百年孤独(英文版)-第20部分

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gia　would　transform　the　smell　of　mud　and　putrefying　shellfish　of　the　canals　into　the　warm　aroma　of　flowers。　Amaranta　would　sigh；　laugh；　and　dream　of　a　second　homeland　of　handsome　men　and　beautiful　women　who　spoke　a　childlike　language　with　ancient　cities　of　whose　past　grandeur　only　the　cats　among　the　rubble　remained。　After　crossing　the　ocean　in　search　of　it；　after　having　confused　passion　with　the　vehement　stroking　of　Rebeca；　Pietro　Crespi　had　found　love。　Happiness　was　acpanied　by　prosperity。　His　warehouse　at　that　time　occupied　almost　a　whole　block　and　it　was　a　hothouse　of　fantasy；　with　reproductions　of　the　bell　tower　of　Florence　that　told　time　with　a　concert　of　carillons；　and　music　boxes　from　Sorrento　and　pacts　from　China　that　sang　five…note　melodies　when　they　were　opened；　and　all　the　musical　instruments　imaginable　and　all　the　mechanical　toys　that　could　be　conceived。　Bruno　Crespi；　his　younger　brother；　was　in　charge　of　the　store　because　Pietro　Crespi　barely　had　enough　time　to　take　care　of　the　music　school。　Thanks　to　him　the　Street　of　the　Turks；　with　its　dazzling　display　of　knickknacks；　became　a　melodic　oasis　where　one　could　forget　Arcadio’s　arbitrary　acts　and　the　distant　nightmare　of　the　war。　When　？rsula　ordered　the　revival　of　Sunday　mass；　Pietro　Crespi　donated　a　German　harmonium　to　the　church；　organized　a　children’s　chorus；　and　prepared　a　Gregorian　repertory　that　added　a　note　of　splendor　to　Father　Nicanor’s　quiet　rite。　No　one　doubted　that　he　would　make　Amaranta　a　fortunate　mate。　Not　pushing　their　feelings；　letting　themselves　be　borne　along　by　the　natural　flow　of　their　hearth　they　reached　a　point　where　all　that　was　left　to　do　was　set　a　wedding　date。　They　did　not　encounter　any　obstacles。　？rsula　accused　herself　inwardly　of　having　twisted　Rebecca’s　destiny　with　repeated　postponements　and　she　was　not　about　to　add　more　remorse。　The　rigor　of　the　mourning　for　Remedios　had　been　relegated　to　the　background　by　the　mortifications　of　the　war；　Aureliano’s　absence；　Arcadio’s　brutality；　and　the　expulsion　of　Jos？Arcadio　and　Rebeca。　With　the　imminence　of　the　wedding；　Pietro　Crespi　had　hinted　that　Aureliano　Jos？　in　whom　he　had　stirred　up　a　love　that　was　almost　filial；　would　be　considered　their　oldest　child。　Everything　made　Amaranta　think　that　she　was　heading　toward　a　smooth　happiness。　But　unlike　Rebeca；　she　did　not　reveal　the　slightest　anxiety。　With　the　same　patience　with　which　she　dyed　tablecloths；　sewed　lace　masterpieces；　and　embroidered　needlepoint　peacocks；　she　waited　for　Pietro　Crespi　to　be　unable　to　bear　the　urges　of　his　heart　and　more。　Her　day　came　with　the　ill…fated　October　rains。　Pietro　Crespi　took　the　sewing　basket　from　her　lap　and　he　told　her；　“We’ll　get　married　next　month。？Amaranta　did　not　tremble　at　the　contact　with　his　icy　hands。　She　withdrew　hers　like　a　timid　little　animal　and　went　back　to　her　work。
　　　“Don’t　be　simple；　Crespi。？She　smiled。　“I　wouldn’t　marry　you　even　if　I　were　dead。？
　　　Pietro　Crespi　lost　control　of　himself。　He　wept　shamelessly；　almost　breaking　his　fingers　with　desperation；　but　he　could　not　break　her　down。　“Don’t　waste　your　time；？was　all　that　Amaranta　said。　“If　you　really　love　me　so　much；　don’t　set　foot　in　this　house　again。？？rsula　thought　she　would　go　mad　with　shame。　Pietro　Crespi　exhausted　all　manner　of　pleas。　He　went　through　incredible　extremes　of　humiliation。　He　wept　one　whole　afternoon　in　？rsula’s　lap　and　she　would　have　sold　her　soul　in　order　to　fort　him。　On　rainy　nights　he　could　be　seen　prowling　about　the　house　with　an　umbrella；　waiting　for　a　light　in　Amaranta’s　bedroom。　He　was　never　better　dressed　than　at　that　time。　His　august　head　of　a　tormented　emperor　had　acquired　a　strange　air　of　grandeur。　He　begged　Amaranta’s　friends；　the　ones　who　sewed　with　her　on　the　porch；　to　try　to　persuade　her。　He　neglected　his　business。　He　would　spend　the　day　in　the　rear　of　the　store　writing　wild　notes；　which　he　would　send　to　Amaranta　with　flower　petals　and　dried　butterflies；　and　which　she　would　return　unopened。　He　would　shut　himself　up　for　hours　on　end　to　play　the　zither。　One　night　he　sang。　Macondo　woke　up　in　a　kind　of　angelic　stupor　that　was　caused　by　a　zither　that　deserved　more　than　this　world　and　a　voice　that　led　one　to　believe　that　no　other　person　on　earth　could　feel　such　love。　Pietro　Crespi　then　saw　the　lights　go　on　in　every　window　in　town　except　that　of　Amaranta。　On　November　second；　All　Souls？Day；　his　brother　opened　the　store　and　found　all　the　lamps　lighted；　all　the　music　boxes　opened；　and　all　the　docks　striking　an　interminable　hour；　and　in　the　midst　of　that　mad　concert　he　found　Pietro　Crespi　at　the　desk　in　the　rear　with　his　wrists　cut　by　a　razor　and　his　hands　thrust　into　a　basin　of　benzoin。
　　　？rsula　decreed　that　the　wake　would　be　in　her　house。　Father　Nicanor　was　against　a　religious　ceremony　and　burial　in　consecrated　ground。　？rsula　stood　up　to　him。　“In　a　way　that　neither　you　nor　I　can　understand；　that　man　was　a　saint；？she　said。　“So　I　am　going　to　bury　him；　against　your　wishes；　beside　Melquíades？grave。？She　did　it　with　the　support　of　the　whole　town　and　with　a　magnificent　funeral。　Amaranta　did　not　leave　her　bedroom。　From　her　bed　she　heard　？rsula’s　weeping；　the　steps　and　whispers　of　the　multitude　that　invaded　the　house；　the　wailing　of　the　mourners；　and　then　a　deep　silence　that　smelled　of　trampled　flowers。　For　a　long　time　she　kept　on　smelling　Pietro　Crespi’s　lavender　breath　at　dusk；　but　she　had　the　strength　not　to　succumb　to　delirium。　？rsula　abandoned　her。　She　did　not　even　raise　her　eyes　to　pity　her　on　the　afternoon　when　Amaranta　went　into　the　kitchen　and　put　her　hand　into　the　coals　of　the　stove　until　it　hurt　her　so　much　that　she　felt　no　more　pain　but　instead　smelled　the　pestilence　of　her　own　singed　flesh。　It　was　a　stupid　cure　for　her　remorse。　For　several　days　she　went　about　the　house　with　her　hand　in　a　pot　of　egg　whites；　and　when　the　burns　healed　it　appeared　as　if　the　whites　had　also　scarred　over　the　sores　on　her　heart。　The　only　external　trace　that　the　tragedy　left　was　the　bandage　of　black　gauze　that　she　put　on　her　burned　hand　and　that　she　wore　until　her　death。
　　　Arcadio　gave　a　rare　display　of　generosity　by　decreeing　official　mourning　for　Pietro　Crespi。　？rsula　interpreted　it　as　the　return　of　the　strayed　lamb。　But　she　was　mistaken。　She　had　lost　Arcadio；　not　when　he　had　put　on　his　military　uniform；　but　from　the　beginning。　She　thought　she　had　raised　him　as　a　son；　as　she　had　raised　Rebeca；　with　no　privileges　or　discrimination。　Nevertheless；　Arcadio　was　a　solitary　and　frightened　child　during　the　insomnia　plague；　in　the　midst　of　？rsula’s　utilitarian　fervor；　during　the　delirium　of　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía；　the　hermetism　of　Aureliano；　and　the　mortal　rivalry　between　Amaranta　and　Rebeca。　Aureliano　had　taught　him　to　read　and　write；　thinking　about　other　things；　as　he　would　have　done　with　a　stranger。　He　gave　him　his　clothing　so　that　Visitación　could　take　it　in　when　it　was　ready　to　be　thrown　away。　Arcadio　suffered　from　shoes　that　were　too　large；　from　his　patched　pants；　from　his　female　buttocks。　He　never　succeeded　in　municating　with　anyone　better　than　he　did　with　Visitación　and　Cataure　in　their　language。　Melquíades　was　the　only　one　who　really　was　concerned　with　him　as　he　made　him　listen　to　his　inprehensible　texts　and　gave　him　lessons　in　the　art　of　daguerreotype。　No　one　imagined　how　much　he　wept　in　secret　and　the　desperation　with　which　he　tried　to　revive　Melquíades　with　the　useless　study　of　his　papers。　The　school；　where　they　paid　attention　to　him　and　respected　him；　and　then　power；　with　his　endless　decrees　and　his　glorious　uniform；　freed　him　from　the　weight　of　an　old　bitterness。　One　night　in　Catarino’s　store　someone　dared　tell　him；　“you　don’t　deserve　the　last　name　you　carry。？Contrary　to　what　everyone　expected；　Arcadio　did　not　have　him　shot。
　　　“To　my　great　honor；？he　said；　“I　am　not　a　Buendía。？
　　　Those　who　knew　the　secret　of　his　parentage　thought　that　the　answer　meant　that　he　too　was　aware　of　it；　but　he　had　really　never　been。　Pilar　Ternera；　his　mother；　who　had　made　his　blood　boil　in　the　darkroom；　was　as　much　an　irresistible　obsession　for　him　as　she　had　been　first　for　Jos？Arcadio　and　then　for　Aureliano。　In　spite　of　her　having　lost　her　charms　and　the　splendor　of　her　laugh；　he　sought　her　out　and　found　her　by　the　trail　of　her　smell　of　smoke。　A　short　time　before　the　war；　one　noon　when　she　was　later　than　usual　in　ing　for　her　younger　son　at　school；　Arcadio　was　waiting　for　her　in　the　room　where　he　was　accustomed　to　take　his　siesta　and　where　he　later　set　up　the　stocks。　While　the　child　played　in　the　courtyard；　he　waited　in　his　hammock；　trembling　with　anxiety；　knowing　that　Pillar　Ternera　would　have　to　pass　through　there。　She　arrived。　Arcadio　grabbed　her　by　the　wrist　and　tried　to　pull　her　into　the　hammock。　“I　can’t；　I　can’t；？Pilar　Ternera　said　in　horror。　“You　can’t　imagine　how　much　I　would　like　to　make　you　happy；　but　as　God　is　my　witness　I　can’t。？Arcadio　took　her　by　the　waist　with　his　tremendous　hereditary　strength　and　he　felt　the　world　disappear　with　the　contact　of　her　skin。　“Don’t　play　the　saint；？he　said。　“After　all；　everybody　knows　that　you’re　a　whore。？Pilar　overcame　the　disgust　that　her　miserable　fate　inspired　in　her。
　　　“The　children　will　find　out；？she　murmured。　“It　will　be　better　if　you　leave　the　bar　off　the　door　tonight。？
　　　Arcadio　waited　for　her　that　night　trembling　with　fever　in　his　hammock。　He　waited　without　sleeping；　listening　to　the　aroused　crickets　in　the　endless　hours　of　early　morning　and　the　implacable　telling　of　time　by　the　curlews；　more　and　more　convinced　that　he　had　been　deceived。　Suddenly；　when　anxiety　had　broken　down　into　rage；　the　door　opened。　A　few　months　later；　facing　the　firing　squad；　Arcadio　would　relive　the　wandering　steps　in　the　classroom；　the　stumbling　against　benches；　and　finally　the　bulk　of　a　body　in　the　shadows　of　the　room　and　the　breathing　of　air　that　was　pumped　by　a　heart　that　was　not　his。　He　stretched　out　his　hand　and　found　another　hand　with　two　rings　on　the　same　finger　about　to　go　astray　in　the　darkness。　He　felt　the　structure　of　the　veins；　the　pulse　of　its　misfortune；　and　felt　the　damp　palm　with　a　lifeline　cut　off　at　the　base　of　the　thumb　by　the　claws　of　death。　Then　he　realized　that　this　was　not　the　woman　he　was　waiting　for；　because　she　did　not　smell　of　smoke　but　of　flower　lotion；　and　she　had　inflated；　blind　breasts　with　nipples　like。　a　man’s；　a　sex　as　stony　and　round　as　a　nut；　and　the　chaotic　tenderness　of　excited　inexperience。　She　was　a　virgin　and　she　had　the　unlikely　name　of　Santa　Sofía　de　la　Piedad。　Pilar　Ternera　had　paid　her　fifty　pesos；　half　of　her　life　savings；　to　do　what　she　was　doing。　Arcadio；　had　seen　her　many　times　working　in　her　parents？small　food　store　but　he　had　never　taken　a　good　look　at　her　because　she　had　that　rare　virtue　of　never　existing　pletely　except　at　the　opportune　moment。　But　from　that　day　on　he　huddled　like　a　cat　in　the　warmth　of　her　armpit　She　would　go　to　the　school　at　siesta　time　with　the　consent　of　her　parents；　to　whom　Pilar　Ternera　hid　paid　the　other　half　of　her　savings。　Later　on；　when　the　government　troops　dislodged　them　from　the　place　where　they　had　made　love；　they　did　it　among　the　cans　of　lard　and　sacks　of　corn　in　the　back　of　the　store。　About　the　time　that　Arcadio　was　named　civil　and　military　leader　they　had　a　daughter。
　　　The　only　relatives　who　knew　about