Aureli-ano DID NOT leave Melquíades' room for a long time. He learned by heart the fantastic legends of the crumbling books, the synthesis the studies of Hermann the Cripple, the notes on the science of demonology, the keys to the philosopher's stone, the Centuries of Nostradamus and his research concerning the plague, so that he reached adolescence without knowing a thing about his own time but with the basic knowledge of a medieval man. Any time that Santa Sofía de la Piedad would go into his room she would find him absorbed in his reading. At dawn she would bring him a mug of coffee without sugar and at noon a plate of rice slices of fried plantain, which were the only things eaten in the house since the death of Aureli-ano Segun-do. She saw that his hair was cut, picked off the nits, took in to his size the old clothing that she found in forgotten trunks, and when his mustache began to appear the brought him Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía's razor and the small gourd he had used as a shaving mug. None of the latter's children had looked so much like him, not even Aureli-ano José, particularly in respect to the prominent cheekbones and the firm and rather pitiless line of the lips. As had happened to úrsula with Aureli-ano Segun-do when the latter was studying in the room, Santa Sofía de la Piedad thought that Aureli-ano was talking to himself. Actually, he was talking to Melquíades. One burning noon, a short time after the death of the twins, against the light of the window he saw the gloomy old man with his crow's-wing hat like the materialization of a memory that had been in his head since long before he was born. Aureli-ano had finished classifying the alphabet of the parchments, so that when Melquíades asked him if he had discovered the language in which they had been written he did not hesitate to answer.

"Sanskrit," he said.

Melquíades revealed to him that his opportunities to return to the room were limited. But he would go in peace to the meadows of the ultimate death because Aureli-ano would have time to learn Sanskrit during the years remaining until the parchments became one hundred years old, when they could be deciphered. It was he who indicated to Aureli-ano that on the narrow street going down to the river, where dreams had been interpreted during the time of the banana company, a wise Catalonian had a bookstore where there was a Sanskrit primer, which would be eaten by the moths within six years if he did not hurry to buy it. For the first time in her long life Santa Sofía de la Piedad let a feeling show through, and it was a feeling of wonderment when Aureli-ano asked her to bring him the book that could be found between Jerusalem Delivered and Milton's poems on the extreme right-hand side of the second shelf of the bookcases. Since she could not read, she memorized what he had said and got some money by selling one of the seventeen little gold fishes left in the workshop, the whereabouts of which, after being hidden the night the soldiers searched the house, was known only by her and Aureli-ano.

Aureli-ano made progress in his studies of Sanskrit as Melquíades' visits became less and less frequent and he was more distant, fading away in the radiant light of noon. The last time that Aureli-ano sensed him he was only an invisible presence who murmured: "I died of fever on the sands of Singapore." The room then became vulnerable to dust, heat, termites, red ants, and moths, who would turn the wisdom of the parchments into sawdust.

There was no shortage of food in the house. The day after the death of Aureli-ano Segun-do, one of the friends who had brought the wreath with the irreverent inscription offered to pay Fernanda some money that he had owed her husband. After that every Wednesday a delivery boy brought a basket of food that was quite sufficient for a week. No one ever knew that those provisions were being sent by Petra Cotes with the idea that the continuing charity was a way humiliating the person who had humiliated her. Nevertheless, the rancor disappeared much sooner than she herself had expected, and then she continued sending the food out of pride and finally out of compassion. Several times, when she had no animals to raffle off and people lost interest in the lottery, she went without food so that Fernanda could have something to eat, and she continued fulfilling the pledge to herself until she saw Fernanda's funeral procession pass by.

For Santa Sofía de la Piedad the reduction in the number of inhabitants of the house should have meant the rest she deserved after more than half a century of work. Never a lament had been heard from that stealthy, impenetrable woman who had sown in the family the angelic seed of Remedios the Beauty and the mysterious solemnity of José Arcadio Segun-do; who dedicated a whole life of solitude and diligence to the rearing of children although she could barely remember whether they were her children or grandchildren, and who took care of Aureli-ano as if he had come out of her womb, not knowing herself that she was his great--grandmother. Only in a house like that was it conceivable for her always to sleep on a mat she laid out on the pantry floor in the midst of the nocturnal noise of the rats, and without telling anyone that one night she had awakened with the frightened feeling that someone was looking at her in the darkness and that it was a poisonous snake crawling over her stomach. She knew that if she had told úrsula, the latter would have made her sleep in her own bed, but those were times when no one was aware of anything unless it was shouted on the porch, because with the bustle of the bakery, the surprises of the war, the care of the children, there was not much room for thinking about other peoples happiness. -Petra Cotes whom she had never seen, was the only one who remembered her. She saw to it that she had a good pair of shoes for street wear, that she always had clothing, even during the times when the raffles were working only through some miracle. When Fernanda arrived at the house she had good reason to think that she was an ageless servant, even though she heard it said several times that she was her husband's mother it was so incredible that it took her longer to discover it than to forget it. Santa Sofía de la Piedad never seemed bothered by that lowly position. On the contrary, one had the impression that she liked to stay in the corners, without a pause, without a complaint, keeping clean and in order the immense house that she had lived in ever since adolescence and that, especially during the time of the banana company, was more like a barracks than a home. But when úrsula died the superhuman diligence of Santa Sofía de la Piedad, her tremendous capacity for work, began to fall apart. It was not only that she was old and exhausted, but overnight the house had plunged into a crisis of senility. A soft moss grew up the walls. When there was no longer a bare spot in the courtyard, the weeds broke through the cement the porch, breaking it like glass, and out of the cracks grew the same yellow flowers that úrsula had found in the glass with Melquíades' false teeth a century before. With neither the time nor the resources to halt the challenge of nature, Santa Sofía de la Piedad spent the day in the bedrooms driving out the lizards who would return at night. One morning she saw that the red ants had left the undermined foundations, crossed the garden, climbed up the railing, where the begonias had taken on an earthen color, and had penetrated into the heart of the house. She first tried to kill them with a broom, then with insecticides, and finally with lye, but the next day they were back in the same place, still passing by, tenacious and invincible. Fernanda, writing letters to her children, was not aware of the unchecked destructive attack. Santa Sofía de la Piedad continued struggling alone, fighting the weeds to stop them from getting into the kitchen, pulling from the walls the tassels of spider webs which were rebuilt in a few hours, scraping off the termites. But when she saw that Melquíades' room was also dusty and filled with cobwebs even though she swept and dusted three times a day, and that in spite of her furious cleaning it was threatened by the debris and the air of misery that had been foreseen only by Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía and the young officer, she realized that she was defeated. Then she put on her worn Sunday dress, some old shoes of úrsula's, and a pair of cotton stockings that Amaranta úrsula had given her, and she made a bundle out of the two or three changes of clothing that she had left.

"I give up," she said to Aureli-ano. "This is too much house for my poor bones."

Aureli-ano asked her where she was going and she made a vague sign, as if she did not have the slightest idea of her destination. She tried to be more precise, however, saying that she was going to spend her last years with a first cousin who lived in Riohacha. It was not a likely explanation. Since the death of her parents she had not had contact with anyone in town or received letters or messages, nor had she been heard to speak of any relatives. Aureli-ano gave her fourteen little gold fishes because she was determined to leave with only she had: one peso and twenty-five cents. From the window of the room he saw her cross the courtyard with her bundle of clothing, dragging her feet and bent over by her years, and he saw her reach hand through an opening in the main door and replace the bar after she had gone out. Nothing was ever heard of her again.

When she heard about the flight, Fernanda ranted for a whole day as she checked trunks, dressers, closets, item by item, to make sure that Santa Sofía de la Piedad had not made off with anything. She burned her fingers trying to light a fire for the first time in life and she had to ask Aureli-ano to do her the favor of showing her how to make coffee. Fernanda would find her breakfast ready when she arose and she would leave her room again only to get the meal that Aureli-ano had left covered on the embers for her, which she would carry to the table to eat on linen tablecloths and between candelabra, sitting at the solitary head of the table facing fifteen empty chairs. Even under those circumstances Aureli-ano and Fernanda did not share their solitude, but both continued living on their own, cleaning their respective rooms while the cobwebs fell like snow on the rose bushes, carpeted the beams, cushioned the walls. It was around that time that Fer-nanda got the impression that the house was filling up with elves. It was as if things, especially those for everyday use, had developed a faculty for changing location on their own. Fernanda would waste time looking for the shears that she was sure she had put on the bed and after turning everything upside down she would find them on a shelf in the kitchen, where she thought she had not been for four days. Suddenly there was no fork in the silver chest and she would find six on the altar and three in the washroom. That wandering about of things was even more exasperating when she sat down to write. The inkwell that she had placed at her right would be on the left, the blotter would be lost and she would find it two days later under her pillow, and the pages written to José Arcadio would get mixed up with those written to Amaranta úrsula, and she always had the feeling of mortification that she had put the letters in opposite envelopes, as in fact happened several times. On one occasion she lost her fountain pen. Two weeks later the mailman, who had found it in his bag, returned it. He had been going from house to house looking for its owner. At first she thought it was some business of the invisible doctors, like the disappearance of the pessaries, and she even started a letter to them begging them to leave her alone, but she had to interrupt it to do something and when she went back to her room she not only did not find the letter she had started but she had forgotten the reason for writing it. For a time she thought it was Aureli-ano. She began to spy on him, to put things in his path trying to catch him when he changed their location, but she was soon convinced that Aureli-ano never left Melquíades' room except to go to the kitchen or the toilet, and that he was not a man to play tricks. So in the end she believed that it was the mischief elves and she decided to secure everything in the place where she would use it. She tied the shears to the head of her bed with a long string. She tied the pen and the blotter to the leg of the table, and the glued the inkwell to the top of it to the right of the place where she normally wrote. The problems were not solved overnight, because a few hours after she had tied the string to the shears it was not long enough for her to cut with, as if the elves had shortened it. The same thing happened to her with the string to the pen and even with her own arm which after a short time of writing could not reach the inkwell. Neither Amaranta úrsula in Brussels nor José Arcadio in Rome ever heard about those insignificant misfortunes. Fernanda told them that she was happy and in reality she was, precisely because she felt free from any compromise, as if life were pulling her once more toward the world of her parents, where one did not suffer with day-to-day problems because they were solved beforehand in one's imagination. That endless correspondence made her lose sense of time, especially after Santa Sofía de la Piedad had left. She had been accustomed to keep track of the days, months, and years, using as points of reference the dates set for the return of her children. But when they changed their plans time and time again, the dates became confused, the periods were mislaid, and one day seemed so much like another that one could not feel them pass. Instead of becoming impatient, she felt a deep pleasure in the delay. It did not worry her that many years after announcing the eve of his final vows, José Arcadio was still saying that he was waiting to finish his studies in advanced theology in order to undertake those in diplomacy, because she understood how steep and paved with obstacles was the spiral stairway that led to the throne of Saint Peter. On the othand, her spirits rose with news that would have been insignificant for other people, such as the fact that her son had seen the Pope. She felt a similar pleasure when Amaranta úrsula wrote to tell her that studies would last longer than the time foreseen because her excellent grades had earned her privileges that her father had not taken into account in his calculations.

More than three years had passed since Santa Sofía de la Piedad had brought him the grammar when Aureli-ano succeeded in translating the first sheet. It was not a useless chore. but it was only a first step along a road whose length it was impossible to predict, because the text in Spanish did not mean anything: the lines were in code. Aureli-ano lacked the means to establish the keys that would permit him to dig them out, but since Melquíades had told him that the books he needed to get to the bottom of the parchments were in the wise Catalonian's store, he decided to speak to Fernanda so that she would let him get them. In the room devoured by rubble, whose unchecked proliferation had finally defeated it, he thought about the best way to frame the request, but when he found Fernanda taking her meal from the embers, which was his only chance to speak to her, the laboriously formulated request stuck in his throat he lost his voice. That was the only time that he watched her. He listened to her steps in the bedroom. He heard her on her way to the door to await the letters from her children and to give hers to the mailman, and he listened until late at night to the harsh, impassioned scratching pen on the paper before hearing the sound of the light switch and the murmur of her prayers in the darkness. Only then did he go to sleep, trusting that on the following day the awaited opportunity would come. He became so inspired with the idea that permission would be granted that one morning he cut his hair, which at that time reached down to his shoulders, shaved off his tangled beard, put on some tight-fitting pants and a shirt with an artificial collar that he had inherited from he did not know whom, and waited in the kitchen for Fernanda to get her breakfast. The woman of every day, the one with her head held high and with a stony gait, did not arrive, but an old woman of supernatural beauty with a yellowed ermine cape, a crown gilded cardboard, and the languid look of a person who wept in secret. Actually, ever since she had found it in Aureli-ano Segun-do's trunks, Fernanda had put on the motheaten queen's dress many times. Anyone who could have seen her in front of the mirror, in ecstasy over her own regal gestures, would have had reason to think that she was mad. But she was not. She had simply turned the royal regalia into a device for her memory. The first time that she put it on she could not help a knot from forming in her heart and her eyes filling with tears because at that moment she smelled once more the odor of shoe polish on the boots of the officer who came to get her at her house to make her a queen, and her soul brightened with the nostalgia of her lost dreams. She felt so old, so worn out, so far away from the best moments life that she even yearned for those that she remembered as the worst, and only then did she discover how much she missed the whiff of oregano on the porch and the smell of the roses at dusk, and even the bestial nature of the parvenus. Her heart of compressed ash, which had resisted the most telling blows of daily reality without strain, fell apart with the first waves of nostalgia. The need to feel sad was becoming a vice as the years eroded her. She became human in her solitude. Nevertheless, the morning on which she entered the kitchen and found a cup of coffee offered her by a pale and bony adolescent with a hallucinated glow in his eyes, the claws of ridicule tore at her. Not only did she refuse him permission, but from then on she carried the keys to the house in the pocket where she kept the unused pessaries. It was a useless precaution because if he had wanted to, Aureli-ano could have escaped and even returned to the house without being seen. But the prolonged captivity, the uncertainty of the world, the habit of obedience had dried up the seeds of rebellion in his heart. So that he went back to his enclosure, reading and rereading the parchments and listening until very late at night to Fernanda sobbing in bedroom. One morning he went to light the fire as usual on the extinguished ashes he found the food that he had left for her the day before. Then he looked into bedroom and saw her lying on the bed covered with the ermine cape, more beautiful than ever and with her skin turned into an ivory casing. Four months later, when José Arcadio arrived, he found her intact.

It was impossible to conceive of a man more like his mother. He was wearing a somber taffeta suit, a shirt with a round and hard collar, and a thin silk ribbon tied in a bow in place of a necktie. He was ruddy and languid with a startled look and weak lips. His black hair, shiny and smooth, parted in the middle of his head by a straight and tired line, had the same artificial appearance as the hair on the saints. The shadow of a well-uprooted beard on his paraffin face looked like a question of conscience. His hands were pale, with green veins and fingers that were like parasites, and he wore a solid gold ring with a round sunflower opal on his left index finger. When he opened the street door Aureli-ano did not have to be told who he was to realize that he came from far away. With his steps the house filled up with the fragrance of the toilet water that úrsula used to splash on him when he was a child in order to find him in the shadows, in some way impossible to ascertain, after so many years of absence. José Arcadio was still an autumnal child, terribly sad and solitary. He went directly to his mother's bedroom, where Aureli-ano had boiled mercury for four months in his grandfather's grandfather's water pipe to conserve the body according to Melquíades' formula. José Arcadio did not ask him any questions. He kissed the corpse on the forehead and withdrew from under her skirt the pocket of casing which contained three as yet unused pessaries and the key to her cabinet. He did everything with direct and decisive movements, in contrast to his languid look. From the cabinet he took a small damascene chest with the family crest and found on the inside, which was perfumed with sandalwood, the long letter in which Fernanda unburdened her heart of the numerous truths that she had hidden from him. He read it standing up, avidly but without anxiety, and at the third page he stopped and examined Aureli-ano with a look of second recognition.

"So," he said with a voice with a touch of razor in it, "You're the bastard."

"I'm Aureli-ano Buendía."

"Go to your room," José Arcadio said.

Aureli-ano went and did not come out again even from curiosity when he heard the sound of the solitary funeral ceremonies. Sometimes, from the kitchen, he would see José Arcadio strolling through the house, smothered by his anxious breathing, he continued hearing his steps in the ruined bedrooms after midnight. He did not hear his voice for many months, not only because José Arcadio never addressed him, but also because he had no desire for it to happen or time to think about anything else but the parchments. On Fernanda's death he had taken out the next-to-the-last little fish and gone to the wise Catalonian's bookstore in search of the books he needed. Nothing he saw along the way interested him, perhaps because he lacked any memories for comparison and the deserted streets and desolate houses were the same as he had imagined them at a time when he would have given his soul to know them. He had given himself the permission denied by Fernanda and only once and for the minimum time necessary, so without pausing he went along the eleven blocks that separated the house from the narrow street where dreams had been interpreted in other days he went panting into the confused and gloomy place where there was barely room to move. More than a bookstore, it looked like a dump for used books, which were placed in disorder on the shelves chewed by termites, in the corners sticky with cobwebs, and even in the spaces that were supposed to serve as passageways. On a long table, also heaped with old books and papers, the proprietor was writing tireless prose in purple letters, somewhat outlandish, and on the loose pages of a school notebook. He had a handsome head of silver hair which fell down over his forehead like the plume a cockatoo, and his blue eyes, lively and close-set, revealed the gentleness of a man who had read all of the books. He was wearing short pants and soaking in perspiration, and he did not stop his writing to see who had come in. Aureli-ano had no difficulty in rescuing the five books that he was looking for from that fabulous disorder, because they were exactly where Melquíades had told him they would be. Without saying a word he handed them, along with the little gold fish, to the wise Catalonian the latter examined them, his eyelids contracting like two clams. "You must be mad," he said in his own language, shrugging his shoulders, and he handed back to Aureli-ano the five books and the little fish.

"You can have them" he said in Spanish. "The last man who read these books must have been Isaac the Blindman, so consider well what you're doing."

José Arcadio restored Meme's bedroom and had the velvet curtains cleaned and mended along with the damask on the canopy of the viceregal bed, and he put to use once more the abandoned bathroom where the cement pool was blackened by a fibrous and rough coating. He restricted his vest-pocket empire of worn, exotic clothing, false perfumes, and cheap jewelry to those places. The only thing that seemed to worry him in the rest of the house were the saints on the family altar, which he burned down to ashes one afternoon in a bonfire he lighted in the courtyard. He would sleep until past eleven o'clock. He would go to the bathroom in a shabby robe with golden dragons on it and a pair of slippers with yellow tassels, and there he would officiate at a rite which for its care and length recalled Remedios the Beauty. Before bathing he would perfume the pool with the salts that he carried in three alabaster flacons. He did not bathe himself with the gourd but would plunge into the fragrant waters and remain there for two hours floating on his back, lulled by the coolness and by the memory of Amaranta. A few days after arriving he put aside his taffeta suit, which in addition to being too hot for the town was the only one that he had, and he exchanged it for some tight-fitting pants very similar to those worn by Pietro Crespi during his dance lessons and a silk shirt woven with thread from living caterpillars and with his initials embroidered over the heart. Twice a week he would wash the complete change in the tub and would wear his robe until it dried because he had nothing else to put on. He never ate at home. He would go out when the heat of siesta time had eased and would not return until well into the night. Then he would continue his anxious pacing, breathing like a cat and thinking about Amaranta. She the frightful look of the saints in the glow of the nocturnal lamp were the two memories he retained of the house. Many times during the hallucinating Roman August he had opened his eyes in the middle of his sleep and had seen Amaranta rising out of a marble--edged pool with her lace petticoats and the bandage on her hand, idealized by the anxiety of exile. Unlike Aureli-ano José who tried to drown that image in the bloody bog of war, he tried to keep it alive in the sink of concupiscence while he entertained his mother with the endless fable of his pontifical vocation. It never occurred either to him or to Fernanda to think that their correspondence was an exchange of fantasies. José Arcadio, who left the seminary as soon as he reached Rome, continued nourishing the legend of theology and canon law so as not to jeopardize the fabulous inheritance of which his mother's delirious letters spoke and which would rescue him from the misery and sordidness he shared with two friends in a Trastevere garret. When he received Fernanda's last letter, dictated by the foreboding of imminent death, he put the leftovers of his false splendor into a suitcase and crossed the ocean in the hold of a ship where immigrants were crammed together like cattle in a slaughterhouse, eating cold macaroni and wormy cheese. Before he read Fernanda's will, which was nothing but a detailed and tardy recapitulation of her misfortunes, the broken-down furniture and the weeds on the porch had indicated that he had fallen into a trap from which he would never escape, exiled forever from the diamond light and timeless air of the Roman spring. During the crushing insomnia brought on by his asthma he would measure and remeasure the depth of his misfortune as he went through the shadowy house where the senile fussing of úrsula had instilled a fear of the world in him. In order to be sure that she would not lose him in the shadows, she had assigned him a corner of the bedroom, the only one where he would be safe from the dead people who wandered through the house after sundown. "If you do anything bad," úrsula would tell him, "the saints will let me know." The terror-filled nights of his childhood were reduced to that corner where he would remain motionless until it was time to go to bed, perspiring with fear on a stool under the watchful and glacial eyes of the tattletale saints. It was useless torture because even at that time he already had a terror of everything around him and he was prepared to be frightened at anything he met in life: women on the street, who would ruin his blood; the women in the house, who bore children with the tail of a pig; fighting cocks, who brought on the death of men and remorse for the rest of one's life; firearms, which with the mere touch would bring down twenty years of war; uncertain ventures, which led only to disillusionment and madness--everything, in short, everything that God had created in His infinite goodness and that the devil had perverted. When he awakened, pressed in the vise of his nightmares, the light in the window and the caresses of Amaranta in the bath the pleasure of being powdered between the legs with a silk puff would release him from the terror. Even úrsula was different under the radiant light in the garden because there she did not talk about fearful things but would brush his teeth with charcoal powder so that he would have the radiant smile of a Pope, and she would cut and polish his nails so that the pilgrims who came to Rome from all over the world would be startled at the beauty of the Pope's hands as he blessed them, and she would comb his hair like that of a Pope, and she would sprinkle his body and his clothing with toilet water so that his body and his clothes would have the fragrance of a Pope. In the courtyard of Castel Gandolfo he had seen the Pope on a balcony making the same speech in seven languages for a crowd of pilgrims and the only thing, indeed, that had drawn his attention was the whiteness of his hands, which seemed to have been soaked in lye, the dazzling shine his summer clothing, and the hidden breath of cologne.

Almost a year after his return home, having sold the silver candlesticks and the heraldic chamberpot-which at the moment of truth turned out to have only a little gold plating on the crest-in order to eat, the only distraction of José Arcadio was to pick up children in town so that they could play in the house. He would appear with them at siesta time and have them skip rope in the garden, sing on the porch, and do acrobatics on the furniture in the living room while he would go among the groups giving lessons in good manners. At that time he had finished with the tight pants and the silk shirts and was wearing an ordinary suit of clothing that he had bought in the Arab stores, but he still maintained his languid dignity and his papal air. The children took over the house just as Meme's schoolmates had done in the past. Until well into the night they could be heard chattering and singing and tap-dancing, so that the house resembled a boarding school where there was no discipline. Aureli-ano did not worry about the invasion as long as they did not bother him in Melquíades' room. One morning two children pushed open the door and were startled at the sight of a filthy and hairy man who was still deciphering the parchments on the worktable. They did not dare go in, but they kept on watching the room. They would peep in through the cracks, whispering, they threw live animals in through the transom, and on one occasion they nailed up the door and the window and it took Aureli-ano half a day to force them open. Amused at their unpunished mischief, four of the children went into the room one morning while Aureli-ano was in the kitchen, preparing to destroy the parchments. But as soon as they laid hands on the yellowed sheets an angelic force lifted them off the ground and held them suspended in the air until Aureli-ano returned and took the parchments away from them. From then on they did not bother him.

The four oldest children, who wore short pants in spite of the fact that they were on the threshold of adolescence, busied themselves with José Arcadio's personal appearance. They would arrive earlier than the others and spend the morning shaving him, giving him massages with hot towels, cutting polishing the nails on his hands and feet, and perfuming him with toilet water. On several occasions they would get into the pool to soap him from head to toe as he floated on his back thinking about Amaranta. Then they would dry him, powder his body, dress him. One of the children, who had curly blond hair and eyes of pink glass like a rabbit, was accustomed to sleeping in the house. The bonds that linked him to José Arcadio were so strong that he would accompany him in his asthmatic insomnia, without speaking, strolling through the house with him in the darkness. One night in the room where úrsula had slept they saw a yellow glow coming through the crumbling cement as if an underground sun had changed the floor of the room into a pane of glass. They did not have to turn on the light. It was sufficient to lift the broken slabs in the corner where úrsula's bed had always stood and where the glow was most intense to find the secret crypt that Aureli-ano Segun-do had worn himself out searching for during the delirium of his excavations. There were the three canvas sacks closed with copper wire, and inside of them the seven thousand two hundred fourteen pieces of eight, which continued glowing like embers in the darkness.

"I have nothing to do outside," Aureli-ano answered him.

He remained shut up, absorbed in the parchments, which he was slowly unraveling and whose meaning, nevertheless, he was unable to interpret. José Arcadio would bring slices of ham to him in his room, sugared flowers which left a spring-like aftertaste in his mouth, and on two occasions a glass of fine wine. He was not interested in the parchments, which he thought of more as an esoteric pastime, but his attention was attracted by the rare wisdom and the inexplicable knowledge of the world that his desolate kinsman had. He discovered then that he could understand written English and that between parchments he had gone from the first page to the last of the six volumes of the encyclopedia as if it were a novel. At first he attributed to that the fact that Aureli-ano could speak about Rome as if he had lived there many years, but he soon became aware that he knew things that were not in the encyclopedia, such as the price of items. "Everything is known," was the only reply he received from Aureli-ano when he asked him where he had got that information from. Aureli-ano, for his part, was surprised that José Arcadio when seen from close by was so different from the image that he had formed of him when he saw him wandering through the house. He was capable of laughing, of allowing himself from time to time a feeling of nostalgia for the past of the house, and of showing concern for the state of misery present in Melquíades' room. That drawing closer together of two solitary people of the same blood was far from friendship, but it did allow them both to bear up better under the unfathomable solitude that separated and united them at the same time. José Arcadio could then turn to Aureli-ano to untangle certain domestic problems that exasperated him. Aureli-ano, in turn, could sit and read on the porch, waiting for the letters from Amaranta úrsula, which still arrived with the usual punctuality, and could use the bathroom, from which José Arcadio had banished him when he arrived.

One hot dawn they both woke up in alarm at an urgent knocking on the street door. It was a dark old man with large green eyes that gave his face a ghostly phosphorescence and with a cross of ashes on his forehead. His clothing in tatters, his shoes cracked, the old knapsack on his shoulder his only luggage, he looked like a beggar, but his bearing had a dignity that was in frank contradiction to his appearance. It was only necessary to look at him once, even in the shadows of the parlor, to realize that the secret strength that allowed him to live was not the instinct of self-preservation but the habit of fear. It was Aureli-ano Amador, the only survivor of Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía's seventeen sons, searching for a respite in his long and hazardous existence as a fugitive. He identified himself, begged them to give him refuge in that house which during his nights as a pariah he had remembered as the last redoubt of safety left for him in life. But José Arcadio and Aureli-ano did not remember him. Thinking that he was a tramp, they pushed him into the street. They both saw from the doorway the end of a drama that had began before José Arcadio had reached the age of reason. Two policemen who had been chasing Aureli-ano Amador for years, who had tracked like blood-hounds across half the world, came out from among the almond trees on the opposite sidewalk and took two shots with their Mausers which neatly penetrated the cross of ashes.

Ever since he had expelled the children from the house, José Arcadio was really waiting for news of an ocean liner that would leave for Naples before Christmas. He had told Aureli-ano and had even made plans to set him up in a business that would bring him a living, because the baskets of food had stopped coming since Fernanda's burial. But that last dream would not be fulfilled either. One September morning, after having coffee in the kitchen with Aureli-ano, José Arcadio was finishing his daily bath when through the openings in the tiles the four children he had expelled from the house burst in. Without giving him time to defend himself, they jumped into the pool fully clothed, grabbed him by the hair, and held his head under the water until the bubbling of his death throes ceased on the surface and his silent and pale dolphin body dipped down to the bottom of the fragrant water. Then they took out the three sacks of gold from the hiding place which was known only to them and their victim. It was such a rapid, methodical, and brutal action that it was like a military operation. Aureli-ano, shut up in his room, was not aware of anything. That afternoon, having missed him in the kitchen, he looked for José Arcadio all over the house and found him floating on the perfumed mirror of the pool, enormous and bloated still thinking about Amaranta. Only then did he understand how much he had began to love him.

奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚在梅尔加德斯房间里又度过了一些漫长的岁月。在这个房间里，他背诵破书中的幻想故事，阅读赫尔曼。克里珀修士的学说简述，看看关于鬼神学的短评，了解点金石的寻找方法，细读诺斯特拉达马斯的《世纪》和他关于瘟疫的研究文章，就这样跨过了少年时代；他对自己的时代没有任何概念，却掌握了中世纪人类最重要的科学知识。圣索菲娅。德拉佩德无论什么时刻走进房间，总碰见奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚在埋头看书。一大早，她给他送来一杯清咖啡，晌午又给他送来一碗米饭和几小片炸香蕉——奥雷连诺第二死后家里唯一的一种吃食。她给他剪头发、蓖头屑，给他改做收藏在箱子里的旧外衣和旧衬衫；见他脸上长了胡子，又给他拿来奥雷连诺上校的刮脸刀和剃胡子用的水杯。梅梅的这个儿子比上校自己的亲儿子更象上校，甚至比奥雷连诺。霍塞更象上校，特别是他那突出的颧骨，坚毅而傲慢的嘴巴，更加强了这种相似。从前，一听到坐在梅尔加德斯房间里的奥雷连诺第二开口，乌苏娜就以为他似乎在自言自语，如今圣索菲娅。德拉佩德对奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚也有同样的想法。事实上，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚（即前面所说的小奥雷连诺。）是在跟梅尔加德斯谈话。一对孪生兄弟死后不久，一个酷热的晌午，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚在明亮的窗子背景上看见一个阴森的老头儿，戴着乌鸦翅膀似的宽边帽；这个老头儿好象是奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚出生之前很久的某个模糊形象的化身。那时，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚已经完成羊皮纸手稿全部字母的分类工作。所以，梅尔加德斯问他知不知道是用哪一种文字作的这些记录时，他毫不犹豫地回答：“梵文。”

梅尔加德斯说，他能看到自己这个房间的日子剩得不多了。不过，在羊皮纸手稿满一百周年之前的这些年月里，他一旦知道奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚学会了梵文，能够破译它们，他将放心地走到最终死亡的葬身地去。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚正是从他那儿得知，香蕉公司还在这儿的时候，在人们占卜未来和圆梦的那条朝着小河的小街上，有一个博学的加泰隆尼亚人开设的一家书店，那儿就有梵文语法书，他应当赶紧弄到它，否则六年之后它就会被蛀虫蛀坏。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚忙请圣索菲娅。德拉佩德去给他买这本书，此书是放在书架第二排右角《解放的耶路撒冷》和密尔顿诗集之间的。在自己漫长的生活中，圣索菲娅。德拉佩德心中第一次不由自主地产生一种奇特的感觉。圣索菲娅。德拉佩德不识字，她只好背熟奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚的话，为了弄到买书的钱，她卖掉了藏在首饰作坊里的十七条小金鱼当中的一条；那天晚上士兵们搜查住宅之后。只有她和奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚知道这些小金鱼放在哪儿。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚在梵文学习中取得一些成绩之后，梅加泰隆尼亚系西班牙西北部的一个地区。尔加德斯来的次数越来越少了，变得越来越遥远了，逐渐消溶在晌午那种令人目眩的强光中了。老头儿最后一次来的时候，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚甚至没有看见他，只是感到他那虚无飘渺的存在，辨别出了他那勉强使人能够听清的低语声：“我患疟疾死在新加坡的沙滩上了。”从那一天起，梅尔加德斯的房间里开始毫无阻拦地钻进了灰尘、热气、白蚂蚁、红蚂蚁和蛀虫一——这些蛀虫将把书籍和羊皮纸手稿连同它们那些绝对玄奥的内容一起变成废物。

家里并不缺少吃的。但是奥雷连诺第二死后第二天，在送那只写了一句不恭敬题词的花圈的人当中，有一个朋友向菲兰达提出，要付清从前欠她亡夫的钱。从这一天起，每星期三，就有一个人来到这儿，手里提着一只装满各种食物的藤篮，藤篮里的食物吃一个星期还绰绰有余。家里谁也不知道。这些食物都是佩特娜。柯特送来的，她以为固定的施舍是贬低那个曾经贬低她的人的一种有效方式。其实，佩特娜。柯特心里的怒气消失得比她自己预料得还快，就这样，奥雷连诺第二昔日的情妇，最初是出于自豪，后来则是出于同情，继续给他的寡妇送食物来。过了一些日子，佩特娜。柯特没有足够的力量出售彩票了，人们对抽彩也失去了兴趣。当时，她自己也饥肠辘辘地坐着，却还供养菲兰达，依然尽着自己肩负的责任，直到目睹对方入葬。

家里的人数少了，似乎应该减轻圣索菲娅。德拉佩德挑了五十多年的日常家务重担了。这个沉默寡言、不爱交际的女人，从来没有对谁说过什么怨言，她为全家养育了天使一般善良的俏姑娘雷麦黛丝、高傲得古怪的霍。阿卡蒂奥第二，他把自己孤独寂寞的一生都献给了孩子，而他们却未必记得自己是她的儿女和孙子；她象照顾亲骨肉似的照顾奥雷连诺，布恩蒂亚，因为她并不怀疑他事实上也是她的曾孙子，如果是在其他人的住所里，她自然不必把被褥铺在储藏室的地板上睡觉，整夜听着老鼠不停的喧闹。她对谁也没讲过，有一次半夜里，她感到有人从黑暗中望着她，吓得她一下子醒了过来：原来有一条腹蛇顺着她的肚子往外爬去，圣索菲娅。德拉佩德知道，如果她把这桩事讲给乌苏娜听，乌苏娜准会要她睡在自己的床上，不过，那一阵谁也没有发现什么。如要引起别人的注意，还得在长廊上大叫大嚷才行，因为令人疲惫不堪的烤面包活、战争的动乱、对儿女们的照料，并没有给人留下时间来考虑旁人的安全。唯一记得圣索菲娅。德拉佩德的人，只是从未跟她见过一面的佩特娜。柯特。甚至在那些困难的日子里，佩特娜。柯特和奥雷连诺第二不得不每夜把出售彩票得来的微薄的钱分成一小堆一小堆时，她都一直关心圣索菲娅。德拉佩德，让她有一套体面衣服、一双优质鞋子，以便穿着它们毫不羞愧地上街。然而，菲兰达总把圣索菲娅。德拉佩德错当做固定的女仆。虽然大家曾经多次向她强调说明圣索菲娅。德拉佩德是什么人，菲兰达照旧不以为然；她勉强理解以后，一下子又忘记站在她面前的是她丈夫的母亲、她的婆婆了。圣索菲娅。德拉佩德压根儿没为自己的从属地位感到苦恼。相反地，她甚至好象很喜欢一刻不停地默默地在一个个房间里走来走去，察看房子里的各个角落，使偌大的一座房子保持整齐清洁。她从少女时代就生活在这座房子里，尽管这座房子与其说象个家园，还不如说象个兵营，特别是香蕉公司还在这儿的时候，可是乌苏娜死后，圣索菲娅。德拉佩德却无视自己非凡的麻利劲儿和惊人的劳动能力，开始泄气了，这例不是因为她自己已经变得老态龙钟、精疲力竭，而是因为这座房子老朽得一小时比一小时不堪入目。墙壁蒙上一层茸茸的青苔，整个院子长满了野草，长廊的水泥地在杂草的挤压下象玻璃似的破裂开来。大约一百年前，乌苏娜曾在梅尔加德斯放假牙的杯子里发现的那种小黄花，也一朵一朵地透过裂缝冒了出来。圣索菲娅。德拉佩德既无时间、又无精力来抵抗大自然的冲击，只好一天一天地在卧室里过日子，把每天夜里返回来的蜥蜴赶跑。有一天早晨，她看见一群红蚂蚁离开它们破坏了的地基，穿过花园，爬上长廊，把枯萎的秋海棠弄成了土灰色，径直钻到了房子深处。圣索菲娅。德拉佩德试图消灭它们，起先只是靠扫帚的帮助，接着使用了杀虫剂，最后撒上了生石灰，然而一切都无济于事——第二天到处又爬满了红蚂蚁，它们极为顽固、无法灭绝。菲兰达专心地忙着给儿女们写信，没有意识到速度吓人、难以遏制的破坏。圣索菲娅。德拉佩德不得不孤军作战：她跟杂草搏斗，不让它们窜进厨房；掸掉墙上几小时后又会出现的蜘蛛网；把红蚂蚁撵出它们的洞穴。她发现灰尘和蜘蛛网甚至钻进了梅尔加德斯的房间，她一天三次打扫收拾，拼命保持房间的清洁，可是房间越来越明显地呈现一种肮脏可怜的外貌，曾预见到这种外貌的只有两个人——奥雷连诺上校和一个年轻的军官。于是，她穿上那件破烂的袜子——阿玛兰塔。乌苏娜的礼物，——又把自己剩下的两三件换洗衣服捆成个小包袱，准备离开这座房子。

“对我这把穷骨头来说，这座房子实在太宏伟了，”她对奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚说。“我再也住不下去了！”

奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚问她想去哪儿，她含糊地摆了摆手，似乎一点也不知道自己未来的命运。她只是说，打算到一个住在列奥阿察的表妹那儿去度过最后的几年，但这番话简直无法令人相信。从自己的双亲相继去世以来，圣索菲娅。德拉佩德在马孔多跟任何人都没有联系，也没从什么地方收到过一封信或者一个邮包，甚至一次也没讲过她有什么亲戚。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚只好送给她十四条小金鱼，因为她打算带走的只是自已的那一点储蓄：一比索二十五生丁。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚从窗口望着她在年岁的重压下，伛偻着身子，拖着两条腿，拎着那只小包袱，慢慢走过院子；望着她把手伸进篱笆门的闩孔里，又随手放下了门闩。从此他再没有见到过她，再也没有听到过她的什么消息。

知道圣索菲娅。德拉佩德走了，菲兰达喋喋不休地唠叨了整整一天；她翻遍了所有的箱子、五斗橱和柜子，把所有的东西一件一件地查看一遍，这才确信自己的婆婆没有顺手拿走什么东西。然后，她有生以来第一次试着生炉子，不料烫痛了手指。她不得不请奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚帮忙，给她示范一下怎样煮咖啡。不久，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚只好把厨房里所有的事都承担起来。每天一起床，菲兰达就发现早餐已经摆在桌上，刚吃过早餐。她便回卧室去，直到午餐时刻才又露面，为的是拿奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚给她留下的吃食，吃食是放在散发着木炭余热的炉子上的。她把几样简单的食物拿到餐厅里，在两个枝形烛台之间，在铺着亚麻桌布的餐桌前面，她端坐下来用餐，桌子两旁放着十五把空椅子。虽然房子里只剩下了奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚和菲兰达两个人，可是每人依然生活在自己的孤独之中。他们只是收拾各自的卧室，其他一切地方都渐渐布满了蜘蛛网，它们绕在玫瑰花丛上，贴在墙壁上，甚至房梁上都有一层密密的蜘蛛网。就在这些日子，菲兰达心里产生了一种感觉，仿佛他们的房间里出现了家神。各样东西，特别是少了它们一天也过不了的，仿佛都长了腿。一把剪刀可以使菲兰达找上好几个小时，但她深信剪刀明明是放在床上的，直到她翻遍整个床铺之后，才在厨房的隔板上发现它，尽管她觉得自己已经整整四天没跨进厨房一步了。要不就是盒子里的餐叉又突然失踪，第二天，祭坛上却放着六把，洗脸盆里又冒出三把。各样东西好象跟她捉迷藏，特别是他坐下来写信时，这种游戏更使她冒火。刚刚放在右边的墨水瓶却移到了左边，镇纸干脆从桌子上不翼而飞，三天之后，她却在自己的枕头底下找到了它，她写给霍。阿卡蒂奥的信，也不知怎的装进了写给阿玛兰塔。乌苏娜的信封。菲兰达生活在令人胆战心惊的恐惧之中，她总是套错信封，就象先前不止一次发生过的那样。有一次，她的一枝羽毛笔突然不见了。过了十五天，一个邮差却把它送了口来——他在自己的口袋里发现了这枝笔，为了寻找它的主人，他一家一家地送信，不知在身上带了多久。起先，菲兰达心想，这些东西的失踪就跟宫托的丢失一样，是那些没有见过的医生耍的花招，她正开始写信请他们不要打扰她，因为有点急事要做，写了半句就停了笔，等她回到屋里，信却不知去向，她自己甚至把写信的意图都给忘记了。有一阵，她曾怀疑奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚。她开始跟踪他，在他走过的地方悄悄扔下各种东西，指望他藏起它们的时候，当场把他抓住，但她很快确信，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚从梅尔加德斯房间里出来，只去厨房和厕所，而且相信他是个不会开玩笑的人。于是菲兰达认为，这一切都是家神玩的把戏，便决定把每样东西固定在它们应当放的地方。她用几根长绳把剪刀缚在床头上，把一小盒羽毛笔和镇纸投在桌子脚上，又把墨水瓶粘在桌面上经常放纸的地方的右面。可是，她并没有获得自己希望的效果：只要她做针线活，两三小时以后伸手就拿不到剪刀了，似乎家神缩短了那根缚住剪刀的绳子。那根拴住镇纸的绳子也发生了同样的情况，甚至菲兰达自己的手也是如此，只要她一提起笔来写信，过了一会儿，手就够不到墨水瓶了。无论布鲁塞尔的阿玛兰塔。乌苏娜，或者罗马的霍。阿卡蒂奥，一点都不知道她这些不愉快的事，她给他们写信，说她十分幸福，事实上她也确实是幸福的，她觉得自己卸掉了一切责任，仿佛又回到了娘家似的，不必跟日常琐事打交道了，因为所有这些小问题都解决了——在想象中解决了。菲兰达没完没了地写信，渐渐失去了时间观念，这种现象在圣索菲娅。德拉佩德走后特别明显。菲兰达一向都有计算年月日的习惯，她把儿女回家的预定日期当做计算的起点。谁知儿子和女儿开始一次又一次地推迟自己的归来，日期弄乱了，期限搞错了，日子不知如何算起，连日子正在一天天过去的感觉也没有了。不过这些延期并没有使菲兰达冒火，反而使她心里感到很高兴。甚至霍。阿卡蒂奥向她说，他希望修完高等神学课程之后再学习外交课程，她也没有见怪，尽管几年以前他已经写过信，说他很快就要履行返回马孔多的誓言；她知道，要想爬到圣徒彼得（耶稣十二门徒之一。）的地位是困难重重的，这个梯子弯弯曲曲，又高又陡，可不好爬。再譬如儿子告诉她，说他看见了教皇，就连这种在别人看来最平常的消息，也使她感到欣喜若狂。女儿写信告诉她说，由于学习成绩突出，她获得了父亲顶想不到的那种优惠待遇，可以超过规定的期限继续留在布鲁塞尔求学，这就更使菲兰达高兴了。

从圣索菲娅。德拉佩德为奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚买回一本梵文语法书的那一天起，时间不觉过了三年多，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚才译出一页羊皮纸手稿，毫无疑问，他在从事一项浩大的工程，但在那条长度无法测量的道路上，他只是迈开了第一步，因为翻译成西班牙文一时还毫无希望——那都是些用密码写成的诗。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚并没有掌握什么原始资料，以便找到破译这种密码的线索，他不由得想起梅尔加德斯曾说过，在博学的加泰隆尼亚人那家书店里，还有一些能使他洞悉羊皮纸手稿深刻含义的书，他决定跟菲兰达谈一次，要求菲兰达让他去找这些书。他的房间里垃圾成堆，垃圾堆正以惊人的速度扩大，差不多已经占满了所有的空间；奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚斟酌了这次谈话的每个字眼，考虑最有说服力的表达方式。预测各种最有利的情况。可是，他在厨房里遇见正从炉子上取下食物的菲兰达时——他没有跟菲兰达见面的其他机会，——他事先想好的那些话一下子都卡在喉咙里了，一声也没吭。他开始第一次跟踪菲兰达，窥伺她在卧室里走动，倾听他怎样走到门口从邮差手里接过儿女的来信，然后把自己的信交给邮差；一到深夜，他就留神偷听羽毛笔在纸上生硬的沙沙声，直到菲兰达啪的一声关了灯，开始喃喃祈祷，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚这才入睡，相信翌日会给他带来希望的机会。他一心一意指望得到菲兰达的允许，有一天早晨，他剪短了自己已经披到了肩上的头发，刮掉了一绺绺胡子，穿上一条牛仔裤和一件不知从谁那儿继承的扣领衬衫，走到厨房里去等候菲兰达来取吃食。但他遇见的不是从前每天出现在他面前的那个女人——一个高傲地昂首阔步的女人，而是一个异常美丽的老太婆，她身穿一件发黄的银鼠皮袍，头戴一顶硬纸板做成的金色王冠，一副倦怠模样儿，似乎在这之前还独自哭了好一阵。自从菲兰达在奥雷连诺第二的箱子里发现了这套虫子蛀坏的女王服装，她就经常把它穿在自己身上。凡是看见她在镜子前面转动身子，欣赏她那女王仪客的人，都毫无疑问地会把她当成一个疯子，但她并没有疯。对她来说，女王的服装只是成了她忆起往事的工具。她头一次把它穿上以后，不由得感到心里一阵辛酸，热泪盈眶，她好象又闻到了军人皮靴上散发出来的靴油味，那军人跟在她身后，想把她扮成一个女王；她满心怀念失去的幻想。但她感到自己已经那么衰老，那么憔悴，离开那些最美好的生活时刻已经那么遥远，她甚至怀念起了她一直认为最黑暗的日子，这时她才明白自己多么需要风儿吹过长廊带来的牛至草味儿，需要黄昏时分玫瑰花丛里袅袅升起的烟尘，甚至需要禽兽一般鲁莽的外国人，她的心——凝成一团的灰烬——虽然顺利地顶住了日常忧虑的沉重打击，却在怀旧的初次冲击下破碎了。她渴望在悲痛中寻求喜悦；随着岁月的流逝，这种渴求只是使菲兰达的心灵更加空虚，于是这种渴求也成了一种祸害。从此，孤独就使她变得越来越象家里其他的人了。然而那天早晨，她走进厨房，那个脸色苍白、瘦骨鳞峋、眼露惊讶的年轻人递给她一杯咖啡时，她不由得为自己的怪诞模样深感羞愧。菲兰达不但拒绝奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚的要求，还把房子的钥匙藏在那只放着宫托的秘密口袋里。这实在是一种多余的防范措施，因为奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚只要愿意，随时都可以溜出房子去，并且神不知鬼不觉地回来。但他过了多年孤独的生活，对周围的世界毫不信任，何况又养成了屈从的习惯，也就丧失了反抗的精神。他回到自己的斗室，一面继续研究羊皮纸手稿，一面倾听深夜里菲兰达卧室时里传来的沉重的叹息声，有一天早晨，他照例到厨房里去生炉子，却在冷却了的灰烬上，发现昨夜为菲兰达留下的午餐动也没有动过。他忍不住朝她的卧室里瞥了一眼，只见菲兰达挺直身子躺在床上，盖着那件银鼠皮袍，显得从未有过的美丽，皮肤变得象大理石那样光滑洁白。四个月以后，霍。阿卡蒂奥回到马孔多时，看见她就是这副模样。

想不到这个儿子格外象他的母亲。霍。阿卡蒂奥穿着黑塔夫绸的西服，衬衫领子又硬又圆，一条打着花结的缎带代替了领带。这是个脸色苍白、神情倦怠的人，露出一种诧异的目光，长着一个柔弱的嘴巴，光滑的黑发从中分开，纹路又直又细，这头圣徒的假发显示出矫揉造作的样子。他的面孔象石膏一样白，刮得千干净净的下颏留着一块块有点发青的阴影，似乎说明良心的谴责，他有一双青筋毕露、苍白浮肿的手——游手好闲者的手，左手无名指上嵌着圆形乳白色宝石的大戒指耀人眼目。奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚给他开门以后，一眼就看出站在他面前的是从远方来的人。他走过哪儿，哪儿就留下花露水的香味，在奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚还是个婴儿的时候，乌苏娜为了在双目失明的黑暗中找到他，也曾给他洒过这种花露水。不知怎的，多年不见，霍。阿卡蒂奥依然象从前一样，是个悒郁孤僻的小老头儿。他径直走进母亲的卧室，在这间卧室里，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚按照梅尔加德斯的处方，在属于他祖父的曾祖父的那只坩埚里，整整熬了四个月的水银，才使菲兰达的尸体没有腐烂。霍。阿卡蒂奥什么也没问。他俯身在已故的菲兰达额头上吻了一下，便从她那裙子的贴身口袋里掏出三只还没用过的宫托、一把衣橱钥匙。他那坚定利索的动作跟他那倦怠的神情实在不相称。他从衣橱里翻出那只刻着族徽的首饰箱，首饰箱是用一块绸子裹着的，透出檀香木的芬芳，他随手把它打开——只见箱底上放着一封长信；在这封信里，菲兰达倾诉了自己的衷肠，讲述了生前瞒着儿子的一切。霍。阿卡蒂奥站着，饶有兴昧地读完母亲的信，没有露出任何激动情绪；他在第三页上停顿了一下，就抬起头来，目不转睛地望着奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚，仿佛刚认识他似的。

“这么说，”他开口道，嗓音里有点刮胡子的响声。“你就是杂种罗？”

“我是奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚。”

“快滚回自己的房间去，”霍。阿卡蒂奥说。

奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚只好向自己的房间走去，连菲兰达孤寂的出殡也没去看一眼。有时，他从敞开的厨房门里望见霍。阿卡蒂奥气喘吁吁地在房子里走来走去，深夜听到一间间破旧的卧窒里传来他的脚步声。不过他一连几个月都没听到霍。阿卡蒂奥的嗓音，倒不是因为霍。阿卡蒂奥没跟他谈话，而是因为他自己既没有谈话的愿望，也没有时间考虑羊皮纸手稿以外的其他事情。菲兰达死后，他从地窖里取出仅存的两条小金鱼中的一条，到博学的加泰隆尼亚人那家书店里去买他需要的那几本书。他路上见到的一切都没引起他的任何兴趣，也许是他没有什么可以回忆的，没有什么可跟看见的事物相比较的；那些荒凉的街道和无人过问的房子，就跟以往一些日子他所想象的完全一样，当时只要望上它们一眼，哪怕献出整个身心他都愿意，从前菲兰达不准他出门，这一次是他自己允许自己的；他决心走出房子，不过仅这一次，在最短的时间里，怀着唯一的目的，所以他一刻不停地跑过十一条街道，正是这十一条街道把他家的房子和那条昔日有人圆梦的小街远远地隔开。他心里卜卜直跳，走进一间杂乱、昏暗的屋子，屋子里连转身的地方都没有。看来，这不是一家书店，而是一座旧书公墓，一堆堆旧书毫无秩序地放在蚂蚁啃坏的、布满蜘蛛网的书架上，不但放在书架上，还放在书架之间窄窄的过道里，放在地板上。在一张堆放着许多巨著的长桌上，店主正在不停地写着什么，既无头也无尾；他在练习簿里撕下一张张纸儿，写满了弯弯扭扭的紫色小字。他那漂亮的银白色头发垂在额上，犹如一绺白鹦鹉的羽毛。他象那些博览群书的人一样，滴溜溜的小眼睛里闪着温和善良的亮光。他满身大汗地坐在那儿。只穿着一条短裤，甚至没有抬头看来人一眼。在这乱得出奇的书堆里，奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚没有特别费劲就找出了他需要的五本书，它们正好放在梅尔加德斯指点过的地方。他一句话没说，就把挑选出来的几本书和一条小金鱼递给博学的加泰隆尼亚人，加泰隆尼亚人翻了翻书，眼脸又象蛤壳似地合上了。“你该不是疯了吧，”他讲了一句家乡话，耸耸肩膀，又把书和金鱼递给奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚。

“拿去吧，”他改用西班牙语说。“最后一个看这些书的人，大概是瞎子伊萨克，你可得仔细想想自己干的事情。”

这时，霍。阿卡蒂奥修复了梅梅的卧室，叫人把丝绒窗帷和总督床上的花帐幔洗干净，又整顿了一下浴室；浴室里水泥浴池的四壁上，不知蒙着一层什么东西，黑黝黝的，有点毛糙。他只是占用了卧室和浴室，在里面塞满了各种废物：弄脏的异国小玩意儿、廉价的香水和伪造的首饰。在其他的房间里，只有家庭祭坛上的圣徒塑像引起他的注意。但不知为什么没中他的意，有一天晚上，他从祭坛上取下那些塑像，搬到院子里，生起一堆火，把它们都烧成了灰。平时他总是中午十二点起床。醒来以后，穿上一件绣着金龙的破晨衣，把脚往一双镶着金流苏的拖鞋里一塞，就走进浴室，在那儿开始举行自己的沐浴程式，从它的隆重程度和缓慢劲儿来看，好象俏姑娘雷麦黛丝恪