百年孤独(英文版)-第46部分

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secret　passion　for　Pietro　Crespi　was　to　twist　the　direction　of　her　heart　in　the　end。　But　unlike　Amaranta；　unlike　all　of　them；　Meme　still　did　not　reveal　the　solitary　fate　of　the　family　and　she　seemed　entirely　in　conformity　with　the　world；　even　when　she　would　shut　herself　up　in　the　parlor　at　two　in　the　afternoon　to　practice　the　clavichord　with　an　inflexible　discipline。　It　was　obvious　that　she　liked　the　house；　that　she　spent　the　whole　year　dreaming　about　the　excitement　of　the　young　people　her　arrival　brought　around；　and　that　she　was　not　far　removed　from　the　festive　vocation　and　hospitable　excesses　of　her　father。　The　first　sign　of　that　calamitous　inheritance　was　revealed　on　her　third　vacation；　when　Meme　appeared　at　the　house　with　four　nuns　and　sixtyeight　classmates　whom　she　had　invited　to　spend　a　week　with　her　family　on　her　own　Initiative　and　without　any　previous　warning。
　　　“How　awful！？Fernanda　lamented。　“This　child　is　as　much　of　a　barbarian　as　her　father！？
　　　It　was　necessary　to　borrow　beds　and　hammocks　from　the　neighbors；　to　set　up　nine　shifts　at　the　table；　to　fix　hours　for　bathing；　and　to　borrow　forty　stools　so　that　the　girls　in　blue　uniforms　with　masculine　buttons　would　not　spend　the　whole　day　running　from　one　place　to　another。　The　visit　was　a　failure　because　the　noisy　schoolgirls　would　scarcely　finish　breakfast　before　they　had　to　start　taking　turns　for　lunch　and　then　for　dinner；　and　for　the　whole　week　they　were　able　to　take　only　one　walk　through　the　plantations。　At　nightfall　the　nuns　were　exhausted；　unable　to　move；　give　another　order；　and　still　the　troop　of　tireless　adolescents　was　in　the　courtyard　singing　school　songs　out　of　tune。　One　day　they　were　on　the　point　of　trampling　？rsula；　who　made　an　effort　to　be　useful　precisely　where　she　was　most　in　the　way。　On　another　day　the　nuns　got　all　excited　because　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía　had　urinated　under　the　chestnut　tree　without　being　concerned　that　the　schoolgirls　were　in　the　courtyard。　Amaranta　was　on　the　point　of　causing　panic　because　one　of　the　nuns　went　into　the　kitchen　as　she　was　salting　the　soup　and　the　only　thing　that　occurred　to　her　to　say　was　to　ask　what　those　handfuls　of　white　powder　were。
　　　“Arsenic；？Amaranta　answered。
　　　The　night　of　their　arrival　the　students　carried　on　in　such　a　way；　trying　to　go　to　the　bathroom　before　they　went　to　bed；　that　at　one　o’clock　in　the　morning　the　last　ones　were　still　going　in。　Fernanda　then　bought　seventytwo　chamberpots　but　she　only　managed　to　change　the　nocturnal　problem　into　a　morning　one；　because　from　dawn　on　there　was　a　long　line　of　girls；　each　with　her　pot　in　her　hand；　waiting　for　her　turn　to　wash　it。　Although　some　of　them　suffered　fevers　and　several　of　them　were　infected　by　mosquito　bites；　most　of　them　showed　an　unbreakable　resistance　as　they　faced　the　most　troublesome　difficulties；　and　even　at　the　time　of　the　greatest　heat　they　would　scamper　through　the　garden。　When　they　finally　left；　the　flowers　were　destroyed；　the　furniture　broken；　and　the　walls　covered　with　drawings　and　writing；　but　Fernanda　pardoned　them　for　all　of　the　damage　because　of　her　relief　at　their　leaving。　She　returned　the　borrowed　beds　and　stools　and　kept　the　seventytwo　chamberpots　in　Melquíades？room。　The　locked　room；　about　which　the　spiritual　life　of　the　house　revolved　in　former　times；　was　known　from　that　time　on　as　the　“chamberpot　room。？For　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía　it　was　the　most　appropriate　name；　because　while　the　rest　of　the　family　was　still　amazed　by　the　fact　that　Melquíades？room　was　immune　to　dust　and　destruction；　he　saw　it　turned　into　a　dunghill。　In　any　case；　it　did　not　seem　to　bother　him　who　was　correct；　and　if　he　found　out　about　the　fate　of　the　room　it　was　because　Fernanda　kept　passing　by　and　disturbing　his　work　for　a　whole　afternoon　as　she　put　away　the　chamberpots。
　　　During　those　days　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo　reappeared　in　the　house。　He　went　along　the　porch　without　greeting　anyone　and　he　shut　himself　up　in　the　workshop　to　talk　to　the　colonel。　In　spite　of　the　fact　that　she　could　not　see　him；　？rsula　analyzed　the　clicking　of　his　foreman’s　boots　and　was　surprised　at　the　unbridgeable　distance　that　separated　him　from　the　family；　even　from　the　twin　brother　with　whom　he　had　played　ingenious　games　of　confusion　in　childhood　and　with　whom　he　no　longer　had　any　traits　in　mon。　He　was　linear；　solemn；　and　had　a　pensive　air　and　the　sadness　of　a　Saracen　and　a　mournful　glow　on　his　face　that　was　the　color　of　autumn。　He　was　the　one　who　most　resembled　his　mother；　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad。　？rsula　reproached　herself　for　the　habit　of　fetting　about　him　when　she　spoke　about　the　family；　but　when　she　sensed　him　in　the　house　again　and　noticed　that　the　colonel　let　him　into　the　workshop　during　working　hours；　she　reexamined　her　old　memories　and　confirmed　the　belief　that　at　some　moment　in　childhood　he　had　changed　places　with　his　twin　brother；　because　it　was　he　and　not　the　other　one　who　should　have　been　called　Aureliano。　No　one　knew　the　details　of　his　life。　At　one　time　it　was　discovered　that　he　had　no　fixed　abode；　that　he　raised　fighting　cocks　at　Pilar　Ternera’s　house　and　that　sometimes　he　would　stay　there　to　sleep　but　that　he　almost　always　spent　the　night　in　the　rooms　of　the　French　matrons。　He　drifted　about；　with　no　ties　of　affection；　with　no　ambitions；　like　a　wandering　star　in　？rsula’s　planetary　system。
　　　In　reality；　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo　was　not　a　member　of　the　family；　nor　would　he　ever　be　of　any　other　since　that　distant　dawn　when　Colonel　Gerineldo　Márquez　took　him　to　the　barracks；　not　so　that　he　could　see　an　execution；　but　so　that　for　the　rest　of　his　life　he　would　never　fet　the　sad　and　somewhat　mocking　smile　of　the　man　being　shot。　That　was　not　only　his　oldest　memory；　but　the　only　one　he　had　of　his　childhood。　The　other　one；　that　of　an　old　man　with　an　oldfashioned　vest　and　a　hat　with　a　brim　like　a　crow’s　wings　who　told　him　marvelous　things　framed　in　a　dazzling　window；　he　was　unable　to　place　in　any　period。　It　was　an　uncertain　memory；　entirely　devoid　of　lessons　or　nostalgia；　the　opposite　of　the　memory　of　the　executed　man；　which　had　really　set　the　direction　of　his　life　and　would　return　to　his　memory　clearer　and　dearer　as　he　grew　older；　as　if　the　passage　of　time　were　bringing　him　closer　to　it。　？rsula　tried　to　use　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo　to　get　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía。　to　give　up　his　imprisonment。　“Get　him　to　go　to　the　movies；？she　said　to　him。　“Even　if　he　doesn’t　like　the　picture；　as　least　he’ll　breathe　a　little　fresh　air。？But　it　did　not　take　her　long　to　realize　that　he　was　as　insensible　to　her　begging　as　the　colonel　would　have　been；　and　that　they　were　armored　by　the　same　impermeability　of　affection。　Although　she　never　knew；　nor　did　anyone　know；　what　they　spoke　about　in　their　prolonged　sessions　shut　up　in　the　workshop；　she　understood　that　they　were　probably　the　only　members　of　the　family　who　seemed　drawn　together　by　some　affinity。
　　　The　truth　is　that　not　even　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo　would　have　been　able　to　draw　the　colonel　out　of　his　confinement。　The　invasion　of　schoolgirls　had　lowered　the　limits　of　his　patience。　With　the　pretext　that　his　wedding　bedroom　was　at　the　mercy　of　the　moths　in　spite　of　the　destruction　of　Remedios？appetizing　dolls；　he　hung　a　hammock　in　the　workshop　and　then　he　would　leave　it　only　to　go　into　the　courtyard　to　take　care　of　his　necessities。　？rsula　was　unable　to　string　together　even　a　trivial　conversation　with　him。　She　knew　that　he　did　not　look　at　the　dishes　of　food　but　would　put　them　at　one　end　of　his　workbench　while　he　finished　a　little　fish　and　it　did　not　matter　to　him　if　the　soup　curdled　or　if　the　meat　got　cold。　He　grew　harder　and　harder　ever　since　Colonel　Gerineldo　Márquez　refused　to　back　him　up　in　a　senile　war。　He　locked　himself　up　inside　himself　and　the　family　finally　thought　of　him　is　if　he　were　dead。　No　other　human　reaction　was　seen　in　him　until　one　October　eleventh；　when　he　went　to　the。　street　door　to　watch　a　circus　parade。　For　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía　it　had　been　a　day　just　like　all　those　of　his　last　years。　At　five　o’clock　in　the　morning　the　noise　of　the　toads　and　crickets　outside　the　wall　woke　him　up。　The　drizzle　had　persisted　since　Saturday　and　there　was　no　necessity　for　him　to　hear　their　tiny　whispering　among　the　leaves　of　the　garden　because　he　would　have　felt　the　cold　in　his　bones　in　any　case。　He　was；　as　always；　wrapped　in　his　woolen　blanket　and　wearing　his　crude　cotton　long　drawers；　which　he　still　wore　for　fort；　even　though　because　of　their　musty；　oldfashioned　style　he　called　them　his　“Goth　drawers。？He　put　on　his　tight　pants　but　did　not　button　them　up；　nor　did　he　put　the　gold　button　into　his　shirt　collar　as　he　always　did；　because　he　planned　to　take　a　bath。　Then　he　put　the　blanket　over　his　head　like　a　cowl。　brushed　his　dripping　mustache　with　his　fingers；　and　went　to　urinate　in　the　courtyard。　There　was　still　so　much　time　left　for　the　sun　to　e　out　that　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　was　still　dozing　under　the　shelter　of　palm　fronds　that　had　been　rotted　by　the　rain。　He　did　not　see　him；　as　he　had　never　seen　him；　nor　did　he　hear　the　inprehensible　phrase　that　the　ghost　of　his　father　addressed　to　him　as　he　awakened；　startled　by　the　stream　of　hot　urine　that　splattered　his　shoes。　He　put　the　bath　off　for　later；　not　because　of　the　cold　and　the　dampness；　but　because　of　the　oppressive　October　mist。　On　his　way　back　to　the　workshop　he　noticed　the　odor　of　the　wick　that　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad　was　using　to　light　the　stoves；　and　he　waited　in　the　kitchen　for　the　coffee　to　boil　so　that　he　could　take　along　his　mug　without　sugar。　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad　asked　him；　as　on　every　morning；　what　day　of　the　week　it　was；　and　he　answered　that　it　was　Tuesday；　October　eleventh。　Watching　the　glow　of　the　fire　as　it　gilded　the　persistent　woman　who　neither　then　nor　in　any　instant　of　her　life　seemed　to　exist　pletely；　he　suddenly　remembered　that　on　one　October　eleventh　in　the　middle　of　the　war　he　had　awakened　with　the　brutal　certainty　that　the　woman　with　whom　he　had　slept　was　dead。　She　really　was　and　he　could　not　fet　the　date　because　she　had　asked　him　an　hour　before　what　day　it　was。　In　spite　of　the　memory　he　did　not　have　an　awareness　this　time　either　of　to　what　degree　his　omens　had　abandoned　him　and　while　the　coffee　was　boiling　he　kept　on　thinking　out　of　pure　curiosity　but　without　the　slightest　risk　of　nostalgia　about　the　woman　whose　name　he　had　never　known　and　whose　face　he　had　not　seen　because　she　had　stumbled　to　his　hammock　in　the　dark。　Nevertheless；　in　the　emptiness　of　so　many　women　who　came　into　his　life　in　the　same　way；　he　did　not　remember　that　she　was　the　one　who　in　the　delirium　of　that　first　meeting　was　on　the　point　of　foundering　in　her　own　tears　and　scarcely　an　hour　before　her　death　had　sworn　to　love　him　until　she　died。　He　did　not　think　about　her　again　or　about　any　of　the　others　after　he　went　into　the　workshop　with　the　steaming　cup；　and　he　lighted　the　lamp　in　order　to　count　the　little　gold　fishes；　which　he　kept　in　a　tin　pail。　There　　were　seventeen　of　them。　Since　he　had　decided　not　to　sell　any；　he　kept　on　making　two　fishes　a　day　and　when　he　finished　twentyfive　he　would　melt　them　down　and　start　all　over　again。　He　worked　all　morning；　absorbed；　without　thinking　about　anything；　without　realizing　that　at　ten　o’clock　the　rain　had　grown　stronger　and　someone　ran　past　the　workshop　shouting　to　close　t