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Chapter 20
PILAR TERNERA died in her wicker rocking chair during one night of festivities as she watched over the entrance to her paradise. In accordance with her last wishes she was not buried in a coffin but sitting in her rocker, which eight men lowered by ropes into a huge hole dug in the center of the dance floor. The mulatto girls, dressed in black, pale from weeping, invented shadowy rites as they took off their earrings, brooches, and rings and threw them into the pit before it was closed over with a slab that bore neither name nor dates, and that was covered with a pile of Amazonian camellias. After poisoning the animals they closed up the doors and windows with brick and mortar and they scattered out into the world with their wooden trunks that were lined with pictures of saints, prints from magazines, and the portraits of sometime sweethearts, remote and fantastic, who shat diamonds, or ate cannibals, or were crowned playing-card kings on the high seas.
It was the end. In Pilar Ternera’s tomb, among the psalm and cheap whore jewelry, the ruins of the past would rot, the little that remained after the wise Catalonian had auctioned off his bookstore and returned to the Mediterranean village where he had been born, overcome by a yearning for a lasting springtime. No one could have foreseen his decision. He had arrived in Macondo during the splendor of the banana company, fleeing from one of many wars, and nothing more practical had occurred to him than to set up that bookshop of incunabula and first editions in several languages, which casual customers would thumb through cautiously, as if they were junk books, as they waited their turn to have their dreams interpreted in the house across the way. He spent half his life in the back of the store, scribbling in his extra-careful hand in purple ink and on pages that he tore out of school notebooks, and no one was sure exactly what he was writing. When Aureliano first met him he had two boxes of those motley pagesthat in some way made one think of Melquíades?parchments, and from that time until he left he had filled a third one, so it was reasonable to believe that he had done nothing else during his stay in Macondo. The only people with whom he maintained relations were the four friends, whom he had exchanged their tops and kites for books, and he set them to reading Seneca and Ovid while they were still in grammar school. He treated the classical writers with a household familiarity, as if they had all been his roommates at some period, and he knew many things that should not have been known, such as the fact that Saint Augustine wore a wool jacket under his habit that he did not take off for fourteen years and that Arnaldo of Villanova, the necromancer, was impotent since childhood because of a scorpion bite. His fervor for the written word was an interweaving of solemn respect and gossipy irreverence. Not even his own manuscripts were safe from that dualism. Having learned Catalan in order to translate them, Alfonso put a roll of pages in his pockets, which were always full of newspaper clippings and manuals for strange trades, and one night he lost them in the house of the little girls who went to bed because of hunger. When the wise old grandfather found out, instead of raising a row as had been feared, he commented, dying with laughter, that it was the natural destiny of literature. On the other hand, there was no human power capable of persuading him not to take along the three boxes when he returned to his native village, and he unleashed a string of Carthaginian curses at the railroad inspectors who tried to ship them as freight until he finally succeeded in keeping them with him in the passenger coach. “The world must be all fucked up,?he said then, “when men travel first class and literature goes as freight.?That was the last thing he was heard to say. He had spent a dark week on the final preparations for the trip, because as the hour approached his humor was breaking down and things began to be misplaced,and what he put in one place would appear in another, attacked by the same elves that had tormented Fernanda.
“Collons,?he would curse. “I shit on Canon Twenty-seven of the Synod of London.?
第 二 十 章
一个节日的晚上，皮拉。 苔列娜守着她那个“天堂”*入口的时候，在一把藤制的摇椅里去世了。遵照死者临终的意愿，八条汉子没有把她装进棺材，而让她直接坐在摇椅里，放进了一个很大的墓穴，墓穴就挖在跳舞场的中央。几个泪流满面、脸色苍白的混血女人，穿上丧服，开始履行魔术般的仪式。她们摘下自己的耳环、胸针和戒指，把它们丢进墓坑，拿一块没有刻上名字和日期的大石板盖住坑穴，而在石板上用亚马孙河畔的山茶花堆起了一座小丘。然后，混血女人们用毒药毒死祭奠用的牲畜，又用砖瓦堵住门窗，便各奔东西了；她们手里提着自己的小木箱，箱盖背面裱糊着石印的圣徒画像、杂志上的彩色图片，以及为时不长、不能置信、幻想出来的情人照片，这些情人看上去有的象金刚大汉，有的象食人野兽，有的象纸牌上漫游公海的加冕国王。
这就是结局。在皮拉·苔列娜的坟墓里，在妓女的廉价首饰中间，时代的遗物——马孔多还剩下的一点儿残渣——即将腐烂了。在这之前，博学的加泰隆尼亚人就拍卖了自己的书店，回到地中海边的家乡去了，因为他非常怀念家乡真正漫长的春天。谁也没有料到这老头儿会走，他是在香蕉公司鼎盛时期，为了逃避战争来到马孔多的。他开设了出售各种文字原版书的书店，就再也想不出其他更有益的事情来干了。偶尔有些顾客，在没有轮到他们进入书店对面那座房子去圆梦之前，都顺便到这里来消磨时间，他们总是有点担心地翻阅着一本本书，好象这些书都是从垃圾堆里拾来的。博学的加泰隆尼亚人每天总有半天泡在书店后面一个闷热的小房间里，用紫墨水在一张张练习簿纸上写满了歪歪斜斜的草体字，可是谁也无法肯定他说出他究竟写了些什么。老头儿和奥雷连诺。 布恩蒂亚初次认识时， 已经积满了两箱乱糟糟的练习簿纸，它们有点象梅尔加德斯的羊皮纸手稿。老头儿临走，又拿练习簿纸装满了第三箱。由此可以推测，博学的加泰隆尼亚人住在马孔多的时候，没有干过其他任何事情。同他保持关系的只有四个朋友，他们早在学校念书时·博学的加泰隆尼亚人就要他们把陀螺和纸蛇当作抵押品·借书给他们看，并使他们爱上了塞尼加*和奥维德* 的作品。他对待古典作家一向随随便便、不拘礼节，好象早先曾跟他们在一个房间里生活过。他了解这一类人的许多隐秘事情。而这些事情似乎是谁也不知道的，比如：圣奥古斯丁 *穿在修士长袍里的那件羊毛背心，整整十四年没脱下来过，巫师阿纳尔多·德维拉诺瓦* 早在童年时代就被蝎子螫了一下，是一个阳萎者。博学的加泰隆尼亚人对待别人的论著有时严肃、尊重，有时又极不礼貌。他对待自己写的东西也是这种双重的态度。那个叫阿尔丰索的人，为了把老头儿的手稿译成西班牙文，曾专门攻读过加泰隆尼亚语言。有一次他随手把加泰隆尼亚人的一叠稿纸放进了自己的口袋——他的口袋里总是被一些剪报和特殊职业的指南塞得胀鼓鼓的，可是有一天晚上，在一个妓院里，在一群由于饥饿不得不出卖内体的女孩子身边，他不慎丢失了所有的稿纸。博学的加泰隆尼亚人发觉这件事以后，并没有象阿尔丰索担心的那样大事张扬，反倒哈哈大笑地说：“这是文学自然而然的命运。”但他要随身带着三箱手稿回家，朋友们怎么也说服不了他。铁路检查员要他将箱子拿去托运时，他更忍不住出口伤人，满嘴迦太基* 流行的骂人话，直到检查员同意他把箱子留在旅客车厢里，他才安静下来。“一旦到了人们只顾自己乘头等车厢，却用货车车厢装运书籍的那一天，就是世界末日的来临，”他在出发前这么嘀咕了一句，就再也不吭声了。最后的准备花了他整整一个星期，对博学购加泰隆尼亚人来说，这是黑暗的一周——随着出发时间的迫近，他的情绪越来越坏，不时忘记自己打算要做的事，明明放在一个地方的东西，不知怎的突然出现在另一个地方，他以为准是那些折磨过他的家神挪动了它们的位置。
“兔崽子们！我诅咒伦敦教会的第二十七条教规。”他骂道。
背景阅读

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