百年孤独(英文版)-第53部分

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s。
　　　“Aureliano　Buendía；？he　said。
　　　“Then　don’t　wear　yourself　out　searching；？the　priest　exclaimed　with　final　conviction。　“Many　years　ago　there　used　to　be　a　street　here　with　that　name　and　in　those　days　people　had　the　custom　of　naming　their　children　after　streets。？
　　　Aureliano　trembled　with　rage。
　　　“So！？he　said。　“You　don’t　believe　it　either。？
　　　“Believe　what？？
　　　“That　Colonel　Aureliano；　Buendía　fought　thirtytwo　civil　wars　and　lost　them　all；？Aureliano　answered。　“That　the　army　hemmed　in　and　machinegunned　three　thousand　workers　and　that　their　bodies　were　carried　off　to　be　thrown　into　the　sea　on　a　train　with　two　hundred　cars。？
　　　The　priest　measured　him　with　a　pitying　look。
　　　“Oh；　my　son；？he　signed。　“It’s　enough　for　me　to　be　sure　that　you　and　I　exist　at　this　moment。？
　　　So　Aureliano　and　Amaranta　？rsula　accepted　the　version　of　the　basket；　not　because　they　believed　it；　but　because　it　spared　them　their　terror。　As　the　pregnancy　advanced　they　were　being　a　single　being；　they　were　being　more　and　more　integrated　in　the　solitude　of　a　house　that　needed　only　one　last　breath　to　be　knocked　down。　They　restricted　themselves　to　an　essential　area；　from　Fernanda’s　bedroom；　where　the　charms　of　sedentary　love　were　visible；　to　the　beginning　of　the　porch；　where　Amaranta　？rsula　would　sit　to　sew　bootees　and　bonnets　for　the　newborn　baby　and　Aureliano；　would　answer　the　occasional　letters　from　the　wise　Catalonian。　The　rest　of　the　house　was　given　over　to　the　tenacious　assault　of　destruction。　The　silver　shop；　Melquíades？room；　the　primitive　and　silent　realm　of　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad　remained　in　the　depths　of　a　domestic　jungle　that　no　one　would　have　had　the　courage　to　penetrate。　Surrounded　by　the　voracity　of　nature；　Aureliano　and　Amaranta　？rsula　continued　cultivating　the　oregano　and　the　begonias　and　defended　their　world　with　demarcations　of　quicklime；　building　the　last　trenches　in　the　ageold　war　between　man　and　ant。　Her　long　and　neglected　hair；　the　splotches　that　were　beginning　to　appear　on　her　face；　the　swelling　of　her　legs；　the　deformation　of　her　former　lovemaking　weasel’s　body　had　changed　Amaranta　？rsula　from　the　youthful　creature　she　had　been　when　she　arrived　at　the　house　with　the　cage　of　luckless　canaries　and　her　captive　husband；　but　it　did　not　change　the　vivacity　of　her　spirit。　“Shit；？she　would　say；　laughingly。　“Who　would　have　thought　that　we　really　would　end　up　living　like　cannibals！？The　last　thread　that　joined　them　to　the　world　was　broken　on　the　sixth　month　of　pregnancy　when　they　received　a　letter　that　obviously　was　not　from　the　wise　Catalonian。　It　had　been　mailed　in　Barcelona；　but　the　envelope　was　addressed　in　conventional　blue　ink　by　an　official　hand　and　it　had　the　innocent　and　impersonal　look　of　hostile　messages。　Aureliano　snatched　it　out　of　Amaranta　？rsula’s　hands　as　she　was　about　to　open　it。
　　　“Not　this　one；？he　told　her。　“I　don’t　want　to　know　what　it　says。？
　　　Just　as　he　had　sensed；　the　wise　Catalonian　did　not　write　again。　The　stranger’s　letter；　which　no　one　read；　was　left　to　the　mercy　of　the　moths　on　the　shelf　where　Fernanda　had　fotten　her　wedding　ring　on　occasion　and　there　it　remained；　consuming　itself　in　the　inner　fire　of　its　bad　news　as　the　solitary　lovers　sailed　against　the　tide　of　those　days　of　the　last　stages；　those　impenitent　and　illfated　times　which　were　squandered　on　the　useless　effort　of　making　them　drift　toward　the　desert　of　disenchantment　and　oblivion。　Aware　of　that　menace；　Aureliano　and　Amaranta　？rsula　spent　the　hot　months　holding　hands；　ending　with　the　love　of　loyalty　for　the　child　who　had　his　beginning　in　the　madness　of　fornication。　At　night；　holding　each　other　in　bed；　they　were　not　frightened　by　the　sublunary　explosions　of　the　ants　or　the　noise　of　the　moths　or　the　constant　and　clean　whistle　of　the　growth　of　the　weeds　in　the　neighboring　rooms。　Many　times　they　were　awakened　by　the　traffic　of　the　dead。　They　could　hear　？rsula　fighting　against　the　laws　of　creation　to　maintain　the　line；　and　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　searching　for　the　mythical　truth　of　the　great　inventions；　and　Fernanda　praying；　and　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía　stupefying　himself　with　the　deception　of　war　and　the　little　gold　fishes；　and　Aureliano　Segundo　dying　of　solitude　in　the　turmoil　of　his　debauches；　and　then　they　learned　that　dominant　obsessions　can　prevail　against　death　and　they　were　happy　again　with　the　certainty　that　they　would　go　on　loving　each　other　in　their　shape　as　apparitions　long　after　other　species　of　future　animals　would　steal　from　the　insects　the　paradise　of　misery　that　the　insects　were　finally　stealing　from　man。
　　　One　Sunday；　at　six　in　the　afternoon；　Amaranta　？rsula　felt　the　pangs　of　childbirth。　The　smiling　mistress　of　the　little　girls　who　went　to　bed　because　of　hunger　had　her　get　onto　the　diningroom　table；　straddled　her　stomach；　and　mistreated　her　with　wild　gallops　until　her　cries　were　drowned　out　by　the　bellows　of　a　formidable　male　child。　Through　her　tears　Amaranta　？rsula　could　see　that　he　was　one　of　those　great　Buendías；　strong　and　willful　like　the　Jos？Arcadios；　with　the　open　and　clairvoyant　eyes　of　the　Aurelianos；　and　predisposed　to　begin　the　race　again　from　the　beginning　and　cleanse　it　of　its　pernicious　vices　and　solitary　calling；　for　he　was　the　only　one　in　a　century　who　had　been　engendered　with　love。
　　　“He’s　a　real　cannibal。？she　said。　“We’ll　name　him　Rodrigo。？
　　　“No；？her　husband　countered。　“We’ll　name　him　Aureliano　and　he’ll　win　thirtytwo　wars。？
　　　After　cutting　the　umbilical　cord；　the　midwife　began　to　use　a　cloth　to　take　off　the　blue　grease　that　covered　his　body　as　Aureliano　held　up　a　lamp。　Only　when　they　turned　him　on　his　stomach　did　they　see　that　he　had　something　more　than　other　men；　and　they　leaned　over　to　examine　him。　It　was　the　tail　of　a　pig。
　　　They　were　not　alarmed。　Aureliano　and　Amaranta　？rsula　were　not　aware　of　the　family　precedent；　nor　did　they　remember　？rsula’s　frightening　admonitions；　and　the　midwife　pacified　them　with　the　idea　that　the　tail　could　be　cut　off　when　the　child　got　his　second　teeth。　Then　they　had　no　time　to　think　about　it　again；　because　Amaranta　？rsula　was　bleeding　in　an　uncontainable　torrent。　They　tried　to　help　her　with　applications　of　spider　webs　and　balls　of　ash；　but　it　was　like　trying　to　hold　back　a　spring　with　one’s　hands。　During　the　first　hours　she　tried　to　maintain　her　good　humor。　She　took　the　frightened　Aureliano　by　the　hand　and　begged　him　not　to　worry；　because　people　like　her　were　not　made　to　die　against　their　will；　and　she　exploded　with　laughter　at　the　ferocious　remedies　of　the　midwife。　But　as　Aureliano’s　hope　abandoned　him　she　was　being　less　visible；　as　if　the　light　on　her　were　fading　away；　until　she　sank　into　drowsiness。　At　dawn　on　Monday　they　brought　a　woman　who　recited　cauterizing　prayers　that　were　infallible　for　man　and　beast　beside　her　bed；　but　Amaranta　？rsula’s　passionate　blood　was　insensible　to　any　artifice　that　did　not　e　from　love。　In　the　afternoon；　after　twentyfour　hours　of　desperation；　they　knew　that　she　was　dead　because　the　flow　had　stopped　without　remedies　and　her　profile　became　sharp　and　the　blotches　on　her　face　evaporated　in　a　halo　of　alabaster　and　she　smiled　again。
　　　Aureliano　did　not　understand　until　then　how　much　he　loved　his　friends；　how　much　he　missed　them；　and　how　much　he　would　have　given　to　be　with　them　at　that　moment。　He　put　the　child　in　the　basket　that　his　mother　had　prepared　for　him；　covered　the　face　of　the　corpse　with　a　blanket；　and　wandered　aimlessly　through　the　town；　searching　for　an　entrance　that　went　back　to　the　past。　He　knocked　at　the　door　of　the　pharmacy；　where　he　had　not　visited　lately；　and　he　found　a　carpenter　shop。　The　old　woman　who　opened　the　door　with　a　lamp　in　her　hand　took　pity　on　his　delirium　and　insisted　that；　no；　there　had　never　been　a　pharmacy　there；　nor　had　she　ever　known　a　woman　with　a　thin　neck　and　sleepy　eyes　named　Mercedes。　He　wept；　leaning　his　brow　against　the　door　of　the　wise　Catalonian’s　former　bookstore；　conscious　that　he　was　paying　with　his　tardy　sobs　for　a　death　that　he　had　refused　to　weep　for　on　time　so　as　not　to　break　the　spell　of　love。　He　smashed　his　fists　against　the　cement　wall　of　The　Golden　Child；　calling　for　Pilar　Ternera；　indifferent　to　the　luminous　orange　disks　that　were　crossing　the　sky　and　that　so　many　times　on　holiday　nights　he　had　contemplated　with　childish　fascination　from　the　courtyard　of　the　curlews。　In　the　last　open　salon　of　the　tumbledown　redlight　district　an　accordion　group　was　playing　the　songs　of　Rafael　Escalona；　the　bishop’s　nephew；　heir　to　the　secrets　of　Francisco　the　Man。　The　bartender；　who　had　a　withered　and　somewhat　crumpled　arm　because　he　had　raised　it　against　his　mother；　invited　Aureliano　to　have　a　bottle　of　cane　liquor；　and　Aureliano　then　bought　him　one。　The　bartender　spoke　to　him　about　the　misfortune　of　his　arm。　Aureliano　spoke　to　him　about　the　misfortune　of　his　heart；　withered　and　somewhat　crumpled　for　having　been　raised　against　his　sister。　They　ended　up　weeping　together　and　Aureliano　felt　for　a　moment　that　the　pain　was　over。　But　when　he　was　alone　again　in　the　last　dawn　of　Macondo；　he　opened　up　his　arms　in　the　middle　of　the　square；　ready　to　wake　up　the　whole　world；　and　he　shouted　with　all　his　might：
　　　“Friends　are　a　bunch　of　bastards！？
　　　Nigromanta　rescued　him　from　a　pool　of　vomit　and　tears。　She　took　him　to　her　room；　cleaned　him　up；　made　him　drink　a　cup　of　broth。　Thinking　that　it　would　console　him；　she　took　a　piece　of　charcoal　and　erased　the　innumerable　loves　that　he　still　owed　her　for；　and　she　voluntarily　brought　up　her　own　most　solitary　sadnesses　so　as　not　to　leave　him　alone　in　his　weeping。　When　he　awoke；　after　a　dull　and　brief　sleep；　Aureliano　recovered　the　awareness　of　his　headache。　He　opened　his　eyes　and　remembered　the　child。
　　　He　could　not　find　the　basket。　At　first　he　felt　an　outburst　of　joy；　thinking　that　Amaranta　？rsula　had　awakened　from　death　to　take　care　of　the　child。　But　her　corpse　was　a　pile　of　stones　under　the　blanket。　Aware　that　when　he　arrived　he　had　found　the　door　to　the　bedroom　open；　Aureliano　went　across　the　porch　which　was　saturated　with　the　morning　sighs　of　oregano　and　looked　into　the　dining　room；　where　the　remnants　of　the　birth　still　lay：　the　large　pot；　the　bloody　sheets；　the　jars　of　ashes；　and　the　twisted　umbilical　cord　of　the　child　on　an　opened　diaper　on　the　table　next　to　the　shears　and　the　fishline。　The　idea　that　the　midwife　had　returned　for　the　child　during　the　night　gave　him　a　pause　of　rest　in　which　to　think。　He　sank　into　the　rocking　chair；　the　same　one　in　which　Rebeca　had　sat　during　the　early　days　of　the　house　to　give　embroidery　lessons；　and　in　which　Amaranta　had　played　Chinese　checkers　with　Colonel　Gerineldo　Márquez；　and　in　which　Amaranta　？rsula　had　sewn　the　tiny　clothing　for　the　child；　and　in　that　flash　of　lucidity　he　became　aware　that　he　was　unable　to　bear　in　his　soul　the　crushing　weight　of　so　much　past。　Wounded　by　the　fatal　lances　of　his　own　nostalgia　and　that　of　others；　he　admired　the　persistence　of　the　spider　webs　on　the　dead　rose　bushes；　the　perseverance　of　the　rye　grass；　the　patience　of　the　air　in　the　radiant　February　dawn。　And　then　he　saw　the　child。　It　was　a　dry　and　bloated　bag　of　skin　that　all　the　ants　in　the　world　were　dragging　toward　their　holes　along　the　stone　path　in　the　garden。　Aureliano　could　not　move。　Not　because　he　was　paralyzed　by　horror　but　because　at　that　prodigious　instant　Melquíades？final　keys　were　revealed　to　him　and　he　saw　the　epigraph　of　the　parchments　perfectly　placed　in　the　order　of　man’s　time　and　space：　The　first　of　the　line　is　tied　to　a　tree　and　the　last　is　being　eaten　by　the　ants。
　　　Aureliano；　had　never　been　more　lucid　in　any　act　of　his　life　as　when　he　fot　about　his　dead　ones　and　the　pain　of　his　dead　ones　and　nailed　up　the　doors　and　windows　again　with　Fernanda’s　crossed　boards　so　as　not　to　be　disturbed　by　any　temptations　of　the　world；　for　he　knew　then　that　his　fate　was　written　in　Melquíades？parchments。　He　found　them　intact　among　the　prehistoric　plants　and　steaming　puddles　and　luminous　insects　that　had　removed　all　trace　of　man’s　passage　on　earth　from　the　room；　and　he　did　not　have　the　calmness　to　bring　them　out　into　the　light；　but　right　there；　standing；　without　the　slightest　difficulty；　as　if　they　had　been　written　in　Spanish　and　were　being　read　under　the　dazzling　splendor　of　high　noon；　he　began　to　decipher　them　aloud。　It　was　the　history　of　the　family；　written　by　Melquíades；　down　to　the　most　trivial　details；　one　hundred　years　ahead　of　time。　He　had　written　it　in　Sanskrit；　which　was　his　mother　tongue；　and　he　had　encoded　the　even　lines　in　the　private　cipher　of　the　Emperor　Augustus　and　the　odd　ones　in　a　Lacedemonian　military　code。　The　final　protection；　which　Aureliano　had　begun　to　glimpse　when　he　let　himself　be　confused　by　the　love　of　Amaranta　？rsula；　was　based　on　the　fact　that　Melquíades　had　not　put　events　in　the　order　of　man’s　conventional　time；　but　had　concentrated　a　century　of　daily　episodes　in　such　a　way　that　they　coexisted　in　one　instant。　Fascinated　by　the　discovery；　Aureliano；　read　aloud　without　skipping　the　chanted　encyclicals　that　Melquíades　himself　had　made　Arcadio　listen　to　and　that　were　in　reality　the　prediction　of　his　execution；　and　he　found　the　announcement　of　the　birth　of　the　most　beautiful　woman　in　the　world　who　was　rising　up　to　heaven　in　body　and　soul；　and　he　found　the　origin　of　the　posthumous　twins　who　gave　up　deciphering　the　parchments；　not　simply　through　incapacity　and　lack　of　drive；　but　also　because　their　attempts　were　premature。　At　that　point；　impatient　to　know　his　own　origin；　Aureliano　skipped　ahead。　Then　the　wind　began；　warm；　incipient；　full　of　voices　from　the　past；　the　murmurs　of　ancient　geraniums；　sighs　of　disenchantment　that　preceded　the　most　tenacious　nostalgia。　He　did　not　notice　it　because　at　that　moment　he　was　discovering　the　first　indications　of　his　own　being　in　a　lascivious　grandfather　who　let　himself　be　frivolously　dragged　along　across　a　hallucinated　plateau　in　search　of　a　beautiful　woman　who　would　not　make　him　happy。　Aureliano　recognized　him；　he　pursued　the　hidden　paths　of　his　descent；　and　he　found　the　instant　of　his　own　conception　among　the　scorpions　and　the　yellow　butterflies　in　a　sunset　bathroom　where　a　mechanic　satisfied　his　lust　on　a　woman　who　was　giving　herself　out　of　rebellion。　He　was　so　absorbed　that　he　did　not　feel　the　second　surge　of　wind　either　as　its　cyclonic　strength　tore　the　doors　and　windows　off　their　hinges；　pulled　off　the　roof　of　the　east　wing；　and　uprooted　the　foundations。　Only　then　did　he　discover　that　Amaranta　？rsula　was　not　his　sister　but　his　aunt；　and　that　Sir　Francis　Drake　had　attacked　Riohacha　only　so　that　they　could　seek　each　other　through　the　most　intricate　labyrinths　of　blood　until　they　would　engender　the　mythological　animal　that　was　to　bring　the　line　to　an　end。　Macondo　was　already　a　fearful　whirlwind　of　dust　and　rubble　being　spun　about　by　the　wrath　of　the　biblical　hurricane　when　Aureliano　skipped　eleven　pages　so　as　not　to　lose　time　with　facts　he　knew　only　too　well；　and　he　began　to　decipher　the　instant　that　he　was　living；　deciphering　it　as　he　lived　it；　prophesying　himself　in　the　act　of　deciphering　the　last　page　of　the　parchments；　as　if　he　were　looking　into　a　speaking　mirror。　Then　he　skipped　again　to　anticipate　the　predictions　and　ascertain　the　date　and　circumstances　of　his　death。　Before　reaching　the　final　line；　however；　he　had　already　understood　that　he　would　never　leave　that