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霍乱时期的爱情|Love in the Time of Cholera

第四章|Chapter 4

属类： 双语小说 【分类】双语小说 -[作者: 加夫列尔-加西亚-马尔克斯] 阅读：[10304]
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THE DAY THAT Florentino Ariza saw Fermina Daza in the atrium of the Cathedral, in the sixthmonth of her pregnancy and in full command of her new condition as a woman of the world, hemade a fierce decision to win fame and fortune in order to deserve her. He did not even stop tothink about the obstacle of her being married, because at the same time he decided , as if itdepended on himself alone, that Dr. Juvenal Urbino had to die. He did not know when or how, buthe considered it an ineluctable event that he was resolved to wait for without impatience orviolence, even till the end of time.

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He began at the beginning. He presented himself unannounced in the office of Uncle LeoXII, President of the Board of Directors and General Manager of the River Company of theCaribbean, and expressed his willingness to yield to his plans. His uncle was angry with himbecause of the manner in which he had thrown away the good position of telegraph operator inVilla de Leyva, but he allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are notborn once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them overand over again to give birth to themselves. Besides, his brother's widow had died the year before,still smarting from rancour but without any heirs. And so he gave the job to his errant nephew.

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It was a decision typical of Don Leo XII Loayza. Inside the shell of a soulless merchant washidden a genial lunatic, as willing to bring forth a spring of lemonade in the Guajira Desert as toflood a solemn funeral with weeping at his heartbreaking rendition of "In Questa Tomba Oscura."His head was covered with curls, he had the lips of a faun, and all he needed was a lyre and alaurel wreath to be the image of the incendiary Nero of Christian mythology

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. When he was notoccupied with the administration of his decrepit vessels , still afloat out of sheer distraction on thepart of fate, or with the problems of river navigation, which grew more and more critical everyday, he devoted his free time to the enrichment of his lyric repertoire

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. He liked nothing better thanto sing at funerals. He had the voice of a galley slave, untrained but capable of impressiveregisters. Someone had told him that Enrico Caruso could shatter a vase with the power of hisvoice, and he had spent years trying to imitate him, even with the windowpanes. His friendsbrought him the most delicate vases they had come across in their travels through the world, andthey organised special parties so that he might at last achieve the culmination of his dream. Henever succeeded. Still, in the depth of his thundering there was a glimmer of tenderness that brokethe hearts of his listeners as if they were the crystal vases of the great Caruso, and it was this thatmade him so revered at funerals. Except at one, when he thought it a good idea to sing "When IWake Up in Glory," a beautiful and moving funeral song from Louisiana, and he was told to bequiet by the priest, who could not understand that Protestant intrusion in his church.

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And so, between operatic encores and Neapolitan serenades, his creative talent and hisinvincible entrepreneurial spirit made him the hero of river navigation during the time of itsgreatest splendour. He had come from nothing, like his dead brothers, and all of them went as faras they wished despite the stigma of being illegitimate children and, even worse, illegitimatechildren who had never been recognised. They were the cream of what in those days was calledthe "shop-counter aristocracy," whose sanctuary was the Commercial Club. And yet, even when hehad the resources to live like the Roman emperor he resembled, Uncle Leo XII lived in the oldcity because it was convenient to his business, in such an austere manner and in such a plain housethat he could never shake off an unmerited reputation for miserliness. His only luxury was evensimpler: a house by the sea, two leagues from his offices, furnished only with six handmadestools, a stand for earthenware jars, and a hammock on the terrace where he could lie down tothink on Sundays. No one described him better than he did when someone accused him of beingrich.

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"No, not rich," he said. "I am a poor man with money, which is not the same thing."His strange nature, which someone once praised in a speech as lucid dementia, allowed himto see in an instant what no one else ever saw in Florentino Ariza. From the day he came to hisoffice to ask for work, with his doleful appearance and his twenty-six useless years behind him, hehad tested him with the severity of a barracks training that could have broken the hardest man. Buthe did not intimidate him. What Uncle Leo XII never suspected was that his nephew's courage didnot come from the need to survive or from a brute indifference

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inherited from his father, but froma driving need for love, which no obstacle in this world or the next would ever break.

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The worst years were the early ones, when he was appointed clerk to the Board of Directors,which seemed a position made to order for him. Lotario Thugut, Uncle Leo XII's old musicteacher, was the one who advised him to give his nephew a writing job because he was a voraciouswholesale consumer of literature, although he preferred the worst to the best. Uncle Leo XIIdisregarded what he said concerning his nephew's bad taste in reading, for Lotario Thugut wouldalso say of him that he had been his worst voice student, and still he could make even tombstonescry. In any case, the German was correct in regard to what he had thought about least, which wasthat Florentino Ariza wrote everything with so much passion that even official documents seemedto be about love. His bills of lading were rhymed no matter how he tried to avoid it, and routinebusiness letters had a lyrical spirit that diminished their authority. His uncle himself came to hisoffice one day with a packet of correspondence that he had not dared put his name to, and he gavehim his last chance to save his soul.

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"If you cannot write a business letter you will pick up the trash on the dock," he said.

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Florentino Ariza accepted the challenge. He made a supreme effort to learn the mundanesimplicity of mercantile prose, imitating models from notarial files with the same diligence he hadonce used for popular poets. This was the period when he spent his free time in the Arcade of theScribes, helping unlettered lovers to write their scented love notes, in order to unburden his heartof all the words of love that he could not use in customs reports. But at the end of six months, nomatter how hard he twisted, he could not wring the neck of his diehard swan. So that when UncleLeo XII reproached him a second time, he admitted defeat, but with a certain haughtiness .

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"Love is the only thing that interests me," he said.

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"The trouble," his uncle said to him, "is that without river navigation there is no love."He kept his threat to have him pick up trash on the dock, but he gave him his word that hewould promote him, step by step, up the ladder of faithful service until he found his place. And hedid. No work could defeat him, no matter how hard or humiliating it was, no salary, no matter howmiserable, could demoralise him, and he never lost his essential fearlessness when faced with theinsolence of his superiors. But he was not an innocent, either: everyone who crossed his pathsuffered the consequences of the overwhelming determination, capable of anything, that laybehind his helpless appearance. Just as Uncle Leo XII had foreseen, and according to his desirethat his nephew not be ignorant of any secret in the business, Florentino Ariza moved throughevery post during thirty years of dedication and tenacity in the face of every trial. He fulfilled allhis duties with admirable skill, studying every thread in that mysterious warp that had so much todo with the offices of poetry, but he never won the honour he most desired, which was to writeone, just one, acceptable business letter. Without intending to, without even knowing it, hedemonstrated with his life that his father had been right when he repeated until his dying day thatthere was no one with more common sense, no stonecutter more obstinate , no manager more lucidor dangerous, than a poet. That, at least, is what he was told by Uncle Leo XII, who talked to himabout his father during moments of sentimental leisure and created an image that resembled adreamer more than it did a businessman.

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He told him that Pius V Loayza used the offices for matters more pleasant than work, and thathe always arranged to leave the house on Sundays, with the excuse that he had to meet or dispatcha boat. What is more, he had an old boiler installed in the warehouse patio , with a steam whistlethat someone would sound with navigation signals in the event his wife became suspicious.

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According to his calculations, Uncle Leo XII was certain that Florentino Ariza had been conceivedon a desk in some unlocked office on a hot Sunday afternoon, while from her house his father'swife heard the farewells of a boat that never sailed. By the time she learned the truth it was toolate to accuse him of infamy because her husband was already dead. She survived him by manyyears, destroyed by the bitterness of not having a child and asking God in her prayers for theeternal damnation of his bastard son.

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The image of his father disturbed Florentino Ariza. His mother had spoken of him as a greatman with no commercial vocation , who had at last gone into the river business because his olderbrother had been a very close collaborator of the German commodore Johann B. Elbers, the fatherof river navigation. They were the illegitimate sons of the same mother, a cook by trade, who hadthem by different men, and all bore her surname and the name of a pope chosen at random fromthe calendar of saints' days, except for Uncle Leo XII, named after the Pope in office when he wasborn. The man called Florentino was their maternal grandfather, so that the name had come downto the son of Tr醤sito Ariza after skipping over an entire generation of pontiffs.

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Florentino always kept the notebook in which his father wrote love poems, some of theminspired by Tr醤 sito Ariza, its pages decorated with drawings of broken hearts. Two thingssurprised him. One was the character of his father's handwriting, identical to his own although hehad chosen his because it was the one he liked best of the many he saw in a manual. The other wasfinding a sentence that he thought he had composed but that his father had written in the notebooklong before he was born: The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.

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He had also seen the only two pictures of his father. One had been taken in Santa Fe, when hewas very young, the same age as Florentino Ariza when he saw the photograph for the first time,and in it he was wearing an overcoat that made him look as if he were stuffed inside a bear, and hewas leaning against a pedestal that supported the decapitated gaiters of a statue. The little boybeside him was Uncle Leo XII, wearing a ship captain's hat. In the other photograph, his fatherwas with a group of soldiers in God knows which of so many wars, and he held the longest rifle,and his moustache had a gunpowder smell that wafted out of the picture. He was a Liberal and aMason, just like his brothers, and yet he wanted his son to go to the seminary. Florentino Ariza didnot see the resemblance that people observed, but according to his Uncle Leo XII, Pius V was alsoreprimanded for the lyricism of his documents. In any case, he did not resemble him in thepictures, or in his memories of him, or in the image transfigured by love that his mother painted,or in the one unpainted by his Uncle Leo XII with his cruel wit. Nevertheless, Florentino Arizadiscovered the resemblance many years later, as he was combing his hair in front of the mirror,and only then did he understand that a man knows when he is growing old because he begins tolook like his father.

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He had no memory of him on the Street of Windows. He thought he knew that at one time hisfather slept there, very early in his love affair with Tr醤 sito Ariza, but that he did not visit heragain after the birth of Florentino. For many years the baptismal certificate was our only validmeans of identification, and Florentino Ariza's, recorded in the parish church of St. Tiburtius, saidonly that he was the natural son of an unwed natural daughter called Tr醤sito Ariza. The name ofhis father did not appear on it, although Pius V took care of his son's needs in secret until the dayhe died. This social condition closed the doors of the seminary to Florentino Ariza, but he alsoescaped military service during the bloodiest period of our wars because he was the only son of anunmarried woman.

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Every Friday after school he sat across from the offices of the River Company of theCaribbean, looking at pictures of animals in a book that was falling apart because he had looked atit so often. His father would walk into the building without looking at him, wearing the frock coatsthat Tr醤 sito Ariza later had to alter for him, and with a face identical to that of St. John theEvangelist on the altars. When he came out, many hours later, he would make certain that no onesaw him, not even his coachman, and he would give him money for the week's expenses. They didnot speak, not only because his father made no effort to, but because he was terrified of him. Oneday, after he waited much longer than usual, his father gave him the coins and said: "Take themand do not come back again."It was the last time he saw him. But in time he was to learn that Uncle Leo XII, who wassome ten years younger, continued to bring money to Tr醤 sito Ariza, and was the one who tookcare of her after Pius V died of an untreated colic without leaving anything in writing and withoutthe time to make any provisions for his only child: a child of the streets.

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The drama of Florentino Ariza while he was a clerk for the River Company of the Caribbeanwas that he could not avoid lyricism because he was always thinking about Fermina Daza, and hehad never learned to write without thinking about her. Later, when he was moved to other posts,he had so much love left over inside that he did not know what to do with it, and he offered it tounlettered lovers free of charge, writing their love missives for them in the Arcade of the Scribes.

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That is where he went after work. He would take off his frock coat with his circumspect gesturesand hang it over the back of the chair, he would put on the cuffs so he would not dirty his shirtsleeves, he would unbutton his vest so he could think better, and sometimes until very late at nighthe would encourage the hopeless with letters of mad adoration . From time to time he would be approachedby a poor woman who had a problem with one of her children, a war veteran whopersisted in demanding payment of his pension, someone who had been robbed and wanted to filea complaint with the government, but no matter how he tried, he could not satisfy them, becausethe only convincing document he could write was a love letter. He did not even ask his new clientsany questions, because all he had to do was look at the whites of their eyes to know what theirproblem was, and he would write page after page of uncontrolled love, following the infallibleformula of writing as he thought about Fermina Daza and nothing but Fermina Daza. After thefirst month he had to establish a system of appointments made in advance so that he would not beswamped by yearning lovers.

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His most pleasant memory of that time was of a very timid young girl, almost a child, whotrembled as she asked him to write an answer to an irresistible letter that she had just received, andthat Florentino Ariza recognised as one he had written on the previous afternoon. He answered itin a different style, one that was in tune with the emotions and the age of the girl, and in a handthat also seemed to be hers, for he knew how to create a handwriting for every occasion, accordingto the character of each person. He wrote, imagining to himself what Fermina Daza would havesaid to him if she had loved him as much as that helpless child loved her suitor. Two days later, ofcourse, he had to write the boy's reply with the same hand, style, and kind of love that he hadattributed to him in the first letter, and so it was that he became involved in a feverishcorrespondence with himself. Before a month had passed, each came to him separately to thankhim for what he himself had proposed in the boy's letter and accepted with devotion in the girl'sresponse: they were going to marry.

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Only when they had their first child did they realise, after a casual conversation, that theirletters had been written by the same scribe, and for the first time they went together to the Arcadeto ask him to be the child's godfather. Florentino Ariza was so enraptured by the practical evidenceof his dreams that he used time he did not have to write a Lovers' Companion that was more poeticand extensive than the one sold in doorways for twenty centavos and that half the city knew byheart. He categorised all the imaginable situations in which he and Fermina Daza might findthemselves, and for all of them he wrote as many models and alternatives as he could think of.

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When he finished, he had some thousand letters in three volumes as complete as the CovarrubiasDictionary, but no printer in the city would take the risk of publishing them, and they ended up inan attic along with other papers from the past, for Tr醤 sito Ariza flatly refused to dig out theearthenware jars and squander the savings of a lifetime on a mad publishing venture. Years later,when Florentino Ariza had the resources to publish the book himself, it was difficult for him toaccept the reality that love letters had gone out of fashion.

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As he was starting out in the River Company of the Caribbean and writing letters free ofcharge in the Arcade of the Scribes, the friends of Florentino Ariza's youth were certain that theywere slowly losing him beyond recall. And they were right. When he returned from his voyagealong the river, he still saw some of them in the hope of dimming the memory of Fermina Daza,he played billiards with them, he went to their dances, he allowed himself to be raffled off amongthe girls, he allowed himself to do everything he thought would help him to become the man hehad once been. Later, when Uncle Leo XII took him on as an employee, he played dominoes withhis officemates in the Commercial Club, and they began to accept him as one of their own whenhe spoke to them of nothing but the navigation company, which he did not call by its completename but by its initials: the R C. C. He even changed the way he ate. As indifferent and irregularas he had been until then regarding food, that was how habitual and austere he became until theend of his days: a large cup of black coffee for breakfast, a slice of poached fish with white ricefor lunch, a cup of caf? con leche and a piece of cheese before going to bed. He drank black coffeeat any hour, anywhere, under any circumstances, as many as thirty little cups a day: a brew likecrude oil which he preferred to prepare himself and which he always kept near at hand in athermos. He was another person, despite his firm decision and anguished efforts to continue to bethe same man he had been before his mortal encounter with love.

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The truth is that he was never the same again. Winning back Fermina Daza was the solepurpose of his life, and he was so certain of achieving it sooner or later that he convinced Tr醤sito Ariza to continue with the restoration of the house so that it would be ready to receive herwhenever the miracle took place. In contrast to her reaction to the proposed publication of theLovers' Companion, Tr醤 sito Ariza went much further: she bought the house at once andundertook a complete renovation . They made a reception room where the bedroom had been, onthe upper floor they built two spacious , bright bedrooms, one for the married couple and anotherfor the children they were going to have, and in the space where the old tobacco factory had beenthey put in an extensive garden with all kinds of roses, which Florentino Ariza himself tendedduring his free time at dawn. The only thing they left intact, as a kind of testimony of gratitude tothe past, was the notions shop. The back room where Florentino Ariza had slept they left as it hadalways been, with the hammock hanging and the writing table covered with untidy piles of books,but he moved to the room planned as the conjugal bedroom on the upper floor. This was thelargest and airiest in the house, and it had an interior terrace where it was pleasant to sit at nightbecause of the sea breeze and the scent of the rosebushes, but it was also the room that bestreflected Florentino Ariza's Trappist severity. The plain whitewashed walls were rough andunadorned, and the only furniture was a prison cot, a night table with a candle in a bottle, an oldwardrobe, and a washstand with its basin and bowl.

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The work took almost three years, and it coincided with a brief civic revival owing to theboom in river navigation and trade, the same factors that had maintained the city's greatnessduring colonial times and for more than two centuries had made her the gateway to America. Butthat was also the period when Tr醤 sito Ariza manifested the first symptoms of her incurabledisease. Her regular clients were older, paler, and more faded each time they came to the notionsshop, and she did not recognise them after dealing with them for half a lifetime, or she confusedthe affairs of one with those of another, which was a very grave matter in a business like hers, inwhich no papers were signed to protect her honour or theirs, and one's word of honour was givenand accepted as sufficient guarantee. At first it seemed she was growing deaf, but it soon becameevident that her memory was trickling away. And so she liquidated her pawn business, the treasurein the jars paid for completing and furnishing the house, and still left over were many of the mostvaluable old jewels in the city, whose owners did not have funds to redeem them.

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During this period Florentino Ariza had to attend to too many responsibilities at the sametime, but his spirits never flagged as he sought to expand his work as a furtive hunter. After hiserratic experience with the Widow Nazaret, which opened the door to street love, he continued tohunt the abandoned little birds of the night for several years, still hoping to find a cure for the painof Fermina Daza. But by then he could no longer tell if his habit of fornicating without hope was amental necessity or a simple vice of the body. His visits to the transient hotel became lessfrequent, not only because his interests lay elsewhere but because he did not like them to see himthere under circumstances that were different from the chaste domesticity of the past.

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Nevertheless, in three emergency situations he had recourse to the simple strategy of an era beforehis time: he disguised his friends, who were afraid of being recognised, as men, and they walkedinto the hotel together as if they were two gentlemen out on the town. Yet on two of theseoccasions someone realised that he and his presumptive male companion did not go to the bar butto a room, and the already tarnished reputation of Florentino Ariza received the coup de grace. Atlast he stopped going there, except for the very few times he did so not to catch up on what he hadmissed but for just the opposite reason: to find a refuge where he could recuperate from hisexcesses.

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And it was just as well. No sooner did he leave his office at five in the afternoon than hebegan to hunt like a chicken hawk . At first he was content with what the night provided. He pickedup serving girls in the parks, black women in the market, sophisticated young ladies from theinterior on the beaches, gringas on the boats from New Orleans. He took them to the jetties wherehalf the city also went after nightfall, he took them wherever he could, and sometimes even wherehe could not, and not infrequently he had to hurry into a dark entryway and do what he could,however he could do it, behind the gate.

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The lighthouse was always a blessed refuge in a storm, which he evoked with nostalgia in thedawn of his old age when he had everything settled, because it was a good place to be happy,above all at night, and he thought that something of his loves from that time flashed out to thesailors with every turn of the light. So that he continued to go there more than to any other spot,while his friend the lighthouse keeper was delighted to receive him with a simplemindedexpression on his face that was the best guarantee of discretion for the frightened little birds.

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There was a house at the foot of the tower, close to the thunder of the waves breaking against thecliffs, where love was more intense because it seemed like a shipwreck . But Florentino Arizapreferred the light tower itself, late at night, because one could see the entire city and the trail oflights on the fishing boats at sea, and even in the distant swamps.

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It was in those days that he devised his rather simplistic theories concerning the relationshipbetween a woman's appearance and her aptitude for love. He distrusted the sensual type, the oneswho looked as if they could eat an alligator raw and tended to be the most passive in bed. The typehe preferred was just the opposite: those skinny little tadpoles that no one bothered to turn aroundand look at in the street, who seemed to disappear when they took off their clothes, who made youfeel sorry for them when their bones cracked at the first impact, and yet who could leave the manwho bragged the most about his virility ready for the trashcan. He had made notes of thesepremature observations, intending to write a practical supplement to the Lovers' Companion, butthe project met the same fate as the previous one after Ausencia Santander sent him tumbling withher old dog's wisdom, stood him on his head, tossed him up and threw him down, made him asgood as new, shattered all his virtuous theories, and taught him the only thing he had to learnabout love: that nobody teaches life anything.

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Ausencia Santander had had a conventional marriage for twenty years, which left her withthree children who had married and had children in turn, so that she boasted of being thegrandmother with the best bed in the city. It was never clear if she had abandoned her husband, orif he had abandoned her, or if they had abandoned each other at the same time, but he went to livewith his regular mistress, and then she felt free, in the middle of the day and at the front door, toreceive Rosendo de la Rosa, a riverboat captain whom she had often received in the middle of thenight at the back door. Without giving the matter a second thought, he brought Florentino Ariza tomeet her.

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He brought him for lunch. He also brought a demijohn of homemade aguardiente andingredients of the highest quality for an epic sancocho, the kind that was possible only withchickens from the patio, meat with tender bones, rubbish-heap pork, and greens and vegetablesfrom the towns along the river. Nevertheless, from the very first, Florentino Ariza was not asenthusiastic about the excellence of the cuisine or the exuberance of the lady of the house as hewas about the beauty of the house itself. He liked her because of her house, bright and cool, withfour large windows facing the sea and beyond that a complete view of the old city. He liked thequantity and the splendour of the things that gave the living room a confused and at the same timerigorous appearance, with all kinds of handcrafted objects that Captain Rosendo de la Rosabrought back from each trip until there was no room left for another piece. On the sea terrace,sitting on his private ring, was a cockatoo from Malaya, with unbelievable white plumage and apensive tranquillity that gave one much to think about: it was the most beautiful animal thatFlorentino Ariza had ever seen.

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Captain Rosendo de la Rosa was enthusiastic about his guest's enthusiasm, and he told him indetail the history of each object. As he spoke he sipped aguardiente without pause. He seemed tobe made of reinforced concrete: he was enormous, with hair all over his body except on his head, amoustache like a housepainter's brush, a voice like a capstan, which would have been his alone,and an exquisite courtesy. But not even his body could resist the way he drank. Before they satdown to the table he had finished half of the demijohn, and he fell forward onto the tray of glassesand bottles with a slow sound of demolition

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. Ausencia Santander had to ask Florentino Ariza tohelp her drag the inert body of the beached whale to bed and undress him as he slept. Then, in aflash of inspiration that they attributed to a conjunction of their stars, the two of them undressed inthe next room without agreeing to, without even suggesting it or proposing it to each other, and formore than seven years they continued undressing wherever they could while the Captain was on atrip. There was no danger of his surprising them, because he had the good sailor's habit of advisingthe port of his arrival by sounding the ship's horn, even at dawn, first with three long howls for hiswife and nine children, and then with two short, melancholy ones for his mistress.

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Ausencia Santander was almost fifty years old and looked it, but she had such a personalinstinct for love that no homegrown or scientific theories could interfere with it. Florentino Arizaknew from the ship's itineraries when he could visit her, and he always went unannounced,whenever he wanted to, at any hour of the day or night, and never once was she not waiting forhim. She would open the door as her mother had raised her until she was seven years old: starknaked, with an organdy ribbon in her hair. She would not let him take another step until she hadundressed him, because she thought it was bad luck to have a clothed man in the house. This wasthe cause of constant discord with Captain Rosendo de la Rosa, because he had the superstitiousbelief that smoking naked brought bad luck, and at times he preferred to put off love rather thanput out his inevitable Cuban cigar. On the other hand, Florentino Ariza was very taken with thecharms of nudity, and she removed his clothes with sure delight as soon as she closed the door, noteven giving him time to greet her, or to take off his hat or his glasses, kissing him and letting himkiss her with sharp-toothed kisses, unfastening his clothes from bottom to top, first the buttons ofhis fly, one by one after each kiss, then his belt buckle , and at the last his vest and shirt, until hewas like a live fish that had been slit

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open from head to tail. Then she sat him in the living roomand took off his boots, pulled on his trouser cuffs so that she could take off his pants while sheremoved his long underwear, and at last she undid the garters around his calves and took off hissocks. Then Florentino Ariza stopped kissing her and letting her kiss him so that he could do theonly thing he was responsible for in that precise ceremony: he took his watch and chain out of thebuttonhole in his vest and took off his glasses and put them in his boots so he would be sure not toforget them. He always took that precaution, always without fail, whenever he undressed insomeone else's house.

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As soon as he had done that, she attacked him without giving him time for anything else,there on the same sofa where she had just undressed him, and only on rare occasions in the bed.

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She mounted him and took control of all of him for all of her, absorbed in herself, her eyes closed,gauging the situation in her absolute inner darkness, advancing here, retreating there, correctingher invisible route, trying another, more intense path, another means of proceeding withoutdrowning in the slimy marsh that flowed from her womb, droning like a horsefly as she askedherself questions and answered in her native jargon ; where was that something in the shadows thatonly she knew about and that she longed for just for herself, until she succumbed without waitingfor anybody, she fell alone into her abyss with a jubilant explosion of total victory that made theworld tremble. Florentino Ariza was left exhausted , incomplete, floating in a puddle

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of theirperspiration, but with the impression of being no more than an instrument of pleasure. He wouldsay: "You treat me as if I were just anybody." She would roar with the laughter of a free femaleand say: "Not at all: as if you were nobody." He was left with the impression that she took awayeverything with mean-spirited greed, and his pride would rebel and he would leave the housedetermined never to return. But then he would wake for no reason in the middle of the night, andthe memory of the self-absorbed love of Ausencia Santander was revealed to him for what it was:

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pitfall of happiness that he despised and desired at the same time, but from which it wasimpossible to escape.

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One Sunday, two years after they met, the first thing she did when he arrived was to take offhis glasses instead of undressing him, so that she could kiss him with greater ease, and this washow Florentino Ariza learned that she had begun to love him. Despite the fact that from the firstday he had felt very comfortable in the house that he now loved as if it were his own, he had neverstayed longer than two hours, and he had never slept there, and he had eaten there only oncebecause she had given him a formal invitation. He went there, in fact, only for what he had comefor, always bringing his only gift, a single rose, and then he would disappear until the nextunforeseeable time. But on the Sunday when she took off his glasses to kiss him, in part becauseof that and in part because they fell asleep after gentle love-making, they spent the afternoonnaked in the Captain's enormous bed. When he awoke from his nap, Florentino Ariza stillremembered the shrieking of the cockatoo, whose strident calls belied his beauty. But the silencewas diaphanous in the four o'clock heat, and through the bedroom window one could see theoutline of the old city with the afternoon sun at its back, its golden domes , its sea in flames all theway to Jamaica. Ausencia Santander stretched out an adventurous hand, seeking the sleepingbeast, but Florentino Ariza moved it away. He said: "Not now. I feel something strange, as ifsomeone were watching us." She aroused the cockatoo again with her joyous

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laughter. She said:

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"Not even Jonah's wife would swallow that story." Neither did she, of course, but she admitted itwas a good one, and the two of them loved each other for a long time in silence without makinglove again. At five o'clock, with the sun still high, she jumped out of bed, naked as always andwith the organdy ribbon in her hair, and went to find something to drink in the kitchen. But shehad not taken a single step out of the bedroom when she screamed in horror.

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She could not believe it. The only objects left in the house were the lamps attached to thewalls. All the rest, the signed furniture, the Indian rugs, the statues and the hand-woven tapestries,the countless trinkets made of precious stones and metals, everything that had made hers one ofthe most pleasant and best decorated houses in the city, everything, even the sacred cockatoo,everything had vanished. It had been carried out through the sea terrace without disturbing theirlove. All that was left were empty rooms with the four open windows, and a message painted onthe rear wall: This is what you get for fucking around. Captain Rosendo de la Rosa could neverunderstand why Ausencia Santander did not report the robbery, or try to get in touch with thedealers in stolen goods, or permit her misfortune to be mentioned again.

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Florentino Ariza continued to visit her in the looted house, whose furnishings were reducedto three leather stools that the thieves forgot in the kitchen, and the contents of the bedroom wherethe two of them had been. But he did not visit her as often as before, not because of the desolationin the house, as she supposed and as she said to him, but because of the novelty of a mule-drawntrolley at the turn of the new century, which proved to be a prodigious and original nest of free-flying little birds. He rode it four times a day, twice to go to the office, twice to return home, andsometimes when his reading was real, and most of the time when it was pretence , he would takethe first steps, at least, toward a future tryst

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. Later, when Uncle Leo XII put at his disposal acarriage drawn by two little grey mules with golden trappings, just like the one that belonged toPresident Rafael N煤帽 ez, he would long for those times on the trolley as the most fruitful of allhis adventures in falconry. He was right: there is no worse enemy of secret love than a carriagewaiting at the door. In fact, he almost always left it hidden at his house and made his hawkishrounds On foot so that he would not leave wheel marks in the dust. That is why he evoked withsuch great nostalgia the old trolley with its emaciated mules covered with sores, in which asideways glance was all one needed to know where love was. However, in the midst of so manytender memories, he could not elude his recollection of a helpless little bird whose name he neverknew and with whom he spent no more than half a frenetic night, but that had been enough to ruinthe innocent rowdiness of Carnival

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for him for the rest of his life.

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She had attracted his attention on the trolley for the fearlessness with which she travelledthrough the riotous public celebration. She could not have been more than twenty years old, andshe did not seem to share the spirit of Carnival, unless she was disguised as an invalid : her hairwas very light, long, and straight, hanging loose over her shoulders, and she wore a tunic of plain,unadorned linen

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. She was completely removed from the confusion of music in the streets, thehandfuls of rice powder, the showers of aniline thrown at the passengers on the trolley, whosemules were whitened with cornstarch and wore flowered hats during those three days of madness.

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Taking advantage of the confusion, Florentino Ariza invited her to have an ice with him, becausehe did not think he could ask for anything more. She looked at him without surprise. She said: "Iam happy to accept, but I warn you that I am crazy." He laughed at her witticism , and took her tosee the parade of floats from the balcony of the ice cream shop. Then he put on a rented cape , andthe two of them joined the dancing in the Plaza of the Customhouse, and enjoyed themselves likenewborn sweethearts, for her indifference went to the opposite extreme in the uproar of the night: she danced like a professional, she was imaginative and daring in her revelry, and she haddevastating charm.

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"You don't know the trouble you've got into with me," she shouted, laughing in the fever ofCarnival. "I'm a crazy woman from the insane asylum

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."For Florentino Ariza, that night was a return to the innocent unruliness of adolescence , whenhe had not yet been wounded by love. But he knew, more from hearsay than from personalexperience, that such easy happiness could not last very long. And so before the night began todegenerate, as it always did after prizes were distributed for the best costumes, he suggested to thegirl that they go to the lighthouse to watch the sunrise. She accepted with pleasure, but she wantedto wait until after they had given out the prizes.

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Florentino Ariza was certain that the delay saved his life. In fact, the girl had indicated to himthat they should leave for the lighthouse, when she was seized by two guards and a nurse fromDivine Shepherdess Asylum. They had been looking for her since her escape at three o'clock thatafternoon--they and the entire police force. She had decapitated a guard and seriously woundedtwo others with a machete that she had snatched away from the gardener because she wanted to godancing at Carnival. It had not occurred to anyone that she might be dancing in the streets; theythought she would be hiding in one of the many houses where they had searched even the cisterns

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It was not easy to take her away. She defended herself with a pair of gardening shears thatshe had hidden in her bodice, and six men were needed to put her in the strait jacket while thecrowd jammed into the Plaza of the Customhouse applauded and whistled with glee in the beliefthat the bloody capture was one of many Carnival farces

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. Florentino Ariza was heartbroken, andbeginning on Ash Wednesday he would walk down Divine Shepherdess Street with a box ofEnglish chocolates for her. He would stand and look at the inmates , who shouted all kinds ofprofanities and compliments at him through the windows, and he would show them the box ofchocolates in case luck would have it that she, too, might look out at him through the iron bars.

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But he never saw her. Months later, as he was getting off the mule-drawn trolley, a little girlwalking with her father asked him for a piece of chocolate from the box he was carrying in hishand. Her father reprimanded her and begged Florentino Ariza's pardon. But he gave the wholebox to the child, thinking that the action would redeem him from all bitterness, and he soothed thefather with a pat on the back.

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