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Amaranta and Pietro Crespi had, in fact, deepened their friendship, protected by úrsula, who this time did not think it necessary to watch over the visits. It was a twilight engagement. The Italian would arrive at dusk, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, and he would translate Petrarch's sonnets for Amaranta. They would sit on the porch, suffocated by the oregano and the roses, he reading and she sewing lace cuffs, indifferent to the shocks and bad news of the war, until the mosquitoes made them take refuge in the parlor. Amaranta's sensibility, her discreet but enveloping tenderness had been wearing an invisible web about her fiancé, which he had to push aside materially with his pale and ringless fingers in order to leave the house at eight o'clock. They had put together a delightful album with the postcards that Pietro Crespi received from Italy. They were pictures of lovers in lonely parks, with vignettes of hearts pierced with arrows and golden ribbons held by doves. "I've been to this park in Florence," Pietro Crespi would say, going through the cards. "A person can put out his hand and the birds will come to feed." Sometimes, over a watercolor of Venice, nostalgia would transform the smell of mud and putrefying shellfish of the canals into the warm aroma of flowers. Amaranta would sigh, laugh, and dream of a second homeland of handsome men and beautiful women who spoke a childlike language with ancient cities of whose past grandeur only the cats among the rubble remained.
After crossing the ocean in search of it, after having confused passion with the vehement stroking of Rebeca, Pietro Crespi had found love. Happiness was accompanied by prosperity. His warehouse at that time occupied almost a whole block and it was a hothouse of fantasy, with reproductions of the bell tower of Florence that told time with a concert of carillons, and music boxes from Sorrento and compacts from China that sang five-note melodies when they were opened, and all the musical instruments imaginable and all the mechanical toys that could be conceived. Bruno Crespi, his younger brother, was in charge of the store because Pietro Crespi barely had enough time to take care of the music school. Thanks to him the Street of the Turks, with its dazzling display of knickknacks, became a melodic oasis where one could forget Arcadio's arbitrary acts and the distant nightmare of the war. When úrsula ordered the revival of Sunday mass, Pietro Crespi donated a German harmonium to the church, organized a children's chorus, and prepared a Gregorian repertory that added a note of splendor to Father Nicanor's quiet rite. No one doubted that he would make Amaranta a fortunate mate. Not pushing their feelings, letting themselves be borne along by the natural flow of their hearth they reached a point where all that was left to do was set a wedding date. They did not encounter any obstacles. úrsula accused herself inwardly of having twisted Rebecca's destiny with repeated postponements and she was not about to add more remorse. The rigor of the mourning for Remedios had been relegated to the background by the mortifications of the war, Aureliano's absence, Arcadio's brutality, and the expulsion of José Arcadio and Rebeca. With the imminence of the wedding, Pietro Crespi had hinted that Aureliano José, in whom he had stirred up a love that was almost filial, would be considered their oldest child. Everything made Amaranta think that she was heading toward a smooth happiness. But unlike Rebeca, she did not reveal the slightest anxiety. With the same patience with which she dyed tablecloths, sewed lace masterpieces, and embroidered needlepoint peacocks, she waited for Pietro Crespi to be unable to bear the urges of his heart and more. Her day came with the illfated October rains. Pietro Crespi took the sewing basket from her lap and he told her, "We'll get married next month." Amaranta did not tremble at the contact with his icy hands. She withdrew hers like a timid little animal and went back to her work.
"Don't be simple, Crespi." She smiled. "I wouldn't marry you even if I were dead."
Pietro Crespi lost control of himself. He wept shamelessly, almost breaking his fingers with desperation, but he could not break her down. "Don't waste your time," was all that Amaranta said. "If you really love me so much, don't set foot in this house again." úrsula thought she would go mad with shame. Pietro Crespi exhausted all manner of pleas. He went through incredible extremes of humiliation. He wept one whole afternoon in úrsula's lap and she would have sold her soul in order to comfort him. On rainy nights he could be seen prowling about the house with an umbrella, waiting for a light in Amaranta's bedroom. He was never better dressed than at that time. His august head of a tormented emperor had acquired a strange air of grandeur. He begged Amaranta's friends, the ones who sewed with her on the porch, to try to persuade her. He neglected his business. He would spend the day in the rear of the store writing wild notes, which he would send to Amaranta with flower petals and dried butterflies, and which she would return unopened. He would shut himself up for hours on end to play the zither. One night he sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crespi then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta. On November second, All Souls' Day, his brother opened the store and found all the lamps lighted, all the music boxes opened, and all the docks striking an interminable hour, and in the midst of that mad concert he found Pietro Crespi at the desk in the rear with his wrists cut by a razor and his hands thrust into a basin of benzoin.
在乌苏娜的信任下，阿玛兰塔和皮埃特罗·克列斯比的友好关系确实发展很快；现在，意大利人来访时，乌苏娜认为没有心要在场监视了。这是一种黄昏的幽会。皮埃特罗·克列斯比总是傍晚才来，钮扣孔眼里插一朵栀子花，把佩特拉克的十四行诗翻译给阿玛兰塔听。他俩坐在充满了玫瑰花和牛至花馨香的长廊上：他念诗，她就绣制花边袖口，两人都把战争的惊扰和变化抛到脑后；她的敏感、审慎和掩藏的温情，仿佛蛛网一样把未婚夫缠绕起来，每当晚上八时他起身离开的时候，他都不得不用没戴戒指的苍白手指拨开这些看不见的蛛网，他跟阿玛兰塔·起做了一个精美的明信画片册，这些明信画片都是他从意大利带来的。在每张明信片上，都有一对情人呆在公园绿树丛中的僻静角落里，还有一些小花饰——箭穿的红心或者两只鸽子用嘴衔着的一条金色丝带。“我去过佛罗伦萨的这个公园，”皮埃特罗·克列斯比翻阅着画片说。“只要伸出下去，鸟儿就会飞来啄食。”有时，看到一幅威尼斯水彩画，他的怀乡之情会把水沟里的淤泥气味和海中贝壳的腐臭昧儿变成鲜花的香气。阿玛兰塔一面叹息一面笑，并且憧憬着那个国家，那里的男男女女都挺漂亮，说起话来象孩子，那里有古老的城市，它们往日的宏伟建筑只剩下了在瓦砾堆里乱刨的几只小猫。
皮埃特罗·克列斯比漂洋过海追求爱情，并且把雷贝卡的感情冲动跟爱情混为一谈，但他总算得到了爱情，慌忙热情地吻她。幸福的爱情带来了生意的兴隆。皮埃特罗·克列斯比的店铺已经占了几乎整整一条街道，变成了幻想的温室——这里可以看到精确复制的佛罗伦萨钟楼上的自鸣钟，它用乐曲报告时刻；索伦托的八音盒和中国的扑粉盒，此种扑粉盒一开盖子，就会奏出五个音符的曲子；此外还有各种难以想象的乐器和自动玩具。他把商店交给弟弟布兽诺·克列斯比经管，因为他需要有充分的时间照顾音乐学校。由于他的经营，各种玩物令人目眩的上耳其人街变成了一个仙境，人们一到这里就忘掉了阿卡蒂奥的专横暴戾，忘掉了战争的噩梦。根据乌苏娜的嘱咐，星期日的弥撒恢复以后，皮埃特罗·克列斯比送给教堂一架德国风琴，组织了一个儿童合唱队，并且教他们练会格里戈里的圣歌——这给尼康诺神父简单的礼拜仪式增添了一些光彩。大家相信，阿玛兰塔跟这意大利人结婚是会幸福的。他俩并不催促自己的感情，而让感情平稳、自然地发展，终于到了只待确定婚期的地步。他俩没有遇到任何阻碍。乌苏娜心中谴责自己的是，一再拖延婚期曾把雷贝卡的生活搞得很不象样，所以她就不想再增加良心的不安了。由于战争的灾难、奥雷连诺的出走、阿卡蒂奥的暴虐、霍·阿卡蒂奥和雷贝卡的被逐，雷麦黛丝的丧事就给放到了次要地位。皮埃特罗·克列斯比相信婚礼非举行不可，甚至暗示要把奥雷连诺·霍塞认做自己的大儿子，因为他对这个孩子充满了父爱。一切都使人想到，阿玛兰塔已经游近了宁静的海湾，就要过美满幸福的生活了。但她跟雷贝卡相反，没有表现一点急躁。犹如绣制桌布的图案、缝制精美的金银花边、刺绣孔雀那样，她平静地等待皮埃特罗·克列斯比再也无法忍受的内心煎熬。这种时刻跟十月的暴雨一块儿来临了。皮埃特罗·克列斯比从阿玛兰塔膝上拿开刺绣篮于，双手握住她的一只手。“我不能再等了，”他说。“咱们下个月结婚吧。”接触他那冰凉的手，她甚至没有颤栗一下。她象一只不驯服的小野兽，缩回手来，重新干活。
“别天真了，克列斯比，”阿玛兰塔微笑着说。“我死也不会嫁给你。”
皮埃特罗·克列斯比失去了自制。他毫不害臊地哭了起来，在绝望中差点儿扭断了手指，可是无法动摇她的决心。“别白费时间了，”阿玛兰塔回答他。“如果你真的那么爱我，你就不要再跨过这座房子的门坎。”乌苏娜羞愧得无地自容。皮埃特罗·克列斯比说尽了哀求的话。他卑屈到了不可思议的地步。整个下午，他都在乌苏娜怀里痛哭流涕，乌苏娜宁愿掏出心来安慰他。雨天的晚上，他总撑着一把绸伞在房子周围徘徊，观望阿玛兰塔窗子里有没有灯光。皮埃特罗·克列斯比从来不象这几天穿得那么讲究。他虽象个落难的皇帝，但头饰还是挺有气派的。见到阿玛兰塔的女友——常在长廊上绣花的那些女人，他就恳求她们设法让她回心转意。他抛弃了自己的一切事情，整天整天地呆在商店后面的房间里，写出一封封发狂的信，夹进一些花瓣和蝴蝶标本，寄给阿玛兰塔；她根本没有拆阅就把一封封信原壁退回。他把自己关在屋子里弹齐特拉琴，一弹就是几个小时。有一天夜里，他唱起歌来，马孔多的人闻声惊醒，被齐特拉琴神奇的乐曲声迷住了，因为这种乐曲声不可能是这个世界上的；他们也给充满爱情的歌声迷住了，因为比这更强烈的爱情在人世间是不可能想象的。然而，皮埃特罗·克列斯比看见了全镇各个窗户的灯光，只是没有看兄阿玛兰塔窗子里的灯光。十一月二日，万灵节那一夭，他的弟弟打开店门，发现所有的灯都是亮着的，所有的八音盒都奏着乐曲，所有的钟都在没完没了地报告时刻；在这乱七八槽的交响乐中，他发现皮埃特罗·克列斯比伏在爪屋的写字台上——他手腕上的静脉已给刀子割断，两只手都放在盛满安息香树胶的盟洗盆中。
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