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he room of the pensive mulatto girl who did not collect in money but in letters to a smuggler boyfriend who was in prison on the other side of the Orinoco because the border guards had caught him and had made him sit on a chamberpot that filled up with a mixture of shit and diamonds。 That true brothel； with that maternal proprietress； was the world of which Aureliano had dreamed during his prolonged captivity。 He felt so well； so close to perfect panionship； that he thought of no other refuge on the afternoon on which Amaranta ？rsula had made his illusions crumble。 He was ready to unburden himself with words so that someone could break the knots that bound his chest； but he only managed to let out a fluid； warm； and restorative weeping in Pilar Ternera’s lap。 She let him finish； scratching his head with the tips of her fingers； and without his having revealed that he was weeping from love； she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man。
“It’s all right； child；？she consoled him。 “Now tell me who it is。？
When Aureliano told her； Pilar Ternera let out a deep laugh； the old expansive laugh that ended up as a cooing of doves。 There was no mystery in the heart of a Buendía that was impenetrable for her because a century of cards and experience had taught her that the history of the family was a machine with unavoidable repetitions； a turning wheel that would have gone on spilling into eternity were it not for the progressive and irremediable wearing of the axle。
“Don’t worry；？she said； smiling。 “Wherever she is right now； she’s waiting for you。？
It was half past four in the afternoon when Amaranta ？rsula came out of her bath。 Aureliano saw her go by his room with a robe of soft folds and a towel wrapped around her head like a turban。 He followed her almost on tiptoes； stumbling from drunkenness； and he went into the nuptial bedroom just as she opened the robe and closed it again in fright。 He made a silent signal toward the next room where the door was half open and where Aureliano knew that Gaston was beginning to write a letter。
“Go away；？she said voicelessly。
Aureliano； smiled； picked her up by the waist with both hands like a pot of begonias； and dropped her on her back on the bed。 With a brutal tug he pulled off her bathrobe before she had time to resist and he loomed over an abyss of newly washed nudity whose skin color； lines of fuzz； and hidden moles had all been imagined in the shadows of the other rooms。 Amaranta ？rsula defended herself sincerely with the astuteness of a wise woman； weaseling her slippery； flexible； and fragrant weasel’s body as she tried to knee him in the kidneys and scorpion his face with her nails； but without either of them giving a gasp that might not have been taken for that breathing of a person watching the meager April sunset through the open window。 It was a fierce fight； a battle to the death； but it seemed to be without violence because it consisted of distorted attacks and ghostly evasions； slow； cautious； solemn； so that during it all there was time for the petunias to bloom and for Gaston to forget about his aviator’s dream in the next room； as if they were two enemy lovers seeking reconciliation at the bottom of an aquarium。 In the heat of that savage and ceremonious struggle； Amaranta ？rsula understood that her meticulous silence was so irrational that it could awaken the suspicions of her nearby husband much more than the sound of warfare that they were trying to avoid。 Then she began to laugh with her lips tight together； without giving up the fight； but defending herself with false bites and deweaseling her body little by little until they both were conscious of being adversaries and acplices at the same time and the affray degenerated into a conventional gambol and the attacks became caresses。 Suddenly； almost playfully； like one more bit of mischief； Amaranta ？rsula dropped her defense； and when she tried to recover； frightened by what she herself had made possible； it was too late。 A great motion immobilized her in her center of gravity； planted her in her place； and her defensive will was demolished by the irresistible anxiety to discover what the orange whistles and the invisible globes on the other side of death were like。 She barely had time to reach out her hand and grope for the towel to put a gag between her teeth so that she would not let out the cat howls that were already tearing at her insides。
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； overe 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 pany； 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 pages that 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 mented； 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。？
Germán and Aureliano took care of him。 They helped him like a child； fastening his tickets and immigration documents to his pockets with safety pins； making him a detailed list of what he must do from the time he left Macondo until he landed in Barcelona； but nonetheless he threw away a pair of pants with half of his money in it without realizing it。 The night before the trip； after nailing up the boxes and putting his clothing into the same suitcase that he had brought when he first came； he narrowed his clam eyes； pointed with a kind of impudent benediction at the sta