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【分类】双语小说
-[作者: 加夫列尔-加西亚-马尔克斯]
阅读：[3719]
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皮拉·苔列娜的儿子出世以后两个星期，祖父和祖母把他接到了家里。乌苏娜是勉强收留这小孩儿的，因为她又没拗过丈大的固执脾气；想让布恩蒂亚家的后代听天由命，是他不能容忍的。但她提出了个条件：决不让孩子知道自己的真正出身。孩子也取名霍·阿卡蒂奥，可是为了避免混淆不清，大家渐渐地只管他叫阿卡蒂奥了。这时，马孔多事业兴旺，布恩蒂亚家中一片忙碌，孩子们的照顾就降到了次要地位，负责照拂他们的是古阿吉洛部族的一个印第安女人，她是和弟弟一块儿来到马孔多的，借以逃避他们家乡已经猖獗几年的致命传染病——失眠症。姐弟俩都是驯良、勤劳的人，乌苏娜雇用他们帮她做些家务。所以，阿卡蒂奥和阿玛兰塔首先说的是古阿吉洛语，然后才说西班牙语，而且学会喝晰蜴汤、吃蜘蛛蛋，可是乌苏娜根本没有发现这一点，因她制作获利不小的糖鸟糖兽太忙了。马孔多完全改变了面貌。乌苏娜带到这儿来的那些人，到处宣扬马孔多地理位置很好、周围土地肥沃，以致这个小小的村庄很快变戍了一个热闹的市镇，开设了商店和手工业作坊，修筑了永久的商道，第一批阿拉伯人沿着这条道路来到了这儿，他们穿着宽大的裤子，戴着耳环，用玻璃珠项链交换鹦鹉。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚没有一分钟的休息。他对周围的现实生活入了迷，觉得这种生活比他想象的大于世界奇妙得多，于是失去了对炼金试验的任何兴趣，把月复一月变来变去的东西搁在一边，重新成了一个有事业心的、精力充沛的人了，从前，在哪儿铺设街道，在哪儿建筑新的房舍，都是由他决定的，他不让任何人享有别人没有的特权。新来的居民也十分尊敬他，甚至请他划分土地。没有征得他的同意，就不放下一块基石，也不砌上一道墙垣。玩杂技的吉卜赛人回来的时候，他们的活动游艺场现在变成了一个大赌场，受到热烈的欢迎。因为大家都希望霍·阿卡蒂奥也跟他们一块儿回来。但是霍·阿卡蒂奥并没有回来，那个“蛇人”也没有跟他们在一起，照乌苏娜看来，那个“蛇人是唯”一知道能在哪儿找到她的儿子的；因此，他们不让吉卜赛人在马孔多停留，甚至不准他们以后再来这儿：现在他们已经认为吉卜赛人是贪婪佚的化身了。然而霍·阿·布恩蒂亚却认为，古老的梅尔加德斯部族用它多年的知识和奇异的发明大大促进了马孔多的发展，这里的人永远都会张开双臂欢迎他们。可是，照流浪汉们的说法，梅尔加德斯部族已从地面上消失了，因为他们竟敢超越人类知识的限度。
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霍·阿·布恩蒂亚至少暂时摆脱了幻想的折磨以后，在短时期内就有条不紊地整顿好了全镇的劳动生活；平静的空气是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚有一次自己破坏的，当时他放走了马孔多建立之初用响亮的叫声报告时刻的鸟儿，而给每一座房子安了一个音乐钟。这些雕木作成的漂亮的钟，是用鹦鹉向阿拉伯人换来的，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚把它们拨得挺准，每过半小时，它们就奏出同一支华尔兹舞曲的几节曲于让全镇高兴一次，——每一次都是几节新的曲于，到了晌午时分，所有的钟一齐奏出整支华尔兹舞曲，一点几也不走调。在街上栽种杏树，代替槐树，也是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的主意，而且他还发明了一种使这些杏树永远活着的办法（这个办法他至死没有透露）。过了多年，马孔多建筑了一座座锌顶木房的时候，在它最老的街道上仍然挺立着一棵棵杏树，树枝折断，布满尘埃，但谁也记不得这些树是什么人栽的了。
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父亲大力整顿这个市镇，母亲却在振兴家业，制作美妙的糖公鸡和糖鱼，把它们插在巴里萨木棍儿上，每天两次拿到街上去卖，这时，奥雷连诺却在荒弃的试验室里度过漫长的时刻，孜孜不倦地掌握首饰技术。他已经长得挺高，哥哥留下的衣服很快不合他的身材了，他就改穿父亲的衣服，诚然，维希塔香不得不替他把衬衫和裤子改窄一些，因为奥雷连诺比父亲和哥哥都瘦。
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进入少年时期，他的嗓音粗了，他也变得沉默寡言、异常孤僻，但是他的眼睛又经常露出紧张的神色，这种神色在他出生的那一天是使他母亲吃了一惊的。奥雷连诺聚精会神地从事首饰工作，除了吃饭，几乎不到试验室外面去。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚对他的孤僻感到不安，就把房门的钥匙和一点儿钱给了他，以为儿子可能需要出去找找女人。奥雷连诺却拿钱买了盐酸，制成了王水，给钥匙镀了金。可是，奥雷连诺的古怪比不上阿卡蒂奥和阿玛兰塔的古怪。--这两个小家伙的乳齿开始脱落，仍然成天跟在印第安人脚边，揪住他们的衣服下摆，硬要说古阿吉洛语，不说西班牙语。”你怨不了别人，”乌苏娜向大夫说。“孩子的狂劲儿是父母遗传的，”他认为后代的怪诞习惯一点也不比猪尾巴好，就开始抱怨自己倒霉的命运，可是有一次奥色连诺突然拿眼睛盯着她，把她弄得手足无措起来。
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“有人就要来咱们这儿啦，”他说。
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象往常一样，儿子预言什么事情，她就用家庭主妇的逻辑破除他的预言。有人到这儿来，那没有什么特别嘛。每天都有几十个外地人经过马孔多，可这并没有叫人操心，他们来到这儿，并不需要预言。然而，奥雷连诺不顾一切逻辑，相信自己的预言。
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“我不知道来的人是谁，”他坚持说，“可这个人已在路上啦。”
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的确，星期天来了个雷贝卡。她顶多只有十一岁，是跟一些皮货商从马诺尔村来的，经历了艰苦的旅程，这些皮货商受托将这个姑娘连同一封信送到霍·阿·布恩蒂亚家里，但要求他们帮忙的人究竟是推，他们就说不清楚了。这姑娘的全部行李是一只小衣箱、一把画着鲜艳花朵的木制小摇椅以及一个帆布袋；袋子里老是发出“咔嚓、咔嚓、咔嚓”的响声--那儿装的是她父母的骸骨。捎绘霍·间·布恩蒂亚的信是某人用特别亲切的口吻写成的，这人说，尽管时间过久，距离颇远，他还是热爱霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的，觉得自己应当根据基本的人道精神做这件善事--把孤苦伶何的小姑娘送到霍·阿·布恩蒂亚这儿来；这小姑娘是乌苏娜的表侄女，也就是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的亲戚，虽是远房的亲戚；因为她是他难忘的朋友尼康诺尔·乌洛阿和他可敬的妻子雷贝卡·蒙蒂埃尔的亲女儿，他们已去天国，现由这小姑娘把他们的骸骨带去，希望能照基督教的礼仪把它们埋掉。以上两个名字和信未的签名都写得十分清楚，可是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚和乌苏娜都记不得这样的亲戚，也记不起人遥远的马诺尔村捎信来的这个熟人了。从小姑娘身上了解更多的情况是完全不可能的。她一走进屋子，马上坐在自己的摇椅里，开始咂吮指头，两只惊骇的大眼睛望着大家，根本不明白人家问她什么。她穿着染成黑色的斜纹布旧衣服和裂开的漆皮鞋。扎在耳朵后面的两络头发，是用黑蝴蝶系住的。脖子上挂着一只香袋，香袋上有一个汗水弄污的圣像，而右腕上是个铜链条，链条上有一个猛兽的獠牙--防止毒眼的小玩意。她那有点发绿的皮肤和胀鼓鼓、紧绷绷的肚子，证明她健康不佳和经常挨饿，但别人给她拿来吃的，她却一动不动地继续坐着，甚至没有摸一摸放在膝上的盘子。大家已经认为她是个聋哑姑娘，可是印第安人用自己的语言问她想不想喝水，她马上转动眼珠，仿佛认出了他们，肯定地点了点头。
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他们收留了她，因为没有其他办法。他们决定按照信上对她母亲的称呼，也管她叫雷贝卡，因为奥雷连诺虽然不厌其烦地在她面前提到一切圣徒的名字，但她对任何一个名字都无反应。当时马孔多没有墓地，因为还没死过一个人，装着骸骨的袋于就藏了起来，等到有了合适的地方再埋葬，所以长时间里，这袋子总是东藏西放，塞在难以发现的地方，可是经常发出“咔嚓、咔嚓、咔嚓”的响声，就象下蛋的母鸡咯咯直叫。过了很久雷贝卡才跟这家人的生活协调起来。起初她有个习惯：在僻静的屋角里，坐在摇椅上咂吮指头。任何东西都没引起她的注意，不过，每过半小时响起钟声的时候，她都惊骇地四面张望，仿佛想在空中发现这种声音似的。好多天都无法叫她吃饭。谁也不明白她为什么没有饿死，直到熟悉一切的印第安人发现（因为他们在屋子里用无声的脚步不断地来回走动）雷贝卡喜欢吃的只是院子里的泥土和她用指甲从墙上刨下的一块块石灰。显然，由于这个恶劣的习惯，父母或者养育她的人惩罚过她，泥上和石灰她都是偷吃的，她知道不对，而且尽量留存一些，无人在旁时可以自由自在地饱餐一顿。从此，他们对雷贝卡进行了严密的监视，给院子里的泥土浇上牛胆，给房屋的墙壁抹上辛辣的印第安胡椒，恕用这种办法革除姑娘的恶习，但她为了弄到这类吃的，表现了那样的机智和发明才干，使得乌苏娜不得不采取最有效的措施。她把盛着橙子汁和大黄的锅子整夜放在露天里，次日早饭之前拿这种草药给雷贝卡喝。虽然谁也不会建议乌苏娜拿这种混合药剂来治疗不良的泥土嗜好，她还是认为任何苦涩的液体进了空肚子，都会在肝脏里引起反应。雷贝卡尽管样子瘦弱，却十分倔强：要她吃药，就得把她象小牛一样缚住，因为她拼命挣扎，乱抓、乱咬、乱哗，大声叫嚷，今人莫名其妙，据印第安人说，她在骂人，这是古阿吉洛语中最粗鲁的骂人活。乌苏娜知道了这一点，就用鞭挞加强治疗。所以从来无法断定，究竟什么取得了成效--大黄呢，鞭子呢，或者二者一起；大家知道的只有一点，过了几个星期，雷贝卡开始出现康复的征象。现在，她跟阿卡蒂奥和阿玛兰塔一块儿玩耍了，她们拿她当做姐姐；她吃饭有味了，会用刀叉了。随后发现，她说西班牙语象印第安语一样流利，她很能做针线活，还会用自编的可爱歌词照自鸣钟的华尔兹舞曲歌唱。很快，她就似乎成了一个新的家庭成员，她比亲生子女对乌苏娜还亲热；她把阿玛兰塔叫做妹妹，把阿卡蒂奥叫做弟弟，把奥雷连诺称做叔叔，把霍·阿，布恩蒂亚称做伯伯。这么一来，她和其他的人一样就有权叫做雷贝卡·布恩蒂亚了，--这是她唯一的名字，至死都体面地叫这个名字。
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雷贝卡摆脱了恶劣的泥土嗜好，移居阿玛兰塔和阿卡蒂奥的房间之后，有一天夜里，跟孩子们在一起的印第安女人偶然醒来，听到犄角里断续地发出一种古怪的声音。她吃惊地从床上一跃而起，担心什么牲畜钻进了屋子，接着便看见雷贝卡坐在摇椅里，把一个指头塞在嘴里；在黑暗中，她的两只眼睛象猫的眼睛一样闪亮。维希塔香吓得发呆，在姑娘的眼睛里，她发现了某种疾病的征状，这种疾病的威胁曾使她和弟弟永远离开了那个古老的王国，他俩还是那儿的王位继承人咧。这儿也出现了失眠症。
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还没等到天亮，印第安人卡塔乌尔就离开了马孔多。他的姐姐却留了下来，因为宿命论的想法暗示她，致命的疾病反正会跟着她的，不管她逃到多远的地方。然而，谁也不了解维希塔香的不安。“咱们永远不可睡觉吗？那就更好啦，”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚满意他说。“咱们可从生活中得到更多的东西。”可是印第安女人说明：患了这种失眠症，最可怕的不是睡不着觉，因为身体不会感到疲乏；最糟糕的是失眠症必然演变成健忘症。她的意思是说，病人经常处于失眠状态，开头会忘掉童年时代的事儿，然后会忘记东西的名称和用途，最后再也认不得别人，甚至意识不到自己的存在，失去了跟往日的一切联系，陷入一种白痴似的状态。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚哈哈大笑，差点儿没有笑死，他得出结论说，迷信的印第安人捏造了无数的疾病，这就是其中的一种。可是为了预防万一，谨慎的乌苏娜就让雷贝卡跟其他的孩子隔离了。
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过了几个星期，维希塔香的恐惧过去之后，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚夜间突然发现自己在床上翻来复去合不上眼。乌苏娜也没睡着，问他是怎么回事，他回答说：“我又在想普鲁登希奥啦。”他俩一分钟也没睡着，可是早上起来却是精神饱满的，立即忘了恶劣的夜晚。吃早饭时，奥雷连诺惊异地说，他虽在试验室星呆了整整一夜，可是感到自己精神挺好，--他是在试验室里给一枚胸针镀金，打算把它当做生日礼物送给乌苏娜。然而，谁也没有重视这些怪事，直到两天以后，大家仍在床上合不了眼，才知道自己已经五十多个小时没有睡觉了。
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“孩子们也没睡着。这种疫病既然进了这座房子，谁也逃避不了啦，”印第安女人仍用宿命论的口吻说。
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的确，全家的人都息了失眠症，乌苏娜曾从母亲那儿得到一些草药知识，就用乌头熬成汤剂，给全家的人喝了，可是大家仍然不能成眠，而且白天站着也做梦。处在这种半睡半醒的古怪状态中，他们不仅看到自己梦中的形象，而且看到别人梦中的形象。仿佛整座房子都挤满了客人。雷贝卡坐在厨房犄角里的摇椅上，梦见一个很象她的人，这人穿着白色亚麻布衣服，衬衫领子上有一颗金色钮扣，献给她一柬玫瑰花。他的身边站着一个双手细嫩的女人，她拿出一朵玫瑰花来，佩戴在雷贝卡的头发上，乌苏娜明白，这男人和女人是姑娘的父母，可是不管怎样竭力辨认，也不认识他们，终于相信以前是从来没有见过他们的。同时，由于注意不够（这是霍· 阿·布恩蒂亚不能原谅自己的），家里制作的糖动物照旧拿到镇上去卖。大人和孩子都快活地吮着有味的绿色公鸡、漂亮的粉红色小鱼、最甜的黄色马儿。这些糖动物似乎也是患了失眠症的。星期一天亮以后，全城的人已经不睡觉了。起初，谁也不担心。许多的人甚至高兴，--因为当时马孔多百业待兴，时间不够。人们那么勤奋地工作，在短时间内就把一切都做完了，现在早晨三点就双臂交叉地坐着，计算自鸣钟的华尔兹舞曲有多少段曲调。想睡的人--井非由于疲乏，而是渴望做梦 --采取各种办法把自己弄得精疲力尽，他们聚在一起，不住地絮絮叨叨，一连几小时把同样的奇闻说了又说，大讲特讲白色阉鸡的故事。一直把故事搞得复杂到了极点。这是一种没完没了的玩耍--讲故事的人问其余的人，他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事，如果他们回答他“是的”，他就说他要求回答的不是“是的”，而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事；如果他们回答说“不”，他就说他要求回答的不是“不”，而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事；如果大家沉默不语，他就说他要求的不是沉默不语，而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事，而且谁也不能走开，因为他说他没有要求他们走开，而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事。就这样，一圈一圈的人，整夜整夜说个没完。
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霍·阿·布恩蒂亚知道传染病遍及整个市镇，就把家长们召集起来，告诉他们有关这种失眠症的常识，并且设法防止这种疾病向邻近的城乡蔓延。于是，大家从一只只山羊身上取下了铃铛--用鹦鹉向阿拉伯人换来的铃铛，把它们挂在马孔多人口的地方，供给那些不听岗哨劝阻、硬要进镇的人使用。凡是这时经过马孔多街道的外来人都得摇摇铃铛，让失眠症患者知道来人是健康的。他们在镇上停留的时候，不准吃喝，因为毫无疑问，病从口人嘛，而马孔多的一切食物和饮料都染上了失眠症，采取这些办法，他们就把这种传染病限制在市镇范围之内了。隔离是严格遵守的，大家逐渐习惯了紧急状态。生活重新上了轨道，工作照常进行，谁也不再担心失去了无益的睡眠习惯。
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在几个月中帮助大家跟隐忘症进行斗争的办法，是奥雷连诺发明的。他发现这种办法也很偶然。奥雷连诺是个富有经验的病人--因为他是失眠症的第一批患者之一 --完全掌握了首饰技术。有一次，他需要一个平常用来捶平金属的小铁砧，可是记不起它叫什么了。父亲提醒他：“铁砧。”奥雷连诺就把这个名字记在小纸片上，贴在铁砧底儿上。现在，他相信再也不会忘记这个名字了。可他没有想到，这件事儿只是健忘症的第一个表现。过了几天他已觉得，他费了大劲才记起试验室内几乎所有东西的名称。于是，他给每样东西都贴上标签，现在只要一看签条上的字儿，就能确定这是什么东西了。不安的父亲叫苦连天，说他忘了童年时代甚至印象最深的事儿，奥雷连诺就把自己的办法告诉他，于是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚首先在自己家里加以采用，然府在全镇推广。他用小刷子蘸了墨水，给房里的每件东西都写上名称：“桌”、“钟”、“们”、“墙”、“床”、“锅”。然后到畜栏和田地里去，也给牲畜、家禽和植物标上名字：“牛”、“山羊”、“猪”、“鸡”、“木薯”、“香蕉”。人们研究各种健忘的事物时逐渐明白，他们即使根据签条记起了东西的名称，有朝一日也会想不起它的用途。随后，他们就把签条搞得很复杂了。一头乳牛脖子上挂的牌子，清楚他说明马孔多居民是如何跟健忘症作斗争的：“这是一头乳牛。每天早晨挤奶，就可得到牛奶，把牛奶煮沸，掺上咖啡，就可得牛奶咖啡。”就这样，他们生活在经常滑过的现实中，借助字儿能把现实暂时抓住，可是一旦忘了字儿的意义，现实也就难免忘诸脑后了。
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市镇入口的地方挂了一块脾子：“马孔多”，中心大街上挂了另一块较大的牌子：““上帝存在”。所有的房屋都画上了各种符号，让人记起各种东西。然而，这一套办法需要密切的注意力，还要耗费很在的精神，所以许多人就陷入自己的幻想世界，－－这对他们是不太实际的，却是更有安慰的。推广这种自欺的办法，最起劲的是皮拉·苔列娜，她想出一种用纸牌测知过去的把戏，就象她以前用纸牌预卜未来一样。由于她那些巧妙的谎言，失眠的马孔多居民就处于纸牌推测的世界，这些推测含糊不清，互相矛盾，面在这个世界中，只能模糊地想起你的父亲是个黑发男人，是四月初来到这儿的；母亲是个黝黑的女人，左手戴着一枚金戒指，你出生的日期是某月的最后一个星期二，那一天百灵鸟在月桂树上歌唱。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚被这种安慰的办法击败了，他为了对抗，决定造出一种记忆机器，此种机器是他以前打算制造出来记住吉卜赛人的一切奇异发明的，机器的作用原理就是每天重复在生活中获得的全部知识。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚把这种机械设想成一本旋转的字典，人呆在旋转轴上，利用把手操纵字典，--这样，生活所需的一切知识短时间内就在眼前经过，他已写好了几乎一万四千张条目卡，这时，从沼泽地带伸来的路上，出现一个样子古怪的老人儿，摇着悲哀的铃铛，拎着一只绳子系住的、胀鼓鼓的箱子，拉着一辆用黑布遮住的小车子。他径直朝霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的房子走来。
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维希塔香给老头儿开了门，却不认得他，把他当成一个商人，老头儿还没听说这个市镇绝望地陷进了健忘症的漩涡，不知道在这儿是卖不出什么东西的。这是一个老朽的人。尽管他的嗓音犹豫地发颤，双乎摸摸索索的，但他显然是从另一个世界来的，那里的人既能睡觉，又能记忆。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚出来接见老头儿的时候，老头儿正坐在客厅里，拿破旧的黑帽子扇着，露出同情的样儿，注意地念了念贴在墙上的字条。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚非常恭敬地接待他，担心自己从前认识这个人，现在却把他给忘了。然而客人识破了他的佯装，感到自己被他忘却了，--他知道这不是心中暂时的忘却，而是另一种更加冷酷的、彻底的忘却，也就是死的忘却。接着，他一切都明白了。他打开那只塞满了不知什么东西的箱子，从中掏出一个放着许多小瓶子的小盒子。他把一小瓶颜色可爱的药水递给房主人，房主人把它喝了，马上恍然大悟。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚两眼噙满悲哀的泪水，然后才看出自己是在荒谬可笑的房间里，这儿的一切东西都贴上了字条；他羞愧地看了看墙上一本正经的蠢话，最后才兴高采烈地认出客人就是梅尔加德斯。
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马孔多庆祝记忆复原的时候，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚和梅尔加德斯恢复了往日的友谊。吉卜赛人打算留居镇上。他的确经历过死亡，但是忍受不了孤独，所以回到这儿来了。因为他忠于现实生活，失去了自己的神奇本领，被他的部族抛弃，他就决定在死神还没发现的这个角落里得到一个宁静的栖身之所，把自己献给银版照相术。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚根本没有听说过这样的发明。可是，当他看见自己和全家的人永远印在彩虹色的金属版上时，他惊得说不出话了；霍·阿·布恩蒂亚有一张锈了的照相底版就是这时的--蓬乱的灰色头发，铜妞扣扣上的浆领衬衫，一本正经的惊异表情。乌苏娜笑得要死，认为他象“吓破了胆的将军。”说真的，在那晴朗的十二月的早晨，梅尔加德斯拍照的时候，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚确实吓坏了：他生怕人像移到金属版上，人就会逐渐消瘦。不管多么反常，乌苏娜这一次却为科学辩护，竭力打消丈夫脑瓜里的荒谬想法。他忘了一切旧怨，决定让梅尔加德斯住在他们家里。然而，乌苏娜自己从不让人给她拍
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Emancipated for the moment at least from the torment of fantasy, José Arcadio Buendía in a short time set up a system of order and work which allowed for only one bit of license: the freeing of the birds, which, since the time of the founding, had made time merry with their flutes, and installing in their place musical clocks in every house. They were wondrous clocks made of carved wood, which the Arabs had traded for macaws and which José Arcadio Buendía had synchronized with such precision that every half hour the town grew merry with the progressive chords of the same song until it reached the climax of a noontime that was as exact and unanimous as a complete waltz. It was also José Arcadio Buendía who decided during those years that they should plant almond trees instead of acacias on the streets, and who discovered, without ever revealing it, a way to make them live forever. Many years later, when Macondo was a field of wooden houses with zinc roofs, the broken and dusty almond trees still stood on the oldest streets, although no one knew who had planted them. While his father was putting the town in order and his mother was increasing their wealth with her marvelous business of candied little roosters and fish, which left the house twice a day strung along sticks of balsa wood, Aureliano spent interminable hours in the abandoned laboratory, learning the art of silverwork by his own experimentation. He had shot up so fast that in a short time the clothing left behind by his brother no longer fit him and he began to wear his father’s, but Visitación had to sew pleats in the shirt and darts in the pants, because Aureliano had not sequined the corpulence of the others. Adolescence had taken away the softness of his voice and had made silent and definitely solitary, but, on the othand, it had restored the intense expression that he had had in his eyes when he was born. He concentrated so much on his experiments in silverwork that he scarcely left the laboratory to eat. Worried ever his inner withdrawal, José Arcadio Buendía gave him the keys to the house and a little money, thinking that perhaps he needed a woman. But Aureliano spent the money on muriatic acid to prepare some aqua regia and he beautified the keys by plating them with gold. His excesses were hardly comparable to those of Arcadio and Amaranta, who had already begun to get their second teeth and still went about all day clutching at the Indians’ cloaks, stubborn in their decision not to speak Spanish but the Guajiro language. "You shouldn’t complain." úrsula told her husband. "Children inherit their parents’ madness." And as she was lamenting her misfortune, convinced that the wild behavior of her children was something as fearful as a pig’s tail, Aureliano gave a look that wrapped her in an atmosphere of uncertainty.
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"Somebody is coming," he told her.
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úrsula, as she did whenever he made a prediction, tried to break it down with her housewifely logic. It was normal for someone to be coming. Dozens of strangers came through Macondo every day without arousing suspicion or secret ideas. Nevertheless, beyond all logic, Aureliano was sure of his prediction.
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"I don’t know who it will be," he insisted, "but whoever it is is already on the way."
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That Sunday, in fact, Rebeca arrived. She was only eleven years old. She had made the difficult trip from Manaure some hide dealers who had taken on the task of delivering her along with a letter to José Arcadio Buendía, but they could not explain precisely who the person was who had asked the favor. entire baggage consisted of a small trunk, a little rocking chair with small hand-painted flowers, and a canvas sack which kept making a cloc-cloc-cloc sound, where she carried parents’ bones. The letter addressed to José Arcadio Buendía was written is very warm terms by someone who still loved him very much in spite of time and distance, and who felt obliged by a basic humanitarian feeling to do the charitable thing and send that poor unsheltered orphan, who was a second cousin of úrsula’s and consequently also a relative of José Arcadio Buendía, although farther removed, because she was the daughter of that unforgettable friend Nicanor Ulloa and his very worthy wife Rebeca Montiel, may God keep them in His holy kingdom, whose remains the girl was carrying so that they might be given Christian burial. The names mentioned, as well as the signature on the letter, were perfectly legible, but neither José Arcadio, Buendía nor úrsula remembered having any relatives with those names, nor did they know anyone by the name of the sender of the letter, much less the remote village of Manaure. It was impossible to obtain any further information from the girl. From the moment she arrived she had been sitting in the rocker, sucking her finger and observing everyone with her large, startled eyes without giving any sign of understanding what they were asking her. She wore a diagonally striped dress that had been dyed black, worn by use, and a pair of scaly patent leather boots. Her hair was held behind her ears with bows of black ribbon. She wore a scapular with the images worn away by sweat, and on her right wrist the fang of a carnivorous animal mounted on a backing of copper as an amulet against the evil eye. Her greenish skin, her stomach, round and tense as a drum. revealed poor health and hunger that were older than she was, but when they gave her something to eat she kept the plate on her knees without tasting anything. They even began to think that she was a deafmute until the Indians asked her in their language if she wanted some water and she moved her eyes as if she recognized them and said yes with her head.
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They kept her, because there was nothing else they could do. They decided to call her Rebeca, which according to the letter was her mother’s name, because Aureliano had the patience to read to her the names of all the saints and he did not get a reaction from any one of them. Since there was no cemetery in Macondo at that time, for no one had died up till then, they kept the bag of bones to wait for a worthy place of burial, and for a long time it got in the way everywhere and would be found where least expected, always with its clucking of a broody hen. A long time passed before Rebeca became incorporated into the life of the family. She would sit in her small rocker sucking her finger in the most remote corner of the house. Nothing attracted her attention except the music the clocks, which she would look for every half hour with her frightened eyes as if she hoped to find it someplace in the air. They could not get her to eat for several days. No one understood why she had not died of hunger until the Indians, who were aware of everything, for they went ceaselessly about the house on their stealthy feet, discovered that Rebeca only liked to eat the damp earth of the courtyard and the cake of whitewash that she picked of the walls with her nails. It was obvious that her parents, or whoever had raised her, had scolded her for that habit because she did it secretively and with a feeling of guilt, trying to put away supplies so that she could eat when no one was looking. From then on they put her under an implacable watch. They threw cow gall onto the courtyard and, rubbed hot chili on the walls, thinking they could defeat her pernicious vice with those methods, but she showed such signs of astuteness and ingenuity to find some earth that úrsula found herself forced to use more drastic methods. She put some orange juice and rhubarb into a pan that she left in the dew all night and she gave her the dose the following day on an empty stomach. Although no one had told her that it was the specific remedy for the vice of eating earth, she thought that any bitter substance in an empty stomach would have to make the liver react. Rebeca was so rebellious and strong in spite of her frailness that they had to tie her up like a calf to make her swallow the medicine, they could barely keep back her kicks or bear up under the strange hieroglyphics that she alternated with her bites and spitting, and that, according to what the scandalized Indians said, were the vilest obscenities that one could ever imagine in their language. When úrsula discovered that, she added whipping to the treatment. It was never established whether it was the rhubarb or the beatings that had effect, or both of them together, but the truth was that in a few weeks Rebeca began to show signs of recovery. She took part in the games of Arcadio and Amaranta, who treated her like an older sister, and she ate heartily, using the utensils properly. It was soon revealed that she spoke Spanish with as much fluency as the Indian language, that she had a remarkable ability for manual work, and that she could sing the waltz of the clocks with some very funny words that she herself had invented. It did not take long for them to consider her another member of the family. She was more affectionate to úrsula than any of her own children had been, and she called Arcadio, Amaranta brother and sister, Aureliano uncle, and José Arcadio Buendía grandpa. So that she finally deserved, as much as the others, the name of Rebeca Buendía, the only one that she ever had and that she bore with dignity until her death.
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One night about the time that Rebeca was cured of the vice of eating earth and was brought to sleep in the other children’s room, the Indian woman, who slept them awoke by chance and heard a strange, intermittent sound in the corner. She got up in alarm, thinking that an animal had come into the room, and then she saw Rebeca in the rocker, sucking her finger and with her eyes lighted up in the darkness like those of a cat. Terrified, exhausted by her fate, Visitación recognized in those eyes the symptoms of the sickness whose threat had obliged her and her brother to exile themselves forever from an ageold kingdom where they had been prince and princess. It was the insomnia plague.
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Cataure, the Indian, was gone from the house by morning. His sister stayed because her fatalistic heart told her that the lethal sickness would follow her, no matter what, to the farthest corner of the earth. No one understood Visitación’s alarm. "If we don’t ever sleep again, so much the better," José Arcadio Buendía said in good humor. "That way we can get more out of life." But the Indian woman explained that the most fearsome part of the sickness of insomnia was not the impossibility of sleeping, for the body did not feel any fatigue at all, but its inexorable evolution toward a more critical manifestation: a loss of memory. She meant that when the sick person became used to his state of vigil, the recollection of his childhood began to be erased from his memory, then the name and notion of things, and finally the identity of people and even the awareness of his own being, until he sank into a kind of idiocy that had no past. José Arcadio Buendía, dying with laughter, thought that it was just a question of one of the many illnesses invented by the Indians’ superstitions. But úrsula, just to be safe, took the precaution of isolating Rebeca from the other children.
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"The children are awake too," the Indian said with her fatalistic conviction. "Once it gets into a house no one can escape the plague."
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They had indeed contracted the illness of insomnia. úrsula, who had learned from her mother the medicinal value plants, prepared and made them all drink a brew of monkshood, but they could not get to sleep and spent the whole day dreaming on their feet. In that state hallucinated lucidity, not only did they see the images of their own dreams, but some saw the images dreamed by others. It was as if the house were full of visitors. Sitting in her rocker in a corner of the kitchen, Rebeca dreamed that a man who looked very much like her, dressed in white linen and with his shirt collar closed by a gold button, was bringing her a bouquet of roses. He was accompanied by a woman delicate hands who took out one rose put it in the child’s hair. úrsula understood that the man and woman were Rebeca’s parents, but even though she made a great effort to recognize them, she confirmed her certainty that she had never seen them. In the meantime, through an oversight that José 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 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 togetto converse endlessly, to tell over and over for hours on end the same jokes, to complicate 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.
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When José 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 swapped 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, 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.
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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 fattold him about his alarm at having forgotten even the most impressive happenings of his childhood, Aureliano explained his method to him, and José 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 come 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 the written letters.
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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 comforting. 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, José 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 José Arcadio Buendía.
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Visitación did not recognize him when she opened the door she thought he had come with the idea of selling something, unaware that nothing could be sold in a town that was sinking irrevocably into the quick-sand 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. José Arcadio Buendía found him sitting in the living room fanning himself with a patched black hat as he read with compassionate 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 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 José 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 newcomer with a dazzling glow of joy. It was Melquíades.
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While Macondo was celebrating the recovery of its memory, José 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 a daguerreotype laboratory. José 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 José 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 úrsula described, dying with laughter, as a "frightened general." José 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 úrsula who got that idea out of his head, as it was also she who forgot her ancient bitterness 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 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 úrsula had with her delicious candy fauna, but everybody thought it strange that he was now a fullgrown man and had not known a woman. It was true that he had never had one.
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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 composed 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 úrsula 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 José 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 bystanders. He was singing the news with his old, out-of-tune voice, accompanying 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 coming, the matron of the rocking chair was sitting and fanning herself in silence. Catarino, with a felt rose behind his ear, was selling the gathering mugs of fermented cane juice, and he took advantage of the occasion to go over to the men and put his hand on them where he should not have. Toward midnight the heat was unbearable. Aureliano listened to the news to the end without hearing anything that was of interest to his family. He was getting ready to go home when the matron signaled hand.
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Aureliano threw a coin into the hopper that the matron had in her lap and went into the room without knowing why. The adolescent mulatto girl, small bitch’s teats, was naked on the bed. Before Aureliano sixty-three men had passed through the room that night. From being used so much, kneaded with sweat and sighs, the air in the room had begun to turn to mud. The girl took off the soaked sheet and asked Aureliano to hold it by one side. It was as heavy as a piece of canvas. They squeezed it, twisting it at the ends until it regained its natural weight. They turned over the mat and the sweat came out of the other side. Aureliano was anxious for that operation never to end. He knew the theoretical mechanics of love, but he could not stay on his feet because of the weakness of his knees, and although he had goose pimples on his burning skin he could not resist the urgent need to expel the weight of his bowels. When the girl finished fixing up the bed and told him to get undressed, he gave her a confused explanation: "They made me come in. They told me to throw twenty cents into the hopper and hurry up." The girl understood his confusion. "If you throw in twenty cents more when you go out, you can stay a little longer," she said softly. Aureliano got undressed, tormented by shame, unable to get rid the idea that-his nakedness could not stand comparison with that of his brother. In spite of the girl’s efforts he felt more and more indifferent and terribly alone. "I’ll throw in other twenty cents," he said with a desolate voice. The girl thanked him in silence. Her back was raw. Her skin was stuck to her ribs and her breathing was forced because of an immeasurable exhaustion. Two years before, far away from there, she had fallen asleep without putting out the candle and had awakened surrounded by flames. The house where she lived with the grand-mother who had raised her was reduced to ashes. Since then her grandmother carried her from town to town, putting her to bed for twenty cents in order to make up the value of the burned house. According to the girl’s calculations, she still had ten years of seventy men per night, because she also had to pay the expenses of the trip and food for both of them as well as the pay of the Indians who carried the rocking chair. When the matron knocked on the door the second time, Aureliano left the room without having done anything, troubled by a desire to weep. That night he could not sleep, thinking about the girl, with a mixture of desire and pity. He felt an irresistible need to love her and protect her. At dawn, worn out by insomnia and fever, he made the calm decision to marry her in order to free her from the despotism of her grandmother and to enjoy all the nights of satisfaction that she would give the seventy men. But at ten o’clock in the morning, when he reached Catarino’s store, the girl had left town.
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Time mitigated his mad proposal, but it aggravated his feelings of frustration. He took refuge in work. He resigned himself to being a womanless man for all his life in order to hide the shame of his uselessness. In the meantime, Melquíades had printed on his plates everything that was printable in Macondo, and he left the daguerreotype laboratory to the fantasies of José Arcadio Buendía who had resolved to use it to obtain scientific proof of the existence of God. Through a complicated process of superimposed exposures taken in different parts of the house, he was sure that sooner or later he would get a daguerreotype of God, if He existed, or put an end once and for all to the supposition of His existence. Melquíades got deeper into his interpretations of Nostradamus. He would stay up until very late, suffocating in his faded velvet vest, scribbling with his tiny sparrow hands, whose rings had lost the glow of former times. One night he thought he had found a prediction of the future of Macondo. It was to be a luminous city with great glass houses where there was no trace remaining of the race of the Buendía. "It’s a mistake," José Arcadio Buendía thundered. "They won’t be houses of glass but of ice, as I dreamed, and there will always be a Buendía, per omnia secula seculorum." úrsula fought to preserve common sense in that extravagant house, having broadened her business of little candy animals an oven that went all night turning out baskets and more baskets of bread and a prodigious variety puddings, meringues, and cookies, which disappeared in a few hours on the roads winding through the swamp. She had reached an age where she had a right to rest, but she was nonetheless more and more active. So busy was she in her prosperous enterprises that one afternoon she looked distractedly toward the courtyard while the Indian woman helped her sweeten the dough and she saw two unknown and beautiful adolescent girls doing frame embroidery in the light of the sunset. They were Rebeca and Amaranta. As soon as they had taken off the mourning clothes for their grandmother, which they wore with inflexible rigor for three years, their bright clothes seemed to have given them a new place in the world. Rebeca, contrary to what might have been expected, was the more beautiful. She had a light complexion, large and peaceful eyes, and magical hands that seemed to work out the design of the embroidery with invisible threads. Amaranta, the younger, was somewhat graceless, but she had the natural distinction, the inner tightness of her dead grand-mother. Next to them, although he was already revealing the physical drive of his father, Arcadio looked like a child. He set about learning the art of silverwork with Aureliano, who had also taught him how to read and write. úrsula suddenly realized that the house had become full of people, that her children were on the point of marrying and having children, and that they would be obliged to scatter for lack of space. Then she took out the money she had accumulated over long years of hard labor, made some arrangements with her customers, and undertook the enlargement of the house. She had a formal parlor for visits built, another one that was more comfortable and cool for daily use, a dining room with a table with twelve places where the family could sit with all of their guests, nine bedrooms with windows on the courtyard and a long porch protected from the heat of noon by a rose garden with a railing on which to place pots of ferns and begonias. She had the kitchen enlarged to hold two ovens. The granary where Pilar Ternera had read José Arcadio’s future was torn down and another twice as large built so that there would never be a lack of food in the house. She had baths built is the courtyard in the shade of the chestnut tree, one for the women and another for the men, and in the rear a large stable, a fencedin chicken yard, a shed for the milk cows, and an aviary open to the four winds so that wandering birds could roost there at their pleasure. Followed by dozens of masons and carpenters, as if she had contracted her husband’s hallucinating fever, úrsula fixed the position of light and heat and distributed space without the least sense of its limitations. The primitive building of the founders became filled with tools and materials, workmen exhausted by sweat, who asked everybody please not to molest them, exasperated by the sack of bones that followed them everywhere with its dull rattle. In that discomfort, breathing quicklime and tar, no one could see very well how from the bowels of the earth there was rising not only the largest house is the town, but the most hospitable and cool house that had ever existed in the region of the swamp. José Buendía, trying to surprise Divine Providence in the midst of the cataclysm, was the one who least understood it. The new house was almost finished when úrsula drew him out of his chimerical world in order to inform him that she had an order to paint the front blue and not white as they had wanted. She showed him the official document. José Arcadio Buendía, without understanding what his wife was talking about, deciphered the signature.
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"Who is this fellow?" he asked:
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"The magistrate," úrsula answered disconsolately. They say he’s an authority sent by the government."
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Don Apolinar Moscote, the magistrate, had arrived in Macondo very quietly. He put up at the Hotel Jacob--built by one of the first Arabs who came to swap knickknacks for macaws-and on the following day he rented a small room with a door on the street two blocks away from the Buendía house. He set up a table and a chair that he had bought from Jacob, nailed up on the wall the shield of the republic that he had brought with him, and on the door he painted the sign: Magistrate. His first order was for all the houses to be painted blue in celebration of the anniversary of national independence. José Arcadio Buendía, with the copy of the order in his hand, found him taking his nap in a hammock he had set up in the narrow office. "Did you write this paper?" he asked him. Don Apolinar Moscote, a mature man, timid, with a ruddy complexion, said yes. "By what right?" José Arcadio Buendía asked again. Don Apolinar Moscote picked up a paper from the drawer of the table showed it to him. "I have been named magistrate of this town." José Arcadio Buendía did not even look at the appointment.
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"In this town we do not give orders with pieces of paper," he said without losing his calm. "And so that you know it once and for all, we don’t need any judge here because there’s nothing that needs judging."
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Facing Don Apolinar Moscote, still without raising his voice, he gave a detailed account of how they had founded the village, of how they had distributed the land, opened the roads, introduced the improvements that necessity required without having bothered the government and without anyone having bothered them. "We are so peaceful that none of us has died even of a natural death," he said. "You can see that we still don’t have any cemetery." No once was upset that the government had not helped them. On the contrary, they were happy that up until then it had let them grow in peace, and he hoped that it would continue leaving them that way, because they had not founded a town so that the first upstart who came along would tell them what to do. Don Apolinar had put on his denim jacket, white like his trousers, without losing at any moment the elegance of his gestures.
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"So that if you want to stay here like any other ordinary citizen, you’re quite welcome," José Arcadio Buendía concluded. "But if you’ve come to cause disorder by making the people paint their houses blue, you can pick up your junk and go back where you came from. Because my house is going to be white, white, like a dove."
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Don Apolinar Moscote turned pale. He took a step backward and tightened his jaws as he said with a certain affliction:
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"I must warn you that I’m armed."
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José Arcadio Buendía did not know exactly when his hands regained the useful strength with which he used to pull down horses. He grabbed Don Apolinar Moscote by the lapels and lifted him up to the level of his eyes.
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"I’m doing this," he said, "because I would rather carry you around alive and not have to keep carrying you around dead for the rest of my life."
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In that way he carried him through the middle of the street, suspended by the lapels, until he put him down on his two feet on the swamp road. A week later he was back with six barefoot and ragged soldiers, armed with shotguns, and an oxcart in which his wife and seven daughters were traveling. Two other carts arrived later with the furniture, the baggage, and the household utensils. He settled his family in the Hotel Jacob, while he looked for a house, and he went back to open his office under the protection the soldiers. The founders of Macondo, resolving to expel the invaders, went with their older sons to put themselves at the disposal José Arcadio Buendía. But he was against it, as he explained, because it was not manly to make trouble for someone in front his family, and Don Apolinar had returned with his wife and daughters. So he decided to resolve the situation in a pleasant way.
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Aureliano went with him. About that time he had begun to cultivate the black mustache with waxed tips and the somestentorian voice that would characterize him in the war. Unarmed, without paying any attention to the guards, they went into the magistrate’s office. Don Apolinar Moscote did not lose his calm. He introduced them to two of his daughters who happened to be there: Amparo, sixteen, dark like her mother, and Remedios, only nine, a pretty little girl with lily-colored skin and green eyes. They were gracious and well--mannered. As soon as the men came in, before being introduced, they gave them chairs to sit on. But they both remained standing.
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"Very well, my friend," José Arcadio Buendía said, "you may stay here, not because you have those bandits with shotguns at the door, but out of consideration for your wife and daughters."
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Don Apolinar Moscote was upset, but José Arcadio Buendía did not give him time to reply. "We only make two conditions," he went on. "The first: that everyone can paint his house the color he feels like. The second: that the soldiers leave at once. We will guarantee order for you." The magistrate raised his right hand with all the fingers extended.
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"Your word of honor?"
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"The word of your enemy," José Arcadio Buendía said. And he added in a bitter tone: "Because I must tell you one thing: you and I are still enemies."
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The soldiers left that same afternoon. A few days later José Arcadio Buendía found a house for the magistrate’s family. Everybody was at peace except Aureliano. The image of Remedios, the magistrate’s younger daughter, who, because of her age, could have been his daughter, kept paining him in some part of his body. It was a physical sensation that almost bothered him when he walked, like a pebble in his shoe.
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