百年孤独(英文版)-第71部分

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he　yellow　butterflies　that　were　still　acpanying　her。　Fernanda　never　found　out　nor　did　she　take　the　trouble　to；　whether　that　stony　silence　was　a　determination　of　her　will　or　whether　she　had　bee　mute　because　of　the　impact　of　the　tragedy。　Meme　barely　took　notice　of　the　journey　through　the　formerly　enchanted　region。　She　did　not　see　the　shady；　endless　banana　groves　on　both　sides　of　the　tracks。　She　did　not　see　the　white　houses　of　the　gringos　or　their　gardens；　dried　out　by　dust　and　heat；　or　the　women　in　shorts　and　bluestriped　shirts　playing　cards　on　the　terraces。　She　did　not　see　the　oxcarts　on　the　dusty　roads　loaded　down　with　bunches　of　bananas。　She　did　not　see　the　girls　diving　into　the　transparent　rivers　like　tarpons；　leaving　the　passengers　on　the　train　with　the　bitterness　of　their　splendid　breasts；　or　the　miserable　huts　of　the　workers　all　huddled　together　where　Mauricio　Babilonia’s　yellow　butterflies　fluttered　about　and　in　the　doorways　of　which　there　were　green　and　squalid　children　sitting　on　their　pots；　and　pregnant　women　who　shouted　insults　at　the　train。　That　fleeting　vision；　which　had　been　a　celebration　for　her　when　she　came　home　from　school；　passed　through　Meme’s　heart　without　a　quiver。　She　did　not　look　out　of　the　window；　not　even　when　the　burning　dampness　of　the　groves　ended　and　the　train　went　through　a　poppyladen　plain　where　the　carbonized　skeleton　of　the　Spanish　galleon　still　sat　and　then　came　out　into　the　dear　air　alongside　the　frothy；　dirty　sea　where　almost　a　century　before　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía’s　illusions　had　met　defeat。
　　　At　five　o’clock　in　the　afternoon；　when　they　had　e　to　the　last　station　in　the　swamp；　she　got　out　of　the　train　because　Fernanda　made　her。　They　got　into　a　small　carriage　that　looked　like　an　enormous　bat；　drawn　by　an　asthmatic　horse；　and　they　went　through　the　desolate　city　in　the　endless　streets　of　which；　split　by　saltiness；　there　was　the　sound　of　a　piano　lesson　just　like　the　one　that　Fernanda　heard　during　the　siestas　of　her　adolescence。　They　went　on　board　a　riverboat；　the　wooden　wheel　of　which　had　a　sound　of　conflagration；　and　whose　rusted　metal　plates　reverberated　like　the　mouth　of　an　oven。　Meme　shut　herself　up　in　her　cabin。　Twice　a　day　Fernanda　left　a　plate　of　food　by　her　bed　and　twice　a　day　she　took　it　away　intact；　not　because　Meme　had　resolved　to　die　of　hunger；　but　because　even　the　smell　of　food　was　repugnant　to　her　and　her　stomach　rejected　even　water。　Not　even　she　herself　knew　that　her　fertility　had　outwitted　the　mustard　vapors；　just　as　Fernanda　did　not　know　until　almost　a　year　later；　when　they　brought　the　child。　In　the　suffocating　cabin；　maddened　by　the　vibration　of　the　metal　plates　and　the　unbearable　stench　of　the　mud　stirred　up　by　the　paddle　wheel；　Meme　lost　track　of　the　days。　Much　time　had　passed　when　she　saw　the　last　yellow　butterfly　destroyed　in　the　blades　of　the　fan　and　she　admitted　as　an　irremediable　truth　that　Mauricio　Babilonia　had　died。　She　did　not　let　herself　be　defeated　by　resignation；　however。　She　kept　on　thinking　about　him　during　the　arduous　muleback　crossing　of　the　hallucinating　plateau　where　Aureliano　Segundo　had　bee　lost　when　he　was　looking　for　the　most　beautiful　woman　who　had　ever　appeared　on　the　face　of　the　earth；　and　when　they　went　over　the　mountains　along　Indian　trails　and　entered　the　gloomy　city　in　whose　stone　alleys　the　funereal　bronze　bells　of　thirtytwo　churches　tolled。　That　night　they　slept　in　the　abandoned　colonial　mansion　on　boards　that　Fernanda　laid　on　the　floor　of　a　room　invaded　by　weeds；　wrapped　in　the　shreds　of　curtains　that　they　pulled　off　the　windows　and　that　fell　to　pieces　with　every　turn　of　the　body。　Meme　knew　where　they　were　because　in　the　flight　of　her　insomnia　she　saw　pass　by　the　gentleman　dressed　in　black　whom　they　delivered　to　the　house　inside　a　lead　box　on　one　distant　Christmas　Eve。　On　the　following　day；　after　mass；　Fernanda　took　her　to　a　somber　building　that　Meme　recognized　immediately　from　her　mother’s　stories　of　the　convent　where　they　had　raised　her　to　be　a　queen；　and　then　she　understood　that　they　had　e　to　the　end　of　the　journey。　While　Fernanda　was　speaking　to　someone　in　the　office　next　door；　Meme　remained　in　a　parlor　checkered　with　large　oil　paintings　of　colonial　archbishops；　still　wearing　an　etamine　dress　with　small　black　flowers　and　stiff　high　shoes　which　were　swollen　by　the　cold　of　the　uplands。　She　was　standing　in　the　center　of　the　parlor　thinking　about　Mauricio　Babilonia　under　the　yellow　stream　of　light　from　the　stained　glass　windows　when　a　very　beautiful　novice　came　out　of　the　office　carrying　her　suitcase　with　the　three　changes　of　clothing。　As　she　passed　Meme　she　took　her　hand　without　stopping。
　　　“e；　Renata；？she　said　to　her。
　　　Meme　took　her　hand　and　let　herself　be　led。　The　last　time　that　Fernanda　saw　her；　trying　to　keep　up　with　the　novice；　the　iron　grating　of　the　cloister　had　just　closed　behind　her。　She　was　still　thinking　about　Mauricio　Babilonia；　his　smell　of　grease；　and　his　halo　of　butterflies；　and　she　would　keep　on　thinking　about　him　for　all　the　days　of　her　life　until　the　remote　autumn　morning　when　she　died　of　old　age；　with　her　name　changed　and　her　head　shaved　and　without　ever　having　spoken　a　word；　in　a　gloomy　hospital　in　Cracow。
　　　Fernanda　returned　to　Macondo　on　a　train　protected　by　armed　police。　During　the　trip　she　noticed　the　tension　of　the　passengers；　the　military　preparations　in　the　towns　along　the　line；　and　an　atmosphere　rarified　by　the　certainty　that　something　serious　was　going　to　happen；　but　she　had　no　information　until　she　reached　Macondo　and　they　told　her　that　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo　was　inciting　the　workers　of　the　banana　pany　to　strike。　“That’s　all　we　need；？Fernanda　said　to　herself。　“An　anarchist　in　the　family。？The　strike　broke　out　two　weeks　later　and　it　did　not　have　the　dramatic　consequences　that　had　been　feared。　The　workers　demanded　that　they　not　be　obliged　to　cut　and　load　bananas　on　Sundays；　and　the　position　seemed　so　just　that　even　Father　Antonio　Isabel　interceded　in　its　favor　because　he　found　it　in　accordance　with　the　laws　of　God。　That　victory；　along　with　other　actions　that　were　initiated　during　the　following　months；　drew　the　colorless　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo　out　of　his　anonymity；　for　people　had　been　accustomed　to　say　that　he　was　only　good　for　filling　up　the　town　with　French　whores。　With　the　same　impulsive　decision　with　which　he　had　auctioned　off　his　fighting　cocks　in　order　to　anize　a　harebrained　boat　business；　he　gave　up　his　position　as　foreman　in　the　banana　pany　and　took　the　side　of　the　workers。　Quite　soon　he　was　pointed　out　as　the　agent　of　an　international　conspiracy　against　public　order。　One　night；　during　the　course　of　a　week　darkened　by　somber　rumors；　he　miraculously　escaped　four　revolver　shots　taken　at　him　by　an　unknown　party　as　he　was　leaving　a　secret　meeting。　The　atmosphere　of　the　following　months　was　so　tense　that　even　？rsula　perceived　it　in　her　dark　corner；　and　she　had　the　impression　that　once　more　she　was　living　through　the　dangerous　times　when　her　son　Aureliano　carried　the　homeopathic　pills　of　subversion　in　his　pocket。　She　tried　to　speak　to　Jos？Arcadio　Segundo；　to　let　him　know　about　that　precedent；　but　Aureliano　Segundo　told　her　that　since　the　night　of　the　attempt　on　his　life　no　one　knew　his　whereabouts。
　　　“Just　like　Aureliano；？？rsula　exclaimed。　“It’s　as　if　the　world　were　repeating　itself。？
　　　Fernanda；　was　immune　to　the　uncertainty　of　those　days。　She　had　no　contact　with　the　outside　world　since　the　violent　altercation　she　had　had　with　her　husband　over　her　having　decided　Memes　fate　without　his　consent。　Aureliano　Segundo　was　prepared　to　rescue　his　daughter　with　the　help　of　the　police　if　necessary；　but　Fernanda　showed　him　some　papers　that　were　proof　that　she　had　entered　the　convent　of　her　own　free　will。　Meme　had　indeed　signed　once　she　was　already　behind　the　iron　grating　and　she　did　it　with　the　same　indifference　with　which　she　had　allowed　herself　to　be　led　away。　Underneath　it　all；　Aureliano　Segundo　did　not　believe　in　the　legitimacy　of　the　proof。　Just　as　he　never　believed　that　Mauricio　Babilonia　had　gone　into　the　yard　to　steal　chickens；　but　both　expedients　served　to　ease　his　conscience；　and　thus　he　could　go　back　without　remorse　under　the　shadow　of　Petra　Cotes；　where　he　revived　his　noisy　revelry　and　unlimited　gourmandiz