百年孤独(英文版)-第51部分

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　and　that　brought　on　a　vague　feeling　of　pity。　Later；　when　he　obtained　deeper　information　on　the　nature　of　men　in　the　brothels；　he　thought　that　Gaston’s　meekness　had　its　origins　in　unbridled　passion。　But　when　he　came　to　know　him　better　and　realized　his　true　character　was　the　opposite　of　his　submissive　conduct；　he　conceived　the　malicious　suspicion　that　even　the　wait　for　the　airplane　was　an　act。　Then　he　thought　that　Gaston　was　not　as　foolish　as　he　appeared；　but；　quite　the　contrary；　was　a　man　of　infinite　steadiness；　ability；　and　patience　who　had　set　about　to　conquer　his　wife　with　the　weariness　of　eternal　agreement；　of　never　saying　no；　of　simulating　a　limitless　conformity；　letting　her　bee　enmeshed　in　her　own　web　until　the　day　she　could　no　longer　bear　the　tedium　of　the　illusions　close　at　hand　and　would　pack　the　bags　herself　to　go　back　to　Europe。　Aureliano’s　former　pity　turned　into　a　violent　dislike。　Gaston’s　system　seemed　so　perverse　to　him；　but　at　the　same　time　so　effective；　that　he　ventured　to　warn　Amaranta　？rsula。　She　made　fun　of　his　suspicions；　however；　without　even　noticing　the　heavy　weight　of　love；　uncertainty；　and　jealousy　that　he　had　inside。　It　had　not　occurred　to　her　that　she　was　arousing　something　more　than　fraternal　affection　in　Aureliano　until　she　pricked　her　finger　trying　to　open　a　can　of　peaches　and　he　dashed　over　to　suck　the　blood　out　with　an　avidity　and　a　devotion　that　sent　a　chill　up　her　spine。
　　　“Aureliano！？She　laughed；　disturbed。　“You’re　too　suspicious　to　be　a　good　bat。？
　　　Then　Aureliano　went　all　out。　Giving　her　some　small；　orphaned　kisses　in　the　hollow　of　her　wounded　hand；　he　opened　up　the　most　hidden　passageways　of　his　heart　and　drew　out　an　interminable　and　lacerated　intestine；　the　terrible　parasitic　animal　that　had　incubated　in　his　martyrdom。　He　told　her　how　he　would　get　up　at　midnight　to　weep　in　loneliness　and　rage　over　the　underwear　that　she　had　left　to　dry　in　the　bathroom。　He　told　her　about　the　anxiety　with　which　he　had　asked　Nigromanta　to　howl　like　a　cat　and　sob　gaston　gaston　gaston　in　his　ear；　and　with　how　much　astuteness　he　had　ransacked　her　vials　of　perfume　so　that　he　could　smell　it　on　the　necks　of　the　little　girls　who　went　to　bed　because　of　hunger。　Frightened　by　the　passion　of　that　outburst；　Amaranta　？rsula　was　closing　her　fingers；　contracting　them　like　a　shellfish　until　her　wounded　hand；　free　of　all　pain　and　any　vestige　of　pity；　was　converted　into　a　knot　of　emeralds　and　topazes　and　stony　and　unfeeling　bones。
　　　“Fool！？she　said　as　if　she　were　spitting。　“I’m　sailing　on　the　first　ship　leaving　for　Belgium。？
　　　？lvaro　had　e　to　the　wise　Catalonian’s　bookstore　one　of　those　afternoons　proclaiming　at　the　top　of　his　lungs　his　latest　discovery：　a　zoological　brothel。　It　was　called　The　Golden　Child　and　it　was　a　huge　open　air　salon　through　which　no　less　than　two　hundred　bitterns　who　told　the　time　with　a　deafening　cackling　strolled　at　will。　In　wire　pens　that　surrounded　the　dance　floor　and　among　large　Amazonian　camellias　there　were　herons　of　different　colors；　crocodiles　as　fat　as　pigs；　snakes　with　twelve　rattles；　and　a　turtle　with　a　gilded　shell　who　dove　in　a　small　artificial　ocean。　There　was　a　big　white　dog；　meek　and　a　pederast；　who　would　give　stud　services　nevertheless　in　order　to　be　fed。　The　atmosphere　had　an　innocent　denseness；　as　if　it　had　just　been　created；　and　the　beautiful　mulatto　girls　who　waited　hopelessly　among　the　bloodred　petals　and　the　outmoded　phonograph　records　knew　ways　of　love　that　man　had　left　behind　fotten　in　the　earthly　paradise。　The　first　night　that　the　group　visited　that　greenhouse　of　illusions　the　splendid　and　taciturn　old　woman　who　guarded　the　entrance　in　a　wicker　rocking　chair　felt　that　time　was　turning　back　to　its　earliest　origins　when　among　the　five　who　were　arriving　she　saw　a　bony；　jaundiced　man　with　Tartar　cheekbones；　marked　forever　and　from　the　beginning　of　the　world　with　the　pox　of　solitude。
　　　“Lord；　Lord；？she　sighed；　“Aureliano！？
　　　She　was　seeing　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía　once　more　as　she　had　seen　him　in　the　light　of　a　lamp　long　before　the　wars；　long　before　the　desolation　of　glory　and　the　exile　of　disillusionment；　that　remote　dawn　when　he　went　to　her　bedroom　to　give　the　first　mand　of　his　life：　the　mand　to　give　him　love。　It　was　Pilar　Ternera。　Years　before；　when　she　had　reached　one　hundred　fortyfive　years　of　age；　she　had　given　up　the　pernicious　custom　of　keeping　track　of　her　age　and　she　went　on　living　in　the　static　and　marginal　time　of　memories；　in　a　future　perfectly　revealed　and　established；　beyond　the　futures　disturbed　by　the　insidious　snares　and　suppositions　of　her　cards。
　　　From　that　night　on　Aureliano；　took　refuge　in　the　passionate　tenderness　and　understanding　of　his　unknown　greatgreatgrandmother。　Sitting　in　her　wicker　rocking　chair；　she　would　recall　the　past；　reconstruct　the　grandeur　and　misfortunes　of　the　family　and　the　splendor　of　Macondo；　which　was　now　erased；　while　？lvaro　frightened　the　crocodiles　with　his　noisy　laughter　and　Alfonso　invented　outlandish　stories　about　the　bitterns　who　had　pecked　out　the　eyes　of　four　customers　who　misbehaved　the　week　before；　and　Gabriel　was　in　the　room　of　the　pensive　mulatto　girl　who　did　not　collect　in　money　but　in　letters　to　a　smuggler　boyfriend　who　was　in　prison　on　the　other　side　of　the　Orinoco　because　the　border　guards　had　caught　him　and　had　made　him　sit　on　a　chamberpot　that　filled　up　with　a　mixture　of　shit　and　diamonds。　That　true　brothel；　with　that　maternal　proprietress；　was　the　world　of　which　Aureliano　had　dreamed　during　his　prolonged　captivity。　He　felt　so　well；　so　close　to　perfect　panionship；　that　he　thought　of　no　other　refuge　on　the　afternoon　on　which　Amaranta　？rsula　had　made　his　illusions　crumble。　He　was　ready　to　unburden　himself　with　words　so　that　someone　could　break　the　knots　that　bound　his　chest；　but　he　only　managed　to　let　out　a　fluid；　warm；　and　restorative　weeping　in　Pilar　Ternera’s　lap。　She　let　him　finish；　scratching　his　head　with　the　tips　of　her　fingers；　and　without　his　having　revealed　that　he　was　weeping　from　love；　she　recognized　immediately　the　oldest　sobs　in　the　history　of　man。
　　　“It’s　all　right；　child；？she　consoled　him。　“Now　tell　me　who　it　is。？
　　　When　Aureliano　told　her；　Pilar　Ternera　let　out　a　deep　laugh；　the　old　expansive　laugh　that　ended　up　as　a　cooing　of　doves。　There　was　no　mystery　in　the　heart　of　a　Buendía　that　was　impenetrable　for　her　because　a　century　of　cards　and　experience　had　taught　her　that　the　history　of　the　family　was　a　machine　with　unavoidable　repetitions；　a　turning　wheel　that　would　have　gone　on　spilling　into　eternity　were　it　not　for　the　progressive　and　irremediable　wearing　of　the　axle。
　　　“Don’t　worry；？she　said；　smiling。　“Wherever　she　is　right　now；　she’s　waiting　for　you。？
　　　It　was　half　past　four　in　the　afternoon　when　Amaranta　？rsula　came　out　of　her　bath。　Aureliano　saw　her　go　by　his　room　with　a　robe　of　soft　folds　and　a　towel　wrapped　around　her　head　like　a　turban。　He　followed　her　almost　on　tiptoes；　stumbling　from　drunkenness；　and　he　went　into　the　nuptial　bedroom　just　as　she　opened　the　robe　and　closed　it　again　in　fright。　He　made　a　silent　signal　toward　the　next　room　where　the　door　was　half　open　and　where　Aureliano　knew　that　Gaston　was　beginning　to　write　a　letter。
　　　“Go　away；？she　said　voicelessly。
　　　Aureliano；　smiled；　picked　her　up　by　the　waist　with　both　hands　like　a　pot　of　begonias；　and　dropped　her　on　her　back　on　the　bed。　With　a　brutal　tug　he　pulled　off　her　bathrobe　before　she　had　time　to　resist　and　he　loomed　over　an　abyss　of　newly　washed　nudity　whose　skin　color；　lines　of　fuzz；　and　hidden　moles　had　all　been　imagined　in　the　shadows　of　the　other　rooms。　Amaranta　？rsula　defended　herself　sincerely　with　the　astuteness　of　a　wise　woman；　weaseling　her　slippery；　flexible；　and　fragrant　weasel’s　body　as　she　tried　to　knee　him　in　the　kidneys　and　scorpion　his　face　with　her　nails；　but　without　either　of　them　giving　a　gasp　that　might　not　have　been　taken　for　that　breathing　of　a　person　watching　the　meager　April　sunset　through　the　open　window。　It　was　a　fierce　fight；　a　battle　to　the　death；　but　it　seemed　to　be　without　violence　because　it　consisted　of　distorted　attacks　and　ghostly　evasions；　slow；　cautious；　solemn；　so　that　during　it　all　there　was　time　for　the　petunias　to　bloom　and　for　Gaston　to　fet　about　his　aviator’s　dream　in　the　next　room；　as　if　they　were　two　enemy　lovers　seeking　reconciliation　at　the　bottom　of　an　aquarium。　In　the　heat　of　that　savage　and　ceremonious　struggle；　Amaranta　？rsula　understood　that　her　meticulous　silence　was　so　irrational　that　it　could　awaken　the　suspicions　of　her　nearby　husband　much　more　than　the　sound　of　warfare　that　they　were　trying　to　avoid。　Then　she　began　to　laugh　with　her　lips　tight　together；　without　giving　up　the　fight；　but　defending　herself　with　false　bites　and　deweaseling　her　body　little　by　little　until　they　both　were　conscious　of　being　adversaries　and　acplices　at　the　same　time　and　the　affray　degenerated　into　a　conventional　gambol　and　the　attacks　became　caresses。　Suddenly；　almost　playfully；　like　one　more　bit　of　mischief；　Amaranta　？rsula　dropped　her　defense；　and　when　she　tried　to　recover；　frightened　by　what　she　herself　had　made　possible；　it　was　too　late。　A　great　motion　immobilized　her　in　her　center　of　gravity；　planted　her　in　her　place；　and　her　defensive　will　was　demolished　by　the　irresistible　anxiety　to　discover　what　the　orange　whistles　and　the　invisible　globes　on　the　other　side　of　death　were　like。　She　barely　had　time　to　reach　out　her　hand　and　grope　for　the　towel　to　put　a　gag　between　her　teeth　so　that　she　would　not　let　out　the　cat　howls　that　were　already　tearing　at　her　insides。

Chapter　20
PILAR　TERNERA　died　in　her　wicker　rocking　chair　during　one　night　of　festivities　as　she　watched　over　the　entrance　to　her　paradise。　In　accordance　with　her　last　wishes　she　was　not　buried　in　a　coffin　but　sitting　in　her　rocker；　which　eight　men　lowered　by　ropes　into　a　huge　hole　dug　in　the　center　of　the　dance　floor。　The　mulatto　girls；　dressed　in　black；　pale　from　weeping；　invented　shadowy　rites　as　they　took　off　their　earrings；　brooches；　and　rings　and　threw　them　into　the　pit　before　it　was　closed　over　with　a　slab　that　bore　neither　name　nor　dates；　and　that　was　covered　with　a　pile　of　Amazonian　camellias。　After　poisoning　the　animals　they　closed　up　the　doors　and　windows　with　brick　and　mortar　and　they　scattered　out　into　the　world　with　their　wooden　trunks　that　were　lined　with　pictures　of　saints；　prints　from　magazines；　and　the　portraits　of　sometime　sweethearts；　remote　and　fantastic；　who　shat　diamonds；　or　ate　cannibals；　or　were　crowned　playingcard　kings　on　the　high　seas。
　　　It　was　the　end。　In　Pilar　Ternera’s　tomb；　among　the　psalm　and　cheap　whore　jewelry；　the　ruins　of　the　past　would　rot；　the　little　that　remained　after　the　wise　Catalonian　had　auctioned　off　his　bookstore　and　returned　to　the　Mediterranean　village　where　he　had　been　born；　overe　by　a　yearning　for　a　lasting　springtime。　No　one　could　have　foreseen　his　decision。　He　had　arrived　in　Macondo　during　the　splendor　of　the　banana　pany；　fleeing　from　one　of　many　wars；　and　nothing　more　practical　had　occurred　to　him　than　to　set　up　that　bookshop　of　incunabula　and　first　editions　in　several　languages；　which　casual　customers　would　thumb　through　cautiously；　as　if　they　were　junk　books；　as　they　waited　their　turn　to　have　their　dreams　interpreted　in　the　house　across　the　way。　He　spent　half　his　life　in　the　back　of　the　store；　scribbling　in　his　extracareful　hand　in　purple　ink　and　on　pages　that　he　tore　out　of　school　notebooks；　and　no　one　was　sure　exactly　what　he　was　writing。　When　Aureliano　first　met　him　he　had　two　boxes　of　those　motley　pages　that　in　some　way　made　one　think　of　Melquíades？parchments；　and　from　that　time　until　he　left　he　had　filled　a　third　one；　so　it　was　reasonable　to　believe　that　he　had　done　nothing　else　during　his　stay　in　Macondo。　The　only　people　with　whom　he　maintained　relations　were　the　four　friends；　whom　he　had　exchanged　their　tops　and　kites　for　books；　and　he　set　them　to　reading　Seneca　and　Ovid　while　they　were　still　in　grammar　school。　He　treated　the　classical　writers　with　a　household　familiarity；　as　if　they　had　all　been　his　roommates　at　some　period；　and　he　knew　many　things　that　should　not　have　been　known；　such　as　the　fact　that　Saint　Augustine　wore　a　wool　jacket　under　his　habit　that　he　did　not　take　off　for　fourteen　years　and　that　Arnaldo　of　Villanova；　the　necromancer；　was　impotent　since　childhood　because　of　a　scorpion　bite。　His　fervor　for　the　written　word　was　an　interweaving　of　solemn　respect　and　gossipy　irreverence。　Not　even　his　own　manuscripts　were　safe　from　that　dualism。　Having　learned　Catalan　in　order　to　translate　them；　Alfonso　put　a　roll　of　pages　in　his　pockets；　which　were　always　full　of　newspaper　clippings　and　manuals　for　strange　trades；　and　one　night　he　lost　them　in　the　house　of　the　little　girls　who　went　to　bed　because　of　hunger。　When　the　wise　old　grandfather　found　out；　instead　of　raising　a　row　as　had　been　feared；　he　mented；　dying　with　laughter；　that　it　was　the　natural　destiny　of　literature。　On　the　other　hand；　there　was　no　human　power　capable　of　persuading　him　not　to　take　along　the　three　boxes　when　he　returned　to　his　native　village；　and　he　unleashed　a　string　of　Carthaginian　curses　at　the　railroad　inspectors　who　tried　to　ship　them　as　freight　until　he　finally　succeeded　in　keeping　them　with　him　in　the　passenger　coach。　“The　world　must　be　all　fucked　up；？he　said　then；　“when　men　travel　first　class　and　literature　goes　as　freight。？That　was　the　last　thing　he　was　heard　to　say。　He　had　spent　a　dark　week　on　the　final　preparations　for　the　trip；　because　as　the　hour　approached　his　humor　was　breaking　down　and　things　began　to　be　misplaced；　and　what　he　put　in　one　place　would　appear　in　another；　attacked　by　the　same　elves　that　had　tormented　Fernanda。
　　　“Collons；？he　would　curse。　“I　shit　on　Canon　Twentyseven　of　the　Synod　of　London。？
　　　Germán　and　Aureliano　took　care　of　him。　They　helped　him　like　a　child；　fastening　his　tickets　and　immigration　documents　to　his　pockets　with　safety　pins；　making　him　a　detailed　list　of　what　he　must　do　from　the　time　he　left　Macondo　until　he　landed　in　Barcelona；　but　nonetheless　he　threw　away　a　pair　of　pants　with　half　of　his　money　in　it　without　realizing　it。　The　night　before　the　trip；　after　nailing　up　the　boxes　and　putting　his　clothing　into　the　same　suitcase　that　he　had　brought　when　he　first　came；　he　narrowed　his　clam　eyes；　pointed　with　a　kind　of　impudent　benediction　at　the　stacks　of　books　with　which　he　had　endured　during　his　exile；　and　said　to　his　friends：
　　　“All　that　shit　there　I　leave　to　you　people！？
　　　Three　months　later　they　received　in　a　large　envelope　twentynine　letters　and　more　than　fifty　pictures　that　he　had　accumulated　during　the　leisure　of　the　high　seas。　Although　he　did　not　date　them；　the　order　in　which　he　had　written　the　letters　was　obvious。　In　the　first　ones；　with　his　customary　good　humor；　he　spoke　about　the　difficulties　of　the　crossing；　the　urge　he　had　to　throw　the　cargo　officer　overboard　when　he　would　not　let　him　keep　the　three　boxes　in　his　cabin；　the　clear　imbecility　of　a　lady　who　was　terrified　at　the　number　thirteen；　not　out　of　superstition　but　because　she　thought　it　was　a　number　that　had　no　end；　and　the　bet　that　he　had　won　during　the　first　dinner　because　he　had　recognized　in　the　drinking　water　on　board　the　taste　of　the　nighttime　beets　by　the　springs　of　Lérida。　With　the　passage　of　the　days；　however；　the　reality　of　life　on　board　mattered　less