百年孤独(英文版)-第70部分

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eliano　never　left　Melquíades？room　except　to　go　to　the　kitchen　or　the　toilet；　and　that　he　was　not　a　man　to　play　tricks。　So　in　the　end　she　believed　that　it　was　the　mischief　of　elves　and　she　decided　to　secure　everything　in　the　place　where　she　would　use　it。　She　tied　the　shears　to　the　head　of　her　bed　with　a　long　string。　She　tied　the　pen　and　the　blotter　to　the　leg　of　the　table；　and　the　glued　the　inkwell　to　the　top　of　it　to　the　right　of　the　place　where　she　normally　wrote。　The　problems　were　not　solved　overnight；　because　a　few　hours　after　she　had　tied　the　string　to　the　shears　it　was　not　long　enough　for　her　to　cut　with；　as　if　the　elves　had　shortened　it。　The　same　thing　happened　to　her　with　the　string　to　the　pen　and　even　with　her　own　arm　which　after　a　short　time　of　writing　could　not　reach　the　inkwell。　Neither　Amaranta　？rsula　in　Brussels　nor　Jos？Arcadio　in　Rome　ever　heard　about　those　insignificant　misfortunes。　Fernanda　told　them　that　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　day…to…day　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　tight…fitting　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　moth…eaten　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　well…uprooted　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　next…to…the…last　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　c