百年孤独(英文版)-第9部分

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d　never　seen　them。　In　the　meantime；　through　an　oversight　that　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　never　forgave　himself　for；　the　candy　animals　made　in　the　house　were　still　being　sold　in　the　town。　Children　and　adults　sucked　with　delight　on　the　delicious　little　green　roosters　of　insomnia；　the　exquisite　pink　fish　of　insomnia；　and　the　tender　yellow　ponies　of　insomnia；　so　that　dawn　on　Monday　found　the　whole　town　awake。　No　one　was　alarmed　at　first。　On　the　contrary；　they　were　happy　at　not　sleeping　because　there　was　so　much　to　do　in　Macondo　in　those　days　that　there　was　barely　enough　time。　They　worked　so　hard　that　soon　they　had　nothing　else　to　do　and　they　could　be　found　at　three　o’clock　in　the　morning　with　their　arms　crossed；　counting　the　notes　in　the　waltz　of　the　clock。　Those　who　wanted　to　sleep；　not　from　fatigue　but　because　of　the　nostalgia　for　dreams；　tried　all　kinds　of　methods　of　exhausting　themselves。　They　would　gather　together　to　converse　endlessly；　to　tell　over　and　over　for　hours　on　end　the　same　jokes；　to　plicate　to　the　limits　of　exasperation　the　story　about　the　capon；　which　was　an　endless　game　in　which　the　narrator　asked　if　they　wanted　him　to　tell　them　the　story　about　the　capon；　and　when　they　answered　yes；　the　narrator　would　say　that　he　had　not　asked　them　to　say　yes；　but　whether　they　wanted　him　to　tell　them　the　story　about　the　capon；　and　when　they　answered　no；　the　narrator　told　them　that　he　had　not　asked　them　to　say　no；　but　whether　they　wanted　him　to　tell　them　the　story　about　the　capon；　and　when　they　remained　silent　the　narrator　told　them　that　he　had　not　asked　them　to　remain　silent　but　whether　they　wanted　him　to　tell　them　the　story　about　the　capon；　and　no　one　could　leave　because　the　narrator　would　say　that　he　had　not　asked　them　to　leave　but　whether　they　wanted　him　to　tell　them　the　story　about　the　capon；　and　so　on　and　on　in　a　vicious　circle　that　lasted　entire　nights。
　　　When　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　realized　that　the　plague　had　invaded　the　town；　he　gathered　together　the　heads　of　families　to　explain　to　them　what　he　knew　about　the　sickness　of　insomnia；　and　they　agreed　on　methods　to　prevent　the　scourge　from　spreading　to　other　towns　in　the　swamp。　That　was　why　they　took　the　bells　off　the　goats；　bells　that　the　Arabs　had　sped　them　for　macaws；　and　put　them　at　the　entrance　to　town　at　the　disposal　of　those　who　would　not　listen　to　the　advice　and　entreaties　of　the　sentinels　and　insisted　on　visiting　the　town。　All　strangers　who　passed　through　the　streets　of　Macondo　at　that　time　had　to　ring　their　bells　so　that　the　sick　people　would　know　that　they　were　healthy。　They　were　not　allowed　to　eat　or　drink　anything　during　their　stay；　for　there　was　no　doubt　but　that　the　illness　was　transmitted　by　mouth；　and　all　food　and　drink　had　been　contaminated　by　insomnia。　In　that　way　they　kept　the　plague　restricted　to　the　perimeter　of　the　town。　So　effective　was　the　quarantine　that　the　day　came　when　the　emergency　situation　was　accepted　as　a　natural　thing　and　life　was　organized　in　such　a　way　that　work　picked　up　its　rhythm　again　and　no　one　worried　any　more　about　the　useless　habit　of　sleeping。
　　　It　was　Aureliano　who　conceived　the　formula　that　was　to　protect　them　against　loss　of　memory　for　several　months。　He　discovered　it　by　chance。　An　expert　insomniac；　having　been　one　of　the　first；　he　had　learned　the　art　of　silverwork　to　perfection。　One　day　he　was　looking　for　the　small　anvil　that　he　used　for　laminating　metals　and　he　could　not　remember　its　name。　His　father　told　him：　“Stake。？Aureliano　wrote　the　name　on　a　piece　of　paper　that　he　pasted　to　the　base　of　the　small　anvil：　stake。　In　that　way　he　was　sure　of　not　forgetting　it　in　the　future。　It　did　not　occur　to　him　that　this　was　the　first　manifestation　of　a　loss　of　memory；　because　the　object　had　a　difficult　name　to　remember。　But　a　few　days　later　be；　discovered　that　he　had　trouble　remembering　almost　every　object　in　the　laboratory。　Then　he　marked　them　with　their　respective　names　so　that　all　he　had　to　do　was　read　the　inscription　in　order　to　identify　them。　When　his　father　told　him　about　his　alarm　at　having　forgotten　even　the　most　impressive　happenings　of　his　childhood；　Aureliano　explained　his　method　to　him；　and　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　put　it　into　practice　all　through　the　house　and　later　on　imposed　it　on　the　whole　village。　With　an　inked　brush　he　marked　everything　with　its　name：　table；　chair；　clock；　door；　wall；　bed；　pan。　He　went　to　the　corral　and　marked　the　animals　and　plants：　cow；　goat；　pig；　hen；　cassava；　caladium；　banana。　Little　by　little；　studying　the　infinite　possibilities　of　a　loss　of　memory；　he　realized　that　the　day　might　e　when　things　would　be　recognized　by　their　inscriptions　but　that　no　one　would　remember　their　use。　Then　he　was　more　explicit。　The　sign　that　he　hung　on　the　neck　of　the　cow　was　an　exemplary　proof　of　the　way　in　which　the　inhabitants　of　Macondo　were　prepared　to　fight　against　loss　of　memory：　This　is　the　cow。　She　must　be　milked　every　morning　so　that　she　will　produce　milk；　and　the　milk　must　be　boiled　in　order　to　be　mixed　with　coffee　to　make　coffee　and　milk。　Thus　they　went　on　living　in　a　reality　that　was　slipping　away；　momentarily　captured　by　words；　but　which　would　escape　irremediably　when　they　forgot　the　values　of　the　written　letters。
　　　At　the　beginning　of　the　road　into　the　swamp　they　put　up　a　sign　that　said　MACONDO　and　another　larger　one　on　the　main　street　that　said　GOD　EXISTS。　In　all　the　houses　keys　to　memorizing　objects　and　feelings　had　been　written。　But　the　system　demanded　so　much　vigilance　and　moral　strength　that　many　succumbed　to　the　spell　of　an　imaginary　reality；　one　invented　by　themselves；　which　was　less　practical　for　them　but　more　forting。　Pilar　Ternera　was　the　one　who　contributed　most　to　popularize　that　mystification　when　she　conceived　the　trick　of　reading　the　past　in　cards　as　she　had　read　the　future　before。　By　means　of　that　recourse　the　insomniacs　began　to　live　in　a　world　built　on　the　uncertain　alternatives　of　the　cards；　where　a　father　was　remembered　faintly　as　the　dark　man　who　had　arrived　at　the　beginning　of　April　and　a　mother　was　remembered　only　as　the　dark　woman　who　wore　a　gold　ring　on　her　left　hand；　and　where　a　birth　date　was　reduced　to　the　last　Tuesday　on　which　a　lark　sang　in　the　laurel　tree。　Defeated　by　those　practices　of　consolation；　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　then　decided　to　build　the　memory　machine　that　he　had　desired　once　in　order　to　remember　the　marvelous　inventions　of　the　gypsies。　The　artifact　was　based　on　the　possibility　of　reviewing　every　morning；　from　beginning　to　end；　the　totality　of　knowledge　acquired　during　one’s　life。　He　conceived　of　it　as　a　spinning　dictionary　that　a　person　placed　on　the　axis　could　operate　by　means　of　a　lever；　so　that　in　a　very　few　hours　there　would　pass　before　his　eyes　the　notions　most　necessary　for　life。　He　had　succeeded　in　writing　almost　fourteen　thousand　entries　when　along　the　road　from　the　swamp　a　strange…looking　old　man　with　the　sad　sleepers？bell　appeared；　carrying　a　bulging　suitcase　tied　with　a　rope　and　pulling　a　cart　covered　with　black　cloth。　He　went　straight　to　the　house　of　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía。
　　　Visitación　did　not　recognize　him　when　she　opened　the　door　and　she　thought　he　had　e　with　the　idea　of　selling　something；　unaware　that　nothing　could　be　sold　in　a　town　that　was　sinking　irrevocably　into　the　quicksand　of　forgetfulness。　He　was　a　decrepit　man。　Although　his　voice　was　also　broken　by　uncertainty　and　his　hands　seemed　to　doubt　the　existence　of　things；　it　was　evident　that　he　came　from　the　world　where　men　could　still　sleep　and　remember。　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　found　him　sitting　in　the　living　room　fanning　himself　with　a　patched　black　hat　as　he　read　with　passionate　attention　the　signs　pasted　to　the　walls。　He　greeted　him　with　a　broad　show　of　affection；　afraid　that　he　had　known　him　at　another　time　and　that　he　did　not　remember　him　now。　But　the　visitor　was　aware　of　his　falseness；　He　felt　himself　forgotten；　not　with　the　irremediable　forgetfulness　of　the　heart；　but　with　a　different　kind　of　forgetfulness；　which　was　more　cruel　and　irrevocable　and　which　he　knew　very　well　because　it　was　the　forgetfulness　of　death。　Then　he　understood。　He　opened　the　suitcase　crammed　with　indecipherable　objects　and　from　among　then　he　took　out　a　little　case　with　many　flasks。　He　gave　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　a　drink　of　a　gentle　color　and　the　light　went　on　in　his　memory。　His　eyes　became　moist　from　weeping　even　before　he　noticed　himself　in　an　absurd　living　room　where　objects　were　labeled　and　before　he　was　ashamed　of　the　solemn　nonsense　written　on　the　walls；　and　even　before　he　recognized　the　newer　with　a　dazzling　glow　of　joy。　It　was　Melquíades。
　　　While　Macondo　was　celebrating　the　recovery　of　its　memory；　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　and　Melquíades　dusted　off　their　old　friendship。　The　gypsy　was　inclined　to　stay　in　the　town。　He　really　had　been　through　death；　but　he　had　returned　because　he　could　not　bear　the　solitude。　Repudiated　by　his　tribe；　having　lost　all　of　his　supernatural　faculties　because　of　his　faithfulness　to　life；　he　decided　to　take　refuge　in　that　corner　of　the　world　which　had　still　not　been　discovered　by　death；　dedicated　to　the　operation　of　a　daguerreotype　laboratory。　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　had　never　heard　of　that　invention。　But　when　he　saw　himself　and　his　whole　family　fastened　onto　a　sheet　of　iridescent　metal　for　an　eternity；　he　was　mute　with　stupefaction。　That　was　the　date　of　the　oxidized　daguerreotype　in　which　Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　appeared　with　his　bristly　and　graying　hair；　his　card　board　collar　attached　to　his　shirt　by　a　copper　button；　and　an　expression　of　startled　solemnity；　whom　？rsula　described；　dying　with　laughter；　as　a　“frightened　general。？Jos？Arcadio　Buendía　was；　in　fact；　frightened　on　that　dear　December　morning　when　the　daguerreotype　was　made；　for　he　was　thinking　that　people　were　slowly　wearing　away　while　his　image　would　endure　an　a　metallic　plaque。　Through　a　curious　reversal　of　custom；　it　was　？rsula　who　got　that　idea　out　of　his　head；　as　it　was　also　she　who　forgot　her　ancient　bitterness　and　decided　that　Melquíades　would　stay　on　in　the　house；　although　she　never　permitted　them　to　make　a　daguerreotype　of　her　because　（according　to　her　very　words）　she　did　not　want　to　survive　as　a　laughingstock　for　her　grandchildren。　That　morning　she　dressed　the　children　in　their　best　clothes；　powdered　their　faces；　and　gave　a　spoonful　of　marrow　syrup　to　each　one　so　that　they　would　all　remain　absolutely　motionless　during　the　nearly　two　minutes　in　front　of　Melquíades　fantastic　camera。　In　the　family　daguerreotype；　the　only　one　that　ever　existed；　Aureliano　appeared　dressed　in　black　velvet　between　Amaranta　and　Rebeca。　He　had　the　same　languor　and　the　same　clairvoyant　look　that　he　would　have　years　later　as　he　faced　the　firing　squad。　But　he　still　had　not　sensed　the　premonition　of　his　fate。　He　was　an　expert　silversmith；　praised　all　over　the　swampland　for　the　delicacy　of　his　work。　In　the　workshop；　which　he　shared　with　Melquíades？mad　laboratory；　he　could　barely　be　heard　breathing。　He　seemed　to　be　taking　refuge　in　some　other　time；　while　his　father　and　the　gypsy　with　shouts　interpreted　the　predictions　of　Nostradamus　amidst　a　noise　of　flasks　and　trays　and　the　disaster　of　spilled　acids　and　silver　bromide　that　was　lost　in　the　twists　and　turns　it　gave　at　every　instant。　That　dedication　to　his　work；　the　good　judgment　with　which　he　directed　his　attention；　had　allowed　Aurelian