百年孤独(英文版)-第74部分

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us　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　Aureliano　to　earn　in　a　short　time　more　money　than　？rsula　had　with　her　delicious　candy　fauna；　but　everybody　thought　it　strange　that　he　was　now　a　full…grown　man　and　had　not　known　a　woman。　It　was　true　that　he　had　never　had　one。
　　　Several　months　later　saw　the　return　of　Francisco　the　Man；　as　ancient　vagabond　who　was　almost　two　hundred　years　old　and　who　frequently　passed　through　Macondo　distributing　songs　that　he　posed　himself。　In　them　Francisco　the　Man　told　in　great　detail　the　things　that　had　happened　in　the　towns　along　his　route；　from　Manaure　to　the　edge　of　the　swamp；　so　that　if　anyone　had　a　message　to　send　or　an　event　to　make　public；　he　would　pay　him　two　cents　to　include　it　in　his　repertory。　That　was　how　？rsula　learned　of　the　death　of　her　mother；　as　a　simple　consequence　of　listening　to　the　songs　in　the　hope　that　they　would　say　something　about　her　son　Jos？Arcadio。　Francisco　the　Man；　called　that　because　he　had　once　defeated　the　devil　in　a　duel　of　improvisation；　and　whose　real　name　no　one　knew；　disappeared　from　Macondo　during　the　insomnia　plague　and　one　night　he　appeared　suddenly　in　Catarino’s　store。　The　whole　town　went　to　listen　to　him　to　find　out　what　had　happened　in　the　world。　On　that　occasion　there　arrived　with　him　a　woman　who　was　so　fat　that　four　Indians　had　to　carry　her　in　a　rocking　chair；　and　an　adolescent　mulatto　girl　with　a　forlorn　look　who　protected　her　from　the　sun　with　an　umbrella。　Aureliano　went　to　Catarino’s　store　that　night。　He　found　Francisco　the　Man；　like　a　monolithic　chameleon；　sitting　in　the　midst　of　a　circle　of　bystanders。　He　was　singing　the　news　with　his　old；　out…of…tune　voice；　acpanying　himself　with　the　same　archaic　accordion　that　Sir　Walter　Raleigh　had　given　him　in　the　Guianas　and　keeping　time　with　his　great　walking　feet　that　were　cracked　from　saltpeter。　In　front　of　a　door　at　the　rear　through　which　men　were　going　and　ing；　the　matron　of　the　rocking　chair　was　sitting　and　fanning　herself　in　silence。　Catarino；　with　a　felt　rose