百年孤独(英文版)-第92部分

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　with　a　pernicious　diligence　that　made　one　think　of　Fernanda　and　the　hereditary　vice　of　making　something　just　to　unmake　it。　Her　festive　genius　was　still　so　alive　then　that　when　she　received　new　records　she　would　invite　Gaston　to　stay　in　the　parlor　until　very　late　to　practice　the　dance　steps　that　her　schoolmates　described　to　her　in　sketches　and　they　would　generally　end　up　making　love　on　the　Viennese　rocking　chairs　or　on　the　bare　floor。　The　only　thing　that　she　needed　to　be　pletely　happy　was　the　birth　of　her　children；　but　she　respected　the　pact　she　had　made　with　her　husband　not　to　have　any　until　they　had　been　married　for　five　years。
　　　Looking　for　something　to　fill　his　idle　hours　with；　Gaston　became　accustomed　to　spending　the　morning　in　Melquíades？room　with　the　shy　Aureliano。　He　took　pleasure　in　recalling　with　him　the　most　hidden　corners　of　his　country；　which　Aureliano　knew　as　if　he　had　spent　much　time　there。　When　Gaston　asked　him　what　he　had　done　to　obtain　knowledge　that　was　not　in　the　encyclopedia；　he　received　the　same　answer　as　Jos？Arcadio：　“Everything　Is　known。？In　addition　to　Sanskrit　he　had　learned　English　and　French　and　a　little　Latin　and　Greek。　Since　he　went　out　every　afternoon　at　that　time　and　Amaranta　？rsula　had　set　aside　a　weekly　sum　for　him　for　his　personal　expenses；　his　room　looked　like　a　branch　of　the　wise　Catalonian’s　bookstore。　He　read　avidly　until　late　at　night；　although　from　the　manner　in　which　he　referred　to　his　reading；　Gaston　thought　that　he　did　not　buy　the　books　in　order　to　learn　but　to　verify　the　truth　of　his　knowledge；　and　that　none　of　them　interested　him　more　than　the　parchments；　to　which　he　dedicated　most　of　his　time　in　the　morning。　Both　Gaston　and　his　wife　would　have　liked　to　incorporate　him　into　the　family　life；　but　Aureliano　was　a　hermetic　man　with　a　cloud　of　mystery　that　time　was　making　denser。　It　was　such　an　unfathomable　condition　that　Gaston　failed　in　his　efforts　to　bee　intimate　with　him　and　had　to　seek　other　pastimes　for　his　idle　hours。　It　was　around　that　time　that　he　conceived　the　idea　of　establishing　an　airmail　service。
　　　It　was　not　a　new　project。　Actually；　he　had　it　fairly　well　advanced　when　he　met　Amaranta　？rsula；　except　that　it　was　not　for　Macondo；　but　for　the　Belgian　Congo；　where　his　family　had　investments　in　palm　oil。　The　marriage　and　the　decision　to　spend　a　few　months　in　Macondo　to　please　his　wife　had　obliged　him　to　postpone　it。　But　when　he　saw　that　Amaranta　？rsula　was　determined　to　anize　a　mission　for　public　improvement　and　even　laughed　at　him　when　he　hinted　at　the　possibility　of　returning；　he　understood　that　things　were　going　to　take　a　long　time　and　he　reestablished　contact　with　his　fotten　partners　in　Brussels；　thinking　that　it　was　just　as　well　to　be　a　pioneer　in　the　Caribbean　as　in　Africa。　While　his　steps　were　progressing　he　prepared　a　landing　field　in　the　old　enchanted　region　which　at　that　time　looked　like　a　plain　of　crushed　flintstone；　and　he　studied　the　wind　direction；　the　geography　of　the　coastal　region；　and　the　best　routes　for　aerial　navigation；　without　knowing　that　his　diligence；　so　similar　to　that　of　Mr。　Herbert；　was　filling　the　town　with　the　dangerous　suspicion　that　his　plan　was　not　to　set　up　routes　but　to　plant　banana　trees。　Enthusiastic　over　the　idea　that；　after　all；　might　justify　his　permanent　establishment　in　Macondo；　he　took　several　trips　to　the　capital　of　the　province；　met　with　authorities；　obtained　licenses；　and　drew　up　contracts　for　exclusive　rights。　In　the　meantime　he　maintained　a　correspondence　with　his　partners　in　Brussels　which　resembled　that　of　Fernanda　with　the　invisible　doctors；　and　he　finally　convinced　them　to　ship　the　first　airplane　under　the　care　of　an　expert　mechanic；　who　would　assemble　it　in　the　nearest　port　and　fly　it　to　Macondo。　One　year　after　his　first　meditations　and　meteorological　calculations；　trusting　in　the　repeated　promises　of　his　correspondents；　he　had　acquired　the　habit　of　strolling　through　the　streets；　looking　at　the　sky；　hanging　onto　the　sound　of　the　breeze　in　hopes　that　the　airplane　would　appear。
　　　Although　she　had　not　noticed　it；　the　return　of　Amaranta　？rsula　had　brought　on　a　radical　change　in　Aureliano’s　life。　After　the　death　of　Jos？Arcadio　he　had　bee　a　regular　customer　at　the　wise　Catalonian’s　bookstore。　Also；　the　freedom　that　he　enjoyed　then　and　the　time　at　his　disposal　awoke　in　him　a　certain　curiosity　about　the　town；　which　he　came　to　know　without　any　surprise。　He　went　through　the　dusty　and　solitary　streets；　examining　with　scientific　interest　the　inside　of　houses　in　ruin；　the　metal　screens　on　the　windows　broken　by　rust　and　the　dying　birds；　and　the　inhabitants　bowed　down　by　memories。　He　tried　to　reconstruct　in　his　imagination　the　annihilated　splendor　of　the　old　bananapany　town；　whose　dry　swimming　pool　was　filled　to　the　brim　with　rotting　men’s　and　women’s　shoes；　and　in　the　houses　of　which；　destroyed　by　rye　grass；　he　found　the　skeleton　of　a　German　shepherd　dog　still　tied　to　a　ring　by　a　steel　chain　and　a　telephone　that　was　ringing；　ringing；　ringing　until　he　picked　it　up　and　an　anguished　and　distant　woman　spoke　in　English；　and　he　said　yes；　that　the　strike　was　over；　that　three　thousand　dead　people　had　been　thrown　into　the　sea；　that　the　banana　pany　had　left；　and　that　Macondo　finally　had　peace　after　many　years。　Those　wanderings　led　him　to　the　prostrate　redlight　district；　where　in　other　times　bundles　of　banknotes　had　been　burned　to　liven　up　the　revels；　and　which　at　that　time　was　a　maze　of　streets　more　afflicted　and　miserable　than　the　others；　with　a　few　red　lights　still　burning　and　with　deserted　dance　halls　adorned　with　the　remnants　of　wreaths；　where　the　pale；　fat　widows　of　no　one；　the　French　greatgrandmothers　and　the　Babylonian　matriarchs；　were　still　waiting　beside　their　photographs。　Aureliano　could　not　find　anyone　who　remembered　his　family；　not　even　Colonel　Aureliano　Buendía；　except　for　the　oldest　of　the　West　Indian　Negroes；　an　old　man　whose　cottony　hair　gave　him　the　look　of　a　photographic　negative　and　who　was　still　singing　the　mournful　sunset　psalms　in　the　door　of　his　house。　Aureliano　would　talk　to　him　in　the　tortured　Papiamento　that　he　had　learned　in　a　few　weeks　and　sometimes　he　would　share　his　chickenhead　soup；　prepared　by　the　greatgranddaughter；　with　him。　She　was　a　large　black　woman　with　solid　bones；　the　hips　of　a　mare；　teats　like　live　melons；　and　a　round　and　perfect　head　armored　with　a　hard　surface　of　wiry　hair　which　looked　like　a　medieval　warrior’s　mail　headdress。　Her　name　was　Nigromanta。　In　those　days　Aureliano　lived　off　the　sale　of　silverware；　candlesticks；　and　other　bricabrac　from　the　house。　When　he　was　penniless；　which　was　most　of　the　time；　he　got　people　in　the　back　of　the　market　to　give　him　the　chicken　heads　that　they　were　going　to　throw　away　and　he　would　take　them　to　Nigromanta　to　make　her　soups；　fortified　with　purslane　and　seasoned　with　mint。　When　the　greatgrandfather　died　Aureliano　stopped　going　by　the　house；　but　he　would　run　into　Nigromanta　under　the　dark　almond　trees　on　the　square；　using　her　wildanimal　whistles　to　lure　the　few　night　owls。　Many　times　he　stayed　with　her；　speaking　in　Papiamento　about　chickenhead　soup　and　other　dainties　of　misery；　and　he　would　have　kept　right　on　if　she　had　not　let　him　know　that　his　presence　frightened　off　customers。　Although　he　sometimes　felt　the　temptation　and　although　Nigromanta　herself　might　have　seemed　to　him　as　the　natural　culmination　of　a　shared　nostalgia；　he　did　not　go　to　bed　with　her。　So　Aureliano　was　still　a　virgin　when　Amaranta　？rsula　returned　to　Macondo　and　gave　him　a　sisterly　embrace　that　left　him　breathless。　Every　time　he　saw　her；　and　worse　yet　when　she　showed　him　the　latest　dances；　he　felt　the　same　spongy　release　in　his　bones　that　had　disturbed　his　greatgreatgrandfather　when　Pilar　Ternera　made　her　pretexts　about　the　cards　in　the　granary。　Trying　to　squelch　the　torment；　he　sank　deeper　into　the　parchments　and　eluded　the　innocent　flattery　of　that　aunt　who　was　poisoning　his　nights　with　a　flow　of　tribulation；　but　the　more　he　avoided　her　the　more　the　anxiety　with　which　he　waited　for　her　stony　laughter；　her　howls　of　a　happy　cat；　and　her　songs　of　gratitude；　agonizing　in　love　at　all　hours　and　in　the　most　unlikely　parts　of　the　house。　One　night　thirty　feet　from　his　bed；　on　the　silver　workbench；　th