百年孤独(英文版)-第96部分

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　After　poisoning　the　animals　they　closed　up　the　doors　and　windows　with　brick　and　mortar　and　they　scattered　out　into　the　world　with　their　wooden　trunks　that　were　lined　with　pictures　of　saints；　prints　from　magazines；　and　the　portraits　of　sometime　sweethearts；　remote　and　fantastic；　who　shat　diamonds；　or　ate　cannibals；　or　were　crowned　playingcard　kings　on　the　high　seas。
　　　It　was　the　end。　In　Pilar　Ternera’s　tomb；　among　the　psalm　and　cheap　whore　jewelry；　the　ruins　of　the　past　would　rot；　the　little　that　remained　after　the　wise　Catalonian　had　auctioned　off　his　bookstore　and　returned　to　the　Mediterranean　village　where　he　had　been　born；　overe　by　a　yearning　for　a　lasting　springtime。　No　one　could　have　foreseen　his　decision。　He　had　arrived　in　Macondo　during　the　splendor　of　the　banana　pany；　fleeing　from　one　of　many　wars；　and　nothing　more　practical　had　occurred　to　him　than　to　set　up　that　bookshop　of　incunabula　and　first　editions　in　several　languages；　which　casual　customers　would　thumb　through　cautiously；　as　if　they　were　junk　books；　as　they　waited　their　turn　to　have　their　dreams　interpreted　in　the　house　across　the　way。　He　spent　half　his　life　in　the　back　of　the　store；　scribbling　in　his　extracareful　hand　in　purple　ink　and　on　pages　that　he　tore　out　of　school　notebooks；　and　no　one　was　sure　exactly　what　he　was　writing。　When　Aureliano　first　met　him　he　had　two　boxes　of　those　motley　pages　that　in　some　way　made　one　think　of　Melquíades？parchments；　and　from　that　time　until　he　left　he　had　filled　a　third　one；　so　it　was　reasonable　to　believe　that　he　had　done　nothing　else　during　his　stay　in　Macondo。　The　only　people　with　whom　he　maintained　relations　were　the　four　friends；　whom　he　had　exchanged　their　tops　and　kites　for　books；　and　he　set　them　to　reading　Seneca　and　Ovid　while　they　were　still　in　grammar　school。　He　treated　the　classical　writers　with　a　household　familiarity；　as　if　they　had　all　been　his　roommates　at　some　period；　and　he　knew　many　things　that　should　not　have　been　known；　such　as　the　fact　that　Saint　Augustine　wore　a　wool　jacket　under　his　habit　that　he　did　not　take　off　for　fourteen　years　and　that　Arnaldo　of　Villanova；　the　necromancer；　was　impotent　since　childhood　because　of　a　scorpion　bite。　His　fervor　for　the　written　word　was　an　interweaving　of　solemn　respect　and　gossipy　irreverence。　Not　even　his　own　manuscripts　were　safe　from　that　dualism。　Having　learned　Catalan　in　order　to　translate　them；　Alfonso　put　a　roll　of　pages　in　his　pockets；　which　were　always　full　of　newspaper　clippings　and　manuals　for　strange　trades；　and　one　night　he　lost　them　in　the　house　of　the　little　girls　who　went　to　bed　because　of　hunger。　When　the　wise　old　grandfather　found　out；　instead　of　raising　a　row　as　had　been　feared；　he　mented；　dying　with　laughter；　that　it　was　the　natural　destiny　of　literature。　On　the　other　hand；　there　was　no　human　power　capable　of　persuading　him　not　to　take　along　the　three　boxes　when　he　returned　to　his　native　village；　and　he　unleashed　a　string　of　Carthaginian　curses　at　the　railroad　inspectors　who　tried　to　ship　them　as　freight　until　he　finally　succeeded　in　keeping　them　with　him　in　the　passenger　coach。　“The　world　must　be　all　fucked　up；？he　said　then；　“when　men　travel　first　class　and　literature　goes　as　freight。？That　was　the　last　thing　he　was　heard　to　say。　He　had　spent　a　dark　week　on　the　final　preparations　for　the　trip；　because　as　the　hour　approached　his　humor　was　breaking　down　and　things　began　to　be　misplaced；　and　what　he　put　in　one　place　would　appear　in　another；　attacked　by　the　same　elves　that　had　tormented　Fernanda。
　　　“Collons；？he　would　curse。　“I　shit　on　Canon　Twentyseven　of　the　Synod　of　London。？
　　　Germán　and　Aureliano　took　care　of　him。　They　helped　him　like　a　child；　fastening　his　tickets　and　immigration　documents　to　his　pockets　with　safety　pins；　making　him　a　detailed　list　of　what　he　must　do　from　the　time　he　left　Macondo　until　he　landed　in　Barcelona；　but　nonetheless　he　threw　away　a　pair　of　pants　with　half　of　his　money　in　it　without　realizing　it。　The　night　before　the　trip；　after　nailing　up　the　boxes　and　putting　his　clothing　into　the　same　suitcase　that　he　had　brought　when　he　first　came；　he　narrowed　his　clam　eyes；　pointed　with　a　kind　of　impudent　benediction　at　the　stacks　of　books　with　which　he　had　endured　during　his　exile；　and　said　to　his　friends：
　　　“All　that　shit　there　I　leave　to　you　people！？
　　　Three　months　later　they　received　in　a　large　envelope　twentynine　letters　and　more　than　fifty　pictures　that　he　had　accumulated　during　the　leisure　of　the　high　seas。　Although　he　did　not　date　them；　the　order　in　which　he　had　written　the　letters　was　obvious。　In　the　first　ones；　with　his　customary　good　humor；　he　spoke　about　the　difficulties　of　the　crossing；　the　urge　he　had　to　throw　the　cargo　officer　overboard　when　he　would　not　let　him　keep　the　three　boxes　in　his　cabin；　the　clear　imbecility　of　a　lady　who　was　terrified　at　the　number　thirteen；　not　out　of　superstition　but　because　she　thought　it　was　a　number　that　had　no　end；　and　the　bet　that　he　had　won　during　the　first　dinner　because　he　had　recognized　in　the　drinking　water　on　board　the　taste　of　the　nighttime　beets　by　the　springs　of　Lérida。　With　the　passage　of　the　days；　however；　the　reality　of　life　on　board　mattered　less　and　less　to　him　and　even　the　most　recent　and　trivial　happenings　seemed　worthy　of　nostalgia；　because　as　the　ship　got　farther　away；　his　memory　began　to　grow　sad。　That　process　of　nostalgia　was　also　evident　in　the　pictures。　In　the　first　ones　he　looked　happy；　with　his　sport　shirt　which　looked　like　a　hospital　jacket　and　his　snowy　mane；　in　an　October　Caribbean　filled　with　whitecaps。　In　the　last　ones　he　could　be　seen　to　be　wearing　a　dark　coat　and　a　milk　scarf；　pale　in　the　face；　taciturn　from　absence　on　the　deck　of　a　mournful　ship　that　had　e　to　be　like　a　sleepwalker　on　the　autumnal　seas。　Germán　and　Aureliano　answered　his　letters。　He　wrote　so　many　during　the　first　months　that　at　that　time　they　felt　closer　to　him　than　when　he　had　been　in　Macondo；　and　they　were　almost　freed　from　the　rancor　that　he　had　left　behind。　At　first　he　told　them　that　everything　was　just　the　same；　that　the　pink　snails　were　still　in　the　house　where　he　had　been　born；　that　the　dry　herring　still　had　the　same　taste　on　a　piece　of　toast；　that　the　waterfalls　in　the　village　still　took　on　a　perfumed　smell　at　dusk。　They　were　the　notebook　pages　again；　woven　with　the　purple　scribbling；　in　which　he　dedicated　a　special　paragraph　to　each　one。　Nevertheless；　and　although　he　himself　did　not　seem　to　notice　it；　those　letters　of　recuperation　and　stimulation　were　slowly　changing　into　pastoral　letters　of　disenchantment。　One　winter　night　while　the　soup　was　boiling　in　the　fireplace；　he　missed　the　heat　of　the　back　of　his　store；　the　buzzing　of　the　sun　on　the　dusty　almond　trees；　the　whistle　of　the　train　during　the　lethargy　of　siesta　time；　just　as　in　Macondo　he　had　missed　the　winter　soup　in　the　fireplace；　the　cries　of　the　coffee　vendor；　and　the　fleeting　larks　of　springtime。　Upset　by　two　nostalgias　facing　each　other　like　two　mirrors；　he　lost　his　marvelous　sense　of　unreality　and　he　ended　up　remending　to　all　of　them　that　they　leave　Macondo；　that　they　fet　everything　he　had　taught　them　about　the　world　and　the　human　heart；　that　they　shit　on　Horace；　and　that　wherever　they　might　be　they　always　remember　that　the　past　was　a　lie；　that　memory　has　no　return；　that　every　spring　gone　by　could　never　be　recovered；　and　that　the　wildest　and　most　tenacious　love　was　an　ephemeral　truth　in　the　end。
　　　？lvaro　was　the　first　to　take　the　advice　to　abandon　Macondo。　He　sold　everything；　even　the　tame　jaguar　that　teased　passersby　from　the　courtyard　of　his　house；　and　he　bought　an　eternal　ticket　on　a　train　that　never　stopped　traveling。　In　the　postcards　that　he　sent　from　the　way　stations　he　would　describe　with　shouts　the　instantaneous　images　that　he　had　seen　from　the　window　of　his　coach；　and　it　was　as　if　he　were　tearing　up　and　throwing　into　oblivion　some　long；　evanescent　poem：　the　chimerical　Negroes　in　the　cotton　fields　of　Louisiana；　the　winged　horses　in　the　bluegrass　of　Kentucky；　the　Greek　lovers　in　the　infernal　sunsets　of　Arizona；　the　girl　in　the　red　sweater　painting　watercolors　by　a　lake　in　Michigan　who　waved　at　him　with　her　brushes；　not　to　say　farewell　but　out　of　hope；　because　she　did　not　know　that　she　was　watchin