百年孤独(英文版)-第89部分
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self 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 it were Jos？Arcadio and Rebeca； with whom Arcadio maintained close relations at that time； based not so much on kinship as on plicity。 Jos？Arcadio had put his neck into the marital yoke。 Rebeca’s firm character； the voracity of her stomach； her tenacious ambition absorbed the tremendous energy of her husband； who had been changed from a lazy； woman…chasing man into an enormous work animal。 They kept a clean and neat house。 Rebeca would open it wide at dawn and the wind from the graveyard would e in through the windows and go out through the doors to the yard and leave the whitewashed walls and furniture tanned by the saltpeter of the dead。 Her hunger for earth； the cloc…cloc of her parents？bones； the impatience of her blood as it faced Pietro Crespi’s passivity were relegated to the attic of her memory。 All day long she would embroider beside the window； withdrawn from the uneasiness of the war； until the ceramic pots would begin
