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proprietor was writing tireless prose in purple letters, somewhat outlandish, and on the loose pages
of a school notebook. He had a handsome head of silver hair which fell down over his forehead like
the plume of a cockatoo, and his blue eyes, lively and close-set, revealed the gentleness of a man
who had read all of the books. He was wearing short pants and soaking in perspiration, and he did
not stop his writing to see who had come in. Aureliano had no difficulty in rescuing the five books
that he was looking for from that fabulous disorder, because they were exactly where Melquíades
had told him they would be. Without saying a word he handed them, along with the little gold fish,
to the wise Catalonian and the latter examined them, his eyelids contracting like two clams. 「You
must be mad,」 he said in his own language, shrugging his shoulders, and he handed back to
Aureliano the five books and the little fish.
「You can have them」 he said in Spanish. 「The last man who read these books must have been
Isaac the Blindman, so consider well what you’re doing.」
José Arcadio restored Meme’s bedroom and had the velvet curtains cleaned and mended along
with the damask on the canopy of the viceregal bed, and he put to use once more the abandoned
bathroom where the cement pool was blackened by a fibrous and rough coating. He restricted his
vest-pocket empire of worn, exotic clothing, false perfumes, and cheap jewelry to those places. The
only thing that seemed to worry him in the rest of the house were the saints on the family altar,
which he burned down to ashes one afternoon in a bonfire he lighted in the courtyard. He would
sleep until past eleven o』clock. He would go to the bathroom in a shabby robe with golden dragons
on it and a pair of slippers with yellow tassels, and there he would officiate at a rite which for its care
and length recalled Remedios the Beauty. Before bathing he would perfume the pool with the salts
that he carried in three alabaster flacons. He did not bathe himself with the gourd but would plunge
into the fragrant waters and remain there for two hours floating on his back, lulled by the coolness
and by the memory of Amaranta. A few days after arriving he put aside his taffeta suit, which in
addition to being too hot for the town was the only one that he had, and he exchanged it for some
tight-fitting pants very similar to those worn by Pietro Crespi during his dance lessons and a silk
shirt woven with thread from living caterpillars and with his initials embroidered over the heart.
Twice a week he would wash the complete change in the tub and would wear his robe until it dried
because he had nothing else to put on. He never ate at home. He would go out when the heat of
siesta time had eased and would not return until well into the night. Then he would continue his
anxious pacing, breathing like a cat and thinking about Amaranta. She and the frightful look of the
saints in the glow of the nocturnal lamp were the two memories he retained of the house. Many
times during the hallucinating Roman August he had opened his eyes in the middle of his sleep and
had seen Amaranta rising out of a marble-edged pool with her lace petticoats and the bandage on
her hand, idealized by the anxiety of exile. Unlike Aureliano José who tried to drown that image in
the bloody bog of war, he tried to keep it alive in the sink of concupiscence while he entertained his
mother with the endless fable of his pontifical vocation. It never occurred either to him or to
Fernanda to think that their correspondence was an exchange of fantasies. José Arcadio, who left
the seminary as soon as he reached Rome, continued nourishing the legend of theology and canon
law so as not to jeopardize the fabulous inheritance of which his mother’s delirious letters spoke and
which would rescue him from the misery and sordidness he shared with two friends in a Trastevere
garret. When he received Fernanda’s last letter, dictated by the foreboding of imminent death, he put
the leftovers of his false splendor into a suitcase and crossed the ocean in the hold of a ship where
immigrants were crammed together like cattle in a slaughterhouse, eating cold macaroni and wormy
cheese. Before he read Fernanda’s will, which was nothing but a detailed and tardy recapitulation of
her misfortunes, the broken-down furniture and the weeds on the porch had indicated that he had
178
GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUES ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF SOLITUDE
fallen into a trap from which he would never escape, exiled forever from the diamond light and
timeless air of the Roman spring. During the crushing insomnia brought on by his asthma he would
measure and remeasure the depth of his misfortune as he went through the shadowy house where
the senile fussing of Úrsula had instilled a fear of the world in him. In order to be sure that she
以上為部分近期熱門小說，平臺有近100萬部小說供您閱讀，進入「免費小說全本」公眾號。公眾號菜單欄「進入書城」在「書城首頁」可查找所有小說