheet。　It　was　not　a　useless　chore。　but　it　was　only　a　first　step　along　a　road　whose　length　it　was　impossible　to　predict；　because　the　text　in　Spanish　did　not　mean　anything：　the　lines　were　in　code。　Aureliano　lacked　the　means　to　establish　the　keys　that　would　permit　him　to　dig　them　out；　but　since　Melquíades　had　told　him　that　the　books　he　needed　to　get　to　the　bottom　of　the　parchments　were　in　the　wise　Catalonian’s　store；　he　decided　to　speak　to　Fernanda　so　that　she　would　let　him　get　them。　In　the　room　devoured　by　rubble；　whose　unchecked　proliferation　had　finally　defeated　it；　he　thought　about　the　best　way　to　frame　the　request；　but　when　he　found　Fernanda　taking　her　meal　from　the　embers；　which　was　his　only　chance　to　speak　to　her；　the　laboriously　formulated　request　stuck　in　his　throat　and　he　lost　his　voice。　That　was　the　only　time　that　he　watched　her。　He　listened　to　her　steps　in　the　bedroom。　He　heard　her　on　her　way　to　the　door　to　await　the　letters　from　her　children　and　to　give　hers　to　the　mailman；　and　he　listened　until　late　at　night　to　the　harsh；　impassioned　scratching　of　her　pen　on　the　paper　before　hearing　the　sound　of　the　light　switch　and　the　murmur　of　her　prayers　in　the　darkness。　Only　then　did　he　go　to　sleep；　trusting　that　on　the　following　day　the　awaited　opportunity　would　e。　He　became　so　inspired　with　the　idea　that　permission　would　be　granted　that　one　morning　he　cut　his　hair；　which　at　that　time　reached　down　to　his　shoulders；　shaved　off　his　tangled　beard；　put　on　some　tightfitting　pants　and　a　shirt　with　an　artificial　collar　that　he　had　inherited　from　he　did　not　know　whom；　and　waited　in　the　kitchen　for　Fernanda　to　get　her　breakfast。　The　woman　of　every　day；　the　one　with　her　head　held　high　and　with　a　stony　gait；　did　not　arrive；　but　an　old　woman　of　supernatural　beauty　with　a　yellowed　ermine　cape；　a　crown　of　gilded　cardboard；　and　the　languid　look　of　a　person　who　wept　in　secret。　Actually；　ever　since　she　had　found　it　in　Aureliano　Segundo’s　trunks；　Fernanda　had　put　on　the　motheaten　queen’s　dress　many　times。　Anyone　who　could　have　seen　her　in　front　of　the　mirror；　in　ecstasy　over　her　own　regal　gestures；　would　have　had　reason　to　think　that　she　was　mad。　But　she　was　not。　She　had　simply　turned　the　royal　regalia　into　a　device　for　her　memory。　The　first　time　that　she　put　it　on　she　could　not　help　a　knot　from　forming　in　her　heart　and　her　eyes　filling　with　tears　because　at　that　moment　she　smelled　once　more　the　odor　of　shoe　polish　on　the　boots　of　the　officer　who　came　to　get　her　at　her　house　to　make　her　a　queen；　and　her　soul　brightened　with　the　nostalgia　of　her　lost　dreams。　She　felt　so　old；　so　worn　out；　so　far　away　from　the　best　moments　of　her　life　that　she　even　yearned　for　those　that　she　remembered　as　the　worst；　and　only　then　did　she　discover　how　much　she　missed　the　whiff　of　oregano　on　the　porch　and　the　smell　of　the　roses　at　dusk；　and　even　the　bestial　nature　of　the　parvenus。　Her　heart　of　pressed　ash；　which　had　resisted　the　most　telling　blows　of　daily　reality　without　strain；　fell　apart　with　the　first　waves　of　nostalgia。　The　need　to　feel　sad　was　being　a　vice　as　the　years　eroded　her。　She　became　human　in　her　solitude。　Nevertheless；　the　morning　on　which　she　entered　the　kitchen　and　found　a　cup　of　coffee　offered　her　by　a　pale　and　bony　adolescent　with　a　hallucinated　glow　in　his　eyes；　the　claws　of　ridicule　tore　at　her。　Not　only　did　she　refuse　him　permission；　but　from　then　on　she　carried　the　keys　to　the　house　in　the　pocket　where　she　kept　the　unused　pessaries。　It　was　a　useless　precaution　because　if　he　had　wanted　to；　Aureliano　could　have　escaped　and　even　returned　to　the　house　without　being　seen。　But　the　prolonged　captivity；　the　uncertainty　of　the　world；　the　habit　of　obedience　had　dried　up　the　seeds　of　rebellion　in　his　heart。　So　that　he　went　back　to　his　enclosure；　reading　and　rereading　the　parchments　and　listening　until　very　late　at　night　to　Fernanda　sobbing　in　her　bedroom。　One　morning　he　went　to　light　the　fire　as　usual　and　on　the　extinguished　ashes　he　found　the　food　that　he　had　left　for　her　the　day　before。　Then　he　looked　into　her　bedroom　and　saw　her　lying　on　the　bed　covered　with　the　ermine　cape；　more　beautiful　than　ever　and　with　her　skin　turned　into　an　ivory　casing。　Four　months　later；　when　Jos？Arcadio　arrived；　he　found　her　intact。
　　　It　was　impossible　to　conceive　of　a　man　more　like　his　mother。　He　was　wearing　a　somber　taffeta　suit；　a　shirt　with　a　round　and　hard　collar；　and　a　thin　silk　ribbon　tied　in　a　bow　in　place　of　a　necktie。　He　was　ruddy　and　languid　with　a　startled　look　and　weak　lips。　His　black　hair；　shiny　and　smooth；　parted　in　the　middle　of　his　head　by　a　straight　and　tired　line；　had　the　same　artificial　appearance　as　the　hair　on　the　saints。　The　shadow　of　a　welluprooted　beard　on　his　paraffin　face　looked　like　a　question　of　conscience。　His　hands　were　pale；　with　green　veins　and　fingers　that　were　like　parasites；　and　he　wore　a　solid　gold　ring　with　a　round　sunflower　opal　on　his　left　index　finger。　When　he　opened　the　street　door　Aureliano　did　not　have　to　be　told　who　he　was　to　realize　that　he　came　from　far　away。　With　his　steps　the　house　filled　up　with　the　fragrance　of　the　toilet　water　that　？rsula　used　to　splash　on　him　when　he　was　a　child　in　order　to　find　him　in　the　shadows；　in　some　way　impossible　to　ascertain；　after　so　many　years　of　absence。　Jos？Arcadio　was　still　an　autumnal　child；　terribly　sad　and　solitary。　He　went　directly　to　his　mother’s　bedroom；　where　Aureliano　had　boiled　mercury　for　four　months　in　his　grandfather’s　grandfather’s　water　pipe　to　conserve　the　body　according　to　Melquíades？formula。　Jos？Arcadio　did　not　ask　him　any　questions。　He　kissed　the　corpse　on　the　forehead　and　withdrew　from　under　her　skirt　the　pocket　of　casing　which　contained　three　as　yet　unused　pessaries　and　the　key　to　her　cabinet。　He　did　everything　with　direct　and　decisive　movements；　in　contrast　to　his　languid　look。　From　the　cabinet　he　took　a　small　damascene　chest　with　the　family　crest　and　found　on　the　inside；　which　was　perfumed　with　sandalwood；　the　long　letter　in　which　Fernanda　unburdened　her　heart　of　the　numerous　truths　that　she　had　hidden　from　him。　He　read　it　standing　up；　avidly　but　without　anxiety；　and　at　the　third　page　he　stopped　and　examined　Aureliano　with　a　look　of　second　recognition。
　　　“So；？he　said　with　a　voice　with　a　touch　of　razor　in　it；　“You’re　the　bastard。？
　　　“I’m　Aureliano　Buendía。？
　　　“Go　to　your　room；？Jos？Arcadio　said。
　　　Aureliano　went　and　did　not　e　out　again　even　from　curiosity　when　he　heard　the　sound　of　the　solitary　funeral　ceremonies。　Sometimes；　from　the　kitchen；　he　would　see　Jos？Arcadio　strolling　through　the　house；　smothered　by　his　anxious　breathing；　and　he　continued　hearing　his　steps　in　the　ruined　bedrooms　after　midnight。　He　did　not　hear　his　voice　for　many　months；　not　only　because　Jos？Arcadio　never　addressed　him；　but　also　because　he　had　no　desire　for　it　to　happen　or　time　to　think　about　anything　else　but　the　parchments。　On　Fernanda’s　death　he　had　taken　out　the　nexttothelast　little　fish　and　gone　to　the　wise　Catalonian’s　bookstore　in　search　of　the　books　he　needed。　Nothing　he　saw　along　the　way　interested　him；　perhaps　because　he　lacked　any　memories　for　parison　and　the　deserted　streets　and　desolate　houses　were　the　same　as　he　had　imagined　them　at　a　time　when　he　would　have　given　his　soul　to　know　them。　He　had　given　himself　the　permission　denied　by　Fernanda　and　only　once　and　for　the　minimum　time　necessary；　so　without　pausing　he　went　along　the　eleven　blocks　that　separated　the　house　from　the　narrow　street　where　dreams　had　been　interpreted　in　other　days　and　he　went　panting　into　the　confused　and　gloomy　place　where　there　was　barely　room　to　move。　More　than　a　bookstore；　it　looked　like　a　dump　for　used　books；　which　were　placed　in　disorder　on　the　shelves　chewed　by　termites；　in　the　corners　sticky　with　cobwebs；　and　even　in　the　spaces　that　were　supposed　to　serve　as　passageways。　On　a　long　table；　also　heaped　with　old　books　and　papers；　the　proprietor　was　writing　tireless　prose　in　purple　letters；　somewhat　outlandish；　and　on　the　loose　pages　of　a　school　notebook。　He　had　a　handsome　head　of　silver　hair　which　fell　down　over　his　forehead　like　the　plume　of　a　cockatoo；　and　his　blue　eyes；　lively　and　closeset；　revealed　the　gentleness　of　a　man　who　had　read　all　of　the　books。　He　was　wearing　short　pants　and　soaking　in　perspiration；　and　he　did　not　stop　his　writing　to　see　who　had　e　in。　Aureliano　had　no　difficulty　in　rescuing　the　five　books　that　he　was　looking　for　from　that　fabulous　disorder；　because　they　were　exactly　where　Melquíades　had　told　him　they　would　be。　Without　saying　a　word　he　handed　them；　along　with　the　little　gold　fish；　to　the　wise　Catalonian　and　the　latter　examined　them；　his　eyelids　contracting　like　two　clams。　“You　must　be　mad；？he　said　in　his　own　language；　shrugging　his　shoulders；　and　he　handed　back　to　Aureliano　the　five　books　and　the　little　fish。
　　　“You　can　have　them？he　said　in　Spanish。　“The　last　man　who　read　these　books　must　have　been　Isaac　the　Blindman；　so　consider　well　what　you’re　doing。？
　　　Jos？Arcadio　restored　Meme’s　bedroom　and　had　the　velvet　curtains　cleaned　and　mended　along　with　the　damask　on　the　canopy　of　the　viceregal　bed；　and　he　put　to　use　once　more　the　abandoned　bathroom　where　the　cement　pool　was　blackened　by　a　fibrous　and　rough　coating。　He　restricted　his　vestpocket　empire　of　worn；　exotic　clothing；　false　perfumes；　and　cheap　jewelry　to　those　places。　The　only　thing　that　seemed　to　worry　him　in　the　rest　of　the　house　were　the　saints　on　the　family　altar；　which　he　burned　down　to　ashes　one　afternoon　in　a　bonfire　he　lighted　in　the　courtyard。　He　would　sleep　until　past　eleven　o’clock。　He　would　go　to　the　bathroom　in　a　shabby　robe　with　golden　dragons　on　it　and　a　pair　of　slippers　with　yellow　tassels；　and　there　he　would　officiate　at　a　rite　which　for　its　care　and　length　recalled　Remedios　the　Beauty。　Before　bathing　he　would　perfume　the　pool　with　the　salts　that　he　carried　in　three　alabaster　flacons。　He　did　not　bathe　himself　with　the　gourd　but　would　plunge　into　the　fragrant　waters　and　remain　there　for　two　hours　floating　on　his　back；　lulled　by　the　coolness　and　by　the　memory　of　Amaranta。　A　few　days　after　arriving　he　put　aside　his　taffeta　suit；　which　in　addition　to　being　too　hot　for　the　town　was　the　only　one　that　he　had；　and　he　exchanged　it　for　some　tightfitting　pants　very　similar　to　those　worn　by　Pietro　Crespi　during　his　dance　lessons　and　a　silk　shirt　woven　with　thread　from　living　caterpillars　and　with　his　initials　embroidered　over　the　heart。　Twice　a　week　he　would　wash　the　plete　change　in　the　tub　and　would　wear　his　robe　until　it　dried　because　he　had　nothing　else　to　put　on。　He　never　ate　at　home。　He　would　go　out　when　the　heat　of　siesta　time　had　eased　and　would　not　return　until　well　into　the　night。　Then　he　would　continue　his　anxious　pacing；　breathing　like　a　cat　and　thinking　about　Amaranta。　She　and　the　frightful　look　of　the　saints　in　the　glow　of　the　nocturnal　lamp　were　the　two　memories　he　retained　of　the　house。　Many　times　during　the　hallucinating　Roman　August　he　had　opened　his　eyes　in　the　middle　of　his　sleep　and　had　seen　Amaranta　rising　out　of　a　marbleedged　pool　with　her　lace　petticoats　and　the　bandage　on　her　hand；　idealized　by　the　anxiety　of　exile。　Unlike　Aureliano　Jos？who　tried　to　drown　that　image　in　the　bloody　bog　of　war；　he　tried　to　keep　it　alive　in　the　sink　of　concupiscence　while　he　entertained　his　mother　with　the　endless　fable　of　his　pontifical　vocation。　It　never　occurred　either　to　him　or　to　Fernanda　to　think　that　their　correspondence　was　an　exchange　of　fantasies。　Jos？Arcadio；　who　left　the　seminary　as　soon　as　he　reached　Rome；　continued　nourishing　the　legend　of　theology　and　canon　law　so　as　not　to　jeopardize　the　fabulous　inheritance　of　which　his　mother’s　delirious　letters　spoke　and　which　would　rescue　him　from　the　misery　and　sordidness　he　shared　with　two　friends　in　a　Trastevere　garret。　When　he　received　Fernanda’s　last　letter；　dictated　by　the　foreboding　of　imminent　death；　he　put　the　leftovers　of　his　false　splendor　into　a　suitcase　and　crossed　the　ocean　in　the　hold　of　a　ship　where　immigrants　were　crammed　together　like　cattle　in　a　slaughterhouse；　eating　cold　macaroni　and　wormy　cheese。　Before　he　read　Fernanda’s　will；　which　was　nothing　but　a　detailed　and　tardy　recapitulation　of　her　misfortunes；　the　brokendown　furniture　and　the　weeds　on　the　porch　had　indicated　that　he　had　fallen　into　a　trap　from　which　he　would　never　escape；　exiled　forever　from　the　diamond　light　and　timeless　air　of　the　Roman　spring。　During　the　crushing　insomnia　brought　on　by　his　asthma　he　would　measure　and　remeasure　the　depth　of　his　misfortune　as　he　went　through　the　shadowy　house　where　the　senile　fussing　of　？rsula　had　instilled　a　fear　of　the　world　in　him。　In　order　to　be　sure　that　she　would　not　lose　him　in　the　shadows；　she　had　assigned　him　a　corner　of　the　bedroom；　the　only　one　where　he　would　be　safe　from　the　dead　people　who　wandered　through　the　house　after　sundown。　“If　you　do　anything　bad；？？rsula　would　tell　him；　“the　saints　will　let　me　know。？The　terrorfilled　nights　of　his　childhood　were　reduced　to　that　corner　where　he　would　remain　motionless　until　it　was　time　to　go　to　bed；　perspiring　with　fear　on　a　stool　under　the　watchful　and　glacial　eyes　of　the　tattletale　saints。　It　was　useless　torture　because　even　at　that　time　he　already　had　a　terror　of　everything　around　him　and　he　was　prepared　to　be　frightened　at　anything　he　met　in　life：　women　on　the　street；　who　would　ruin　his　blood；　the　women　in　the　house；　who　bore　children　with　the　tail　of　a　pig；　fighting　cocks；　who　brought　on　the　death　of　men　and　remorse　for　the　rest　of　one’s　life；　firearms；　which　with　the　mere　touch　would　bring　down　twenty　years　of　war；　uncertain　ventures；　which　led　only　to　disillusionment　and　madness—everything；　in　short；　everything　that　God　had　created　in　His　infinite　goodness　and　t