COLONEL GERINELDO MáRQUEZ was the first to perceive the emptiness of the war. In his position as civil and military leader of Macondo he would have telegraphic conversations twice a week Colonel Aure-liano Buendía. At first those exchanges would determine the course of a flesh-and-blood war, the perfectly defined outlines of which told them at any moment the exact spot -where it was and the prediction of its future direction. Although he never let himself be pulled into the area of confidences, not even by his closest friends, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía still had at that time the familiar tone that made it possible to identify him at the otend of the wire. Many times he would prolong the talk beyond the expected limit and let them drift into comments of a domestic nature. Little by little, however, and as the war became more intense widespread, his image was fading away into a universe of unreality. The characteristics his speech were more and more uncertain, and they cam togetcombined to form words that were gradually losing all meaning. Colonel Gerineldo Márquez limited himself then to just listening, burdened by the impression that he was in telegraphic contact with a stranger from another world.
"I understand, Aureli-ano," he would conclude on the key. "Long live the Liberal party!"
"How strange men are," she said, because she could not think of anything else to say. "They spend their lives fighting against priests and then give prayerbooks as gifts."
From that time on, even during the most critical days the war, he visited her every afternoon. Many times, when Remedios the Beauty was not present, it was he who turned the wheel on the sewing machine. Amaranta felt upset by the perseverance, the loyalty, the submissiveness that man who was invested with so much authority and who nevertheless took off his sidearm in the living room so that he could go into the sewing room without weapons, But for four years he kept repeating his love and she would always find a way to reject him without hurting him, for even though she had not succeeded in loving him she could no longer live without him. Remedios the Beauty, who seemed indifferent to everything who was thought to be mentally retarded, was not insensitive to so much devotion and she intervened in Colonel Gerineldo Márquez's favor. Amaranta suddenly discovered that the girl she had raised, who was just entering adolescence, was already the most beautiful creature that had even been seen in Macondo. She felt reborn in her heart the rancor that she had felt in other days for Rebeca, and begging God not to impel into the extreme state of wishing her dead, she banished her from the sewing room. It was around that time that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez began to feel the boredom the war. He summoned his reserves of persuasion, his broad and repressed tenderness, ready to give up for Amaranta a glory that had cost him the sacrifice of his best years. But he could not succeed in convincing her. One August afternoon, overcome by the unbearable weight of her own obstinacy, Amaranta locked herself in bedroom to weep over her solitude unto death after giving her final answer to her tenacious suitor:
Colonel Gerineldo Márquez had a telegraphic call from Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía that afternoon. It was a routine conversation which was not going to bring about any break in the stagnant war. At the end, Colonel Gerineldo Márquez looked at the desolate streets, the crystal water on the almond trees, and he found himself lost in solitude.
There was a long silence on the line. Suddenly the apparatus jumped with the pitiless letters from Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía.
"Don't be a jackass, Gerineldo," the signals said. "It's natural for it to be raining in August."
They had not seen each other for such a long time that Colonel Gerineldo Márquez was upset by the aggressiveness of the reaction. Two months later, however, when Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía returned to Macondo, his upset was changed to stupefaction. Even úrsula was surprised at how much he had changed. He came with no noise, no escort, wrapped in a cloak in spite of the heat, and with three mistresses, whom he installed in the same house, where he spent most of his time lying in a hammock. He scarcely read the telegraphic dispatches that reported routine operations. On one occasion Colonel Gerineldo Márquez asked him for instructions for the evacuation of a spot on the border where there was a danger that the conflict would become an international affair.
"Don't bother me with trifles," he ordered him. "Consult Divine Providence."
It was perhaps the most critical moment the war. The Liberal landowners, who had supported the revolution in the beginning, had made secret alliances with the Conservative landowners in order to stop the revision of property titles. The politicians who supplied funds for the war from exile had Publicly repudiated the drastic aims of Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía, but even that withdrawal of authorization did not seem to bothim. He had not returned to reading his poetry, which filled more than five volumes and lay forgotten at the bottom of his trunk. At night or at siesta time he would call one of his women to his hammock and obtain a rudimentary satisfaction from her, and then he would sleep like a stone that was not concerned by the slightest indication of worry. Only he knew at that time that his confused heart was condemned to uncertainty forever. At first, intoxicated by the glory of his return, by his remarkable victories, he had peeped into the abyss of greatness. He took pleasure in keeping by his right hand the Duke of Marlborough, his great teacher in the art of war, whose attire of skins and tiger claws aroused the respect of adults and the awe of children. It was then that he decided that no human being, not even úrsula, could come closer to him than ten feet. In the center of the chalk circle that his aides would draw wherever he stopped, and which only he could enter, he would decide with brief orders that had no appeal the fate of the world. The first time that he was in Manaure after the shooting of General Moncada, he hastened to fulfill his victim's last wish and the widow took the glasses, the medal, the watch, and the ring, but she would not let him in the door.
"You can't come in, colonel," she told him. "You may be in command of your war, but I'm in command of my house."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía did not show any sign of anger, but his spirit only calmed down when his bodyguard had sacked the widow's house and reduced it to ashes. "Watch out for your heart, Aureli-ano," Colonel Gerineldo Márquez would say to him then. "You're rotting alive." About that time he called together a second assembly of the principal rebel commanders. He found all types: idealists, ambitious people, adventurers, those with social resentments, even common criminals. There was even a former Conservative functionary who had taken refuge in the revolt to escape a judgment for -misappropriation of funds. Many of them did not even know why they were fighting in the midst of that motley crowd, whose differences of values were on the verge of causing an internal explosion, one gloomy authority stood out: General Te6filo Vargas. He was a full-blooded Indian, untamed, illiterate, endowed with quiet wiles and a messianic vocation that aroused a demented fanaticism in his men. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía called the meeting with the aim of unifying the rebel command against the maneuvers of the politicians. General Teófilo Vargas came forward with his intentions: in a few hours he shattered the coalition of better-qualified commanders and took charge of the main command. "He's a wild beast worth watching," Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía told his officers. "That man is more dangerous to us than the Minister of War." Then a very young captain who had always been outstanding for his timidity raised a cautious index finger.
"It's quite simple, colonel," he proposed. "He has to be killed."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía was not alarmed by the coldness of the proposition but by the way in which, by a fraction of a second, it had anticipated his own thoughts.
"Don't expect me to give an order like that," he said.
He did not give it, as a matter of fact. But two weeks later General Teófilo Vargas was cut to bits by machetes in an ambush and Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía assumed the main command. The same night that his authority was recognized by all the rebel commands, he woke up in a fright, calling for a blanket. An inner coldness which shattered his bones and tortured him even in the heat of the sun would not let him sleep for several months, until it became a habit. The intoxication of power began to break apart under waves of discomfort. Searching for a cure against the chill, he had the young officer who had proposed the murder of General Teófilo Vargas shot. His orders were being carried out even before they were given, even before he thought of them, and they always went much beyond what he would have dared have them do. Lost in the solitude of his immense power, he began to lose direction. He was bothered by the people who cheered him in neighboring villages, and he imagined that they were the same cheers they gave the enemy. Everywhere he met adolescents who looked at him with his own eyes, who spoke to him with his own voice, who greeted him with the same mistrust with which he greeted them, and who said they were his sons. He felt scattered about, multiplied, and more solitary than ever. He was convinced that his own officers were lying to him. He fought with the Duke of Marlborough. "The best friend a person has," he would say at that time, "is one who has just died." He was weary of the uncertainty, of the vicious circle of that eternal war that always found him in the same place, but always older, wearier, even more in the position of not knowing why, or how, or even when. There was always someone outside of the chalk circle. Someone who needed money, someone who had a son with whooping cough, or someone who wanted to go off and sleep forever because he could not stand the shit taste of the war in his mouth and who, nevertheless, stood at attention to inform him: "Everything normal, colonel." And normality was precisely the most fearful part of that infinite war: nothing ever happened. Alone, abandoned by his premonitions, fleeing the chill that was to accompany him until death, he sought a last refuge in Macondo in the warmth of his oldest memories. His indolence was so serious that when they announced the arrival of a commission from his party that was authorized to discuss the stalemate of the war, he rolled over in his hammock without completely waking up.
"Take them to the whores," he said.
They were six lawyers in frock coats and top hats who endured the violent November sun with stiff stoicism. úrsula put them up in her house. They spent the greater part of the day closeted in the bedroom in hermetic conferences and at dusk they asked for an escort and some accordion players and took over Catarino's store. "Leave them alone," Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía ordered. "After all, I know what they want." At the beginning December the long-awaited interview, which many had foreseen as an interminable argument, was resolved in less than an hour.
In the hot parlor, beside the specter of the pianola shrouded in a white sheet, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía did not sit down that time inside the chalk circle that his aides had drawn. He sat in a chair between his political advisers and, wrapped in his woolen blanket, he listened in silence to the brief proposals of the emissaries. They asked first that he renounce the revision of property titles in order to get back the support of the Liberal landowners. They asked, secondly, that he renounce the fight against clerical influence in order to obtain the support of the Catholic masses. They asked, finally, that he renounce the aim of equal rights for natural and illegitimate children in order to preserve the integrity of the home.
"That means," Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía said, smiling when the reading was over, "that all we're fighting for is power."
"They're tactical changes," one of the delegates replied. "Right now the main thing is to broaden the popular base of the war. Then we'll have another look."
One of Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía's political advisers hastened to intervene.
"It's a contradiction" he said. "If these changes are good, it means that the Conservative regime is good. If we succeed in broadening the popular base of the war with them, as you people say, it means that the regime his a broad popular base. It means, in short, that for almost twenty years we've been fighting against the sentiments of the nation."
"Since that's the way it is," he concluded, "we have no objection to accepting."
His men looked at one another in consternation. "Excuse me, colonel," Colonel Gerineldo Márquez said softly, "but this is a betrayal."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía held the inked pen in the air and discharged the whole weight of his authority on him.
"Surrender your weapons," he ordered.
Colonel Gerineldo Márquez stood up and put his sidearms on the table.
"Report to the barracks," Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía ordered him. "Put yourself at the disposition of the revolutionary court."
"Here an your papers, gentlemen. I hope you can get some advantage out of them."
Two days later, Colonel Gerineldo Márquez, accused of high treason, was condemned to death. Lying in his hammock, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía was insensible to the pleas for clemency. On the eve of the execution, disobeying the order not to bother him, úrsula visited in his bedroom. Encased in black, invested with a rare solemnity, she stood during the three minutes of the interview. "I know that you're going to shoot Geri-neldo," she said calmly, "and that I can't do anything to stop it. But I give you one warning: as soon as I see his body I swear to you by the bones of my father and mother, by the memory of José Arcadio Buendía, I swear to you before God that I will drag you out from wherever you're hiding and kill you with my own two hands." Before leaving the room, without waiting for any reply, she concluded:
"It's the same as if you'd been born with the tail of a pig."
During that interminable night while Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez thought about his dead afternoons in Amaranta's sewing room, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía scratched for many hours trying to break the hard shell of his solitude. His only happy moments, since that remote afternoon when his father had taken him to see ice, had taken place in his silver workshop where he passed the time putting little gold fishes together. He had had to start thirty-two wars and had had to violate all of his pacts with death and wallow like a hog in the dungheap of glory in order to discover the privileges of simplicity almost forty years late.
At dawn, worn out by the tormented vigil, he appeared in the cell an hour before the execution. "The farce is over, old friend," he said to Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez. "Let's get out of here before the mosquitoes in here execute you." Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez could not repress the disdain that was inspired in him by that attitude.
"You won't see me," Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía said. "Put on your shoes and help me get this shitty war over with."
When he said it he did not know that it was easier to start a war than to end one. It took him almost a year of fierce and bloody effort to force the government to propose conditions of peace favorable to the rebels and another year to convince his own partisans of the convenience of accepting them. He went to inconceivable extremes of cruelty to put down the rebellion of his own officers, who resisted and called for victory, and he finally relied on enemy forces to make them submit.
He was never a greater soldier than at that time. The certainty that he was finally fighting for his own liberation and not for abstract ideals, for slogans that politicians could twist left and right according to the circumstances, filled him with an ardent enthusiasm. Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez, who fought for defeat with as much conviction and loyalty as he had previously fought for victory, reproached him for his useless temerity. "Don't worry," he would say, smiling. "Dying is much more difficult than one imagines." In his case it was true. The certainty that his day was assigned gave him a mysterious immunity, an immortality or a fixed period that made invulnerable to the risks of war and in the end permitted him to win a defeat that was much more difficult, much more bloody and costly than victory.
In almost twenty years of war, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía had been at his house many times, but the state of urgency with which he always arrived, the military retinue that accompanied him everywhere, the aura of legend that glowed about his presence and of which even úrsula was aware, changed him into a stranger in the end. The last time that he was in Macondo and took a house for his three concubines, he was seen in his own house only on two or three occasions when he had the time to accept an invitation to dine. Remedios the Beauty and the twins, born during the middle of the war, scarcely knew him. Amaranta could not reconcile her image of the brother who had spent his adolescence making little gold fishes with that of the mythical warrior who had placed a distance of ten feet between himself the rest of humanity. But when the approach of the armistice became known and they thought that he would return changed back into a human being, delivered at last for the hearts of his own people, the family feelings, dormant for such a long time, were reborn stronger than ever.
"We'll finally have a man in the house again," úrsula said.
Amaranta was the first to suspect that they had lost him forever. One week before the armistice, when he entered the house without an escort, preceded by two barefoot orderlies who deposited on the porch the saddle from the mule and the trunk of poetry, all that was left of his former imperial baggage, she saw him pass by the sewing room and she called to him. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía had trouble recognizing her.
"It's Amaranta," she said good-humoredly, happy at his return, and she showed him the hand with the black bandage. "Look."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía smiled at her the same way as when he had first seen her with the bandage on that remote morning when he had come back to Macon-do condemned to death.
"How awful," he said, "the way time passes!"
The regular army had to protect the house. He arrived amid insults, spat upon, accused of having accelerated the war in order to sell it for a better price. He was trembling with fever and cold and his armpits were studded with sores again. Six months before, when she had heard talk about the armistice, úrsula had opened up and swept out the bridal chamber and had burned myrrh in the corners, thinking that he would come back ready to grow old slowly among Remedios' musty dolls. But actually, during the last two years he had paid his final dues to life, including growing old. When he passed by the silver shop, which úrsula had prepared with special diligence, he did not even notice that the keys were in the lock. He did not notice the minute, tearing destruction that time had wreaked on the house and that, after such a prolonged absence, would have looked like a disaster to any man who had kept his memories alive. He was not pained by the peeling of the whitewash on the walls or the dirty, cottony cobwebs in the corners or the dust on the begonias or the veins left on the beams by the termites or the moss on the hinges or any of the insidious traps that nostalgia offered him. He sat down on the porch, wrapped in his blanket and with his boots still on, as if only waiting for it to clear, and he spent the whole afternoon watching it rain on the begonias. úrsula understood then that they would not have him home for long. "If it's not the war," she thought, "it can only be death." It was a supposition that was so neat, so convincing that she identified it as a premonition.
That night, at dinner, the supposed Aureli-ano Segun-do broke his bread with his right hand and drank his soup with his left. His twin brother, the supposed José Arcadio Segundo, broke his bread with his left hand and drank his soup with his right. So precise was their coordination that they did not look like two brothers sitting opposite each other but like a trick with mirrors. The spectacle that the twins had invented when they became aware that they were equal was repeated in honor of the new arrival. But Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía did not notice it. He seemed so alien to everything that he did not even notice Remedios the Beauty as she passed by naked on her way to her bedroom. úrsula was the only one who dared disturb his, abstraction.
"If you have to go away again," she said halfway through dinner, "at least try to remember how we were tonight."
Then Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía realized, without surprise, that úrsula was the only human being who had succeeded in penetrating his misery, and for the first time in many years he looked her in the face. Her skin was leathery, her teeth decayed, her hair faded and colorless, and her look frightened. He compared her with the oldest memory that he had of her, the afternoon when he had the premonition that a pot of boiling soup was going to fall off the table, and he found her broken to pieces. In an instant he discovered the scratches, the welts, the sores, the ulcers, and the scan that had been left on her by more than half a century of daily life, and he saw that those damages did not even arouse a feeling of pity in him. Then he made one last effort to search in his heart for the place where his affection had rotted away and he could not find it. On another occasion, he felt at least a confused sense of shame when he found the smell úrsula on his own skin, and more than once he felt her thoughts interfering with his. But all of that had been wiped out by the war. Even Remedios, his wife, at that moment was a hazy image of someone who might have been his daughter. The countless women he had known on the desert of love and who had spread his seed all along the coast had left no trace in his feelings. Most of them had come into his room in the dark and had left before dawn, and on the following day they were nothing but a touch of fatigue in his bodily memory. The only affection that prevailed against time and the war was that which he had felt for his brother José Arcadio when they both were children, and it was not based on love but on complicity.
"I'm sorry," he excused himself from úrsula's request. "It's just that the war has done away with everything."
During the following days he busied himself destroying all trace of his passage through the world. He stripped the silver shop until all that were left were impersonal objects, he gave his clothes away to the orderlies, and he buried his weapons in the courtyard with the same feeling of penance with which his father had buried the spear that had killed Prudencio Aguilar. He kept only one pistol with one bullet in it. úrsula did not intervene. The only time she dissuaded him was when he was about to destroy the daguerreotype of Remedios that was kept in the parlor lighted by an eternal lamp. "That picture stopped belonging to you a long time ago," she told him. "It's a family relic." On the eve of the armistice, when no single object that would let him be remembered was left in the house, he took the trunk of poetry to the bakery when Santa Sofía de la Piedad was making ready to light the oven.
"Light it with this," he told her, handing her the first roll of yellowish papers. "It will, burn better because they're very old things."
Santa Sofía de la Piedad, the silent one, the condescending one, the one who never contradicted anyone, not even her own children, had the impression that it was a forbidden act.
"Nothing of the sort," the colonel said. "They're things that a person writes to himself."
"In that case," she said, "you burn them, colonel."
He not only did that, but he broke up the trunk with a hatchet and threw the pieces into the fire. Hours before, Pilar Ternera had come to visit him. After so many years of not seeing her, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía was startled at how old and fat she had become and how much she had lost of the splendor of her laugh, but he was also startled at the depths she had reached in her reading of the cards. "Watch out for your mouth," she told him, and he wondered whether the other time she had told him that during the height of his glory it had not been a surprisingly anticipated vision of his fate. A short time later, when his personal physician finished removing his sores, he asked him, without showing any particular interest, where the exact location of his heart was. The doctor listened with his stethoscope and then painted a circle on his cheat with a piece of cotton dipped in iodine.
The Tuesday of the armistice dawned warm and rainy. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía appeared in the kitchen before five o'clock and had his usual black coffee without sugar. "You came into the world on a day like this," úrsula told him. "Everybody was amazed at your open eyes." He did not pay any attention because he was listening to the forming the troops, the sound of the comets, and the voices of command that were shattering the dawn. Even though after so many years of war they should have sounded familiar to him this time he felt the same weakness in his knees and the same tingling in his skin that he had felt in his youth in the presence of a naked woman. He thought confusedly, finally captive in a trap of nostalgia, that perhaps if he had married her he would have been a man without war and without glory, a nameless artisan, a happy animal. That tardy shudder which had not figured in his forethought made his breakfast bitter. At seven in the morning, when Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez came to fetch him, in the company of a group of rebel officers, he found him more taciturn than ever, more pensive and solitary. úrsula tried to throw a new wrap over his shoulders. "What will the government think," she told him. "They'll figure that you've surrendered because you didn't have anything left to buy a cloak with." But he would not accept it. When he was at the door, he let her put an old felt hat of José Arcadio Buendía's on his head.
"Aureli-ano," úrsula said to him then, "Promise me that if you find that it's a bad hour for you there that you'll think of your mother."
He gave a distant smile, raising his hand with all his fingers extended, and without saying a word he left the house and faced the shouts, insults, and blasphemies that would follow him until he left the town. úrsula put the bar on the door, having decided not to take it down for the rest of her life. "We'll rot in here," she thought. "We'll turn to ashes in this house without men, but we won't give this miserable town the pleasure of seeing us weep." She spent the whole morning looking for a memory of her son in the most hidden corners, but she could find none.
The ceremony took place fifteen miles from Macon-do in the shade of a gigantic ceiba tree around which the town of Neerlandia would be founded later. The delegates from the government and the party and the commission of the rebels who were laying down their arms were served by a noisy group of novices in white habits who looked like a flock of doves that had been frightened by the rain. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía arrived on a muddy mule. He had not shaved, more tormented by the pain of the sores than by the great failure of his dreams, for he had reached the end of all hope, beyond glory and the nostalgia of glory. In accordance with his arrangements there was no music, no fireworks, no pealing bells, no shouts of victory, or any other manifestation that might alter the mournful character of the armistice. An itinerant photographer who took the only picture that could have been preserved was forced to smash his plates without developing them.
The ceremony lasted only the time necessary to sign the documents. Around the rustic table placed in the center of a patched circus tent where the delegates sat were the last officers who were faithful to Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía. Before taking the signatures, the personal delegate of the president of the republic tried to read the act of surrender aloud, but Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía was against it. "Let's not waste time on formalities," he said prepared to sign the papers without reading them. One of his officers then broke the soporific silence of the tent.
"Colonel," he said, "please do us the favor of not being the first to sign."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía acceded. When the documents went all around the table, in the midst of a silence that was so pure that one could have deciphered the signatures from the scratching of the pen on the paper, the first line was still blank. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía prepared to fill it.
"Colonel," another of his officers said, "there's still time for everything to come out right."
Without changing his expression, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía signed the first copy. He had not finished signing the last one when a rebel colonel appeared in the doorway leading a mule carrying two chests. In spite of his entire youth he had a dry look and a patient expression. He was the treasurer of the revolution in the Macon-do region. He had made a difficult journey of six days, pulling along the mule, who was dying of hunger, in order to arrive at the armistice on time. With an exasperating parsimony he took down the chests, opened them, and placed on the table, one by one, seventy-two gold bricks, Everyone had forgotten about the existence of that fortune. In the disorder of the past year, when the central command fell apart and the revolution degenerated into a bloody rivalry of leaders, it was impossible to determine any responsibility. The gold of the revolution, melted into blocks that were then covered with baked clay, was beyond all control. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía had the seventy-two gold bricks included in the inventory of surrender and closed the ceremony without allowing any speeches. The filthy adolescent stood opposite him, looking into his eyes with his own calm, syrup-colored eyes.
"Something else?" Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía asked him.
The young colonel tightened his mouth.
"The receipt," he said.
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía wrote it out in his own hand. Then he had a glass lemonade a piece of biscuit that the novices were passing around and retired to a field tent which had been prepared for him in case he wished to rest. There he took off his shirt, sat on the edge of the cot, and at three-fifteen in the afternoon took his pistol and shot himself in the iodine circle that his personal physician had painted on his chest. At that moment in Macon-do úrsula took the cover off the pot of milk on the stove, wondering why it was taking so long to boil, and found it full of worms.
"They've killed Aureli-ano," she exclaimed.
She looked toward the courtyard, obeying a habit of her solitude, and then she saw José Arcadio Buendía, soaking wet and sad in the rain and much older than when he had died. "They shot him in the back," úrsula said more precisely, "and no one was charitable enough to close his eyes." At dusk through tears she saw the swift and luminous disks that crossed the sky like an exhalation and she thought that it was a signal of death. She was still under the chestnut tree, sobbing at her husband's knees, when they brought in Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía, wrapped in a blanket that was stiff dry blood and with his eyes open in rage.
He was out of danger. The bullet had followed such a neat path that the doctor was able to put a cord soaked in iodine in through the chest and withdraw it from the back. "That was my masterpiece," he said with satisfaction. "It was the only point where a bullet could pass through without harming any vital organ." Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía saw himself surrounded by charitable novices who intoned desperate psalms for the repose of his soul and then he was sorry that he had not shot himself in the roof of the mouth as he had considered doing if only to mock the prediction of Pilar Ternera.
"I still had the authority," he told the doctor, "I'd have you shot out of hand. Not for having saved my life but for having made a fool of me."
The failure of his death brought back his lost prestige in a few hours. The same people who invented the story that he had sold the war for a room with walls made gold bricks defined the attempt at suicide as an act of honor and proclaimed him a martyr. Then, when he rejected the Order of Merit awarded him by the president of the republic, even his most bitter enemies filed through the room asking him to withdraw recognition of the armistice and to start a new war. The house was filled with gifts meant as amends. Impressed finally by the massive support of his former comrades in arms, Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía did not put aside the possibility of pleasing them. On the contrary, at a certain moment he seemed so enthusiastic with the idea of a new war that Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez thought that he was only waiting for a pretext to proclaim it. The pretext was offered, in fact, when the president of the republic refused to award any military pensions to former combatants, Liberal or Conservative, until each case was examined by a special commission and the award approved by the congress. "That's an outrage," thundered Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía. "They'll die of old age waiting for the mail to come." For the first time he left the rocker that úrsula had bought for his convalescence, and, walking about the bedroom, he dictated a strong message to the president of the republic. In that telegram which was never made public, he denounced the first violation of the Treaty of Neerlandia and threatened to proclaim war to the death if the assignment pensions was not resolved within two weeks. His attitude was so just that it allowed him to hope even for the support of former Conservative combatants. But the only reply from the government was the reinforcement of the military guard that had been placed at the door of his house the pretext of protecting him, and the prohibition of all types of visits, Similar methods were adopted all through the country with otleaders who bore watching. It was an operation that was so timely, drastic, and effective that two months after the armistice, when Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía had recovered, his most dedicated conspirators were dead or exiled or had been assimilated forever into public administration.
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía left his room in December and it was sufficient for him to look at the porch in order not to think about war again. With a vitality that seemed impossible at her age, úrsula had rejuvenated the house again. "Now they're going to see who I am," she said when she saw that her son was going to live. "There won't be a better, more open house in all the world than this madhouse." She had it washed and painted, changed the furniture, restored the garden and planted new flowers, and opened doors and windows so that the dazzling light of summer would penetrate even into the bedrooms. She decreed an end to the numerous superimposed periods of mourning and she herself exchanged her rigorous old gowns for youthful clothing. The music of the pianola again made the house merry. When she heard it, Amaranta thought of Pietro Crespi, his evening gardenia, and his smell of lavender, and in the depths of her withered heart a clean rancor flourished, purified by time. One afternoon when she was trying to put the parlor in order, úrsula asked for the help of the soldiers who were guarding the house. The young commander of the guard gave them permission. Little by little, úrsula began assigning them new chores. She invited them to eat, gave them clothing and shoes, and taught them how to read and write. When the government withdrew the guard, one of them continued living in the house and was in her service for many years. On New Year's Day, driven mad by rebuffs from Remedios the Beauty, the young commander of the guard was found dead under window.
格林列尔多.马克斯上校第一个感到战争的空虚。作为马孔多的军政长官，他跟奥雷连诺上校在电话上每周联系两次。起初，他们在交谈中还能断定战争的进展情况，根据战争的轮廓，能够明了战争处在什么阶段，预先见到战争会往什么方向发展。尽管奥雷连诺上校在最亲密的朋友面前也不吐露胸怀，然而当时他的口吻还是亲切随和的，在线路另一头马上就能听出是他。他经常毫无必要地延长谈话，扯一些家庭琐享。但是，由于战争日益激烈和扩大，他的形象就越来越暗淡和虚幻了。每一次，他说起话来总是越来越含糊，他那断断续续的字眼儿连接在一起几乎没有任何意义。面对这样的情况，格林列尔多·马克斯上校只能难受地倾听，觉得自己是在电话上跟另一个世界的陌生人说话。
“全明白啦，奥雷连诺，”他按了按电键，结束谈话。“*党万岁！”
最后，格林列尔多·马克斯上校完全脱离了战争。从前，战争是他青年时代理想的行动和难以遏制的嗜好，现在却变成了一种遥远的、陌生的东西——空虚。他逃避现实的唯一处所是阿玛兰塔的缝纫室。他每天下午都去那儿。悄姑娘雷麦黛丝转动缝纫机把手的时候，他喜欢欣赏阿玛兰塔如何给雪白的衬裙
布打褶子。女主人和客人满足于彼此作伴，默不吭声地度过许多个小时，阿玛兰塔心里高兴的是他那忠贞的火焰没有熄灭。但他却仍不明白她那难以理解的心究竟有什么秘密打算。知道格林列尔多.马克斯上校回到马孔多之后，阿玛兰塔几乎激动死了。然而，当他左手吊着挎带走进来的时候（他只是奥雷连诺上校许多闹嘈嘈的随从人员中间的一个），阿玛兰塔看见离乡背井的艰苦生活把他折磨得多么厉害，荏苒的光阴使他变得多么苍老，看见他肮里肮脏、满脸是汗、浑身尘土、发出马厩气味，看见他样子丑陋，她失望得差点儿昏厥过去。“我的上帝，”她想。“这可不是我等候的那个人呀！”然而，他第二天来的时候，刮了脸，浑身整洁，没有血迹斑斑的绷带，胡子里还发出花露水的味儿。他送给阿玛兰塔一本用珠母钉装钉起来的祈祷书。
“你真是个怪人，”她说，因为她想不出别的话来。“一辈子反对教士，却拿祈祷书送人。”
从这时起，即使在战争的危急关头，他每天下午都来看她。有许多次，俏姑娘雷麦黛丝不在的时候，转动缝纫机把手的就是他。他的坚贞不渝和恭顺态度使她受到感动，因为这个拥有大权的人竟在她的面前俯首帖耳，甚至还把自己的军刀和手枪留在客厅里，空手走进她的房间。然而，在这四年中，每当格林列尔多·马克斯上校向她表白爱情时，她总是想法拒绝他，尽管她也没有伤他的面子，因为，她虽还没爱上他，但她没有他已经过不了日子。俏姑娘雷麦黛丝对格林列尔多·马克斯的坚贞颇为感动，突然为他辩护，而以前她对周围的一切完全是无动丁衷的——许多人甚至认为她脑了迟钝。阿玛兰塔忽然发现，她养大的姑娘刚刚进入青春期，却已成了马孔多从未见过的美女。阿玛兰塔觉得自己心里产生了从前对雷贝卡的那种怨恨。她希望这种怨恨不要让她走向极端，而把俏姑娘，雷麦黛丝弄死。接着，她就把这姑娘赶出了自己的房间。正好这个时候，格林列尔多·马克斯上校开始厌恶战争。他准备为阿玛兰塔牺牲自己的荣誉（这种荣誉使他耗去了一生中最好的年华），说尽了好话，表露了长期压抑的无限温情。但他未能说服阿玛兰塔。八月里的一天下午，阿玛兰塔由于自己的顽固而感到十分痛苦，把自己关在卧室里，打算至死都孤身过活了，因为她刚才给坚定的术婚者作了最后的回答。
“咱们彼此永远忘记吧，”她说，“现在干这种事儿，咱们都太老啦。”
就在这天下午，奥雷连诺上校叫他去听电话。这是一次通常的交谈，对于停滞不前的战争毫无一点作用。一切都已说完以后，格林列尔多·马克斯上校朝荒凉的街道扫了一眼，看见杏树枝上悬着的水珠，他就感到自己孤独得要死。
“奥雷连诺，”他在电话上悲切地说，“马孔多正在下雨呵。”
线路上沉寂了很久。然后，电话机里突然发出奥雷连诺上校生硬的话语。
“别大惊小怪，格林列尔多，”对方说，“八月间下雨是正常的。”
很久没有看见朋友的格林列尔多·马克斯上校，对异常生硬的回答感到不安。可是过了两个月，奥雷连诺上校回到马孔多的时候，这种模糊的不安变成了惊异，几乎变成了恐惧。对于儿子的变化，乌苏娜也觉得吃惊。他是不声不响回来的，没有侍从，尽管天气很热，还用斗篷裹着身子；随同他来的是三个情妇，他让她们一块儿住在一间屋子里，大部分时间他都躺在一个吊床上。他难得抽出时间来看战情电报和报告。有一次，格林列尔多.马克斯上校前来向他请示一个边境城镇的撤退问题，因为起义部队继续留在那里可能引起国际纠纷。
“别拿鸡毛蒜皮的事来打扰我啦，”奥雷连诺上校回答他。“你去请教上帝吧。”
这大概是战争的紧要关头。最初支持革命的*派地主，为了阻挠土地所有权的重新审查，跟保守派地主签订了秘密协议。在国外为战争提供经费的那些政客，公开谴责奥雷连诺上校采取的激烈措施，然而这种作法似乎也没有使他担心。他再也不读自己的诗了，这些诗约有五卷，现在放在箱子底儿给忘记了。夜晚或者午休时，他都把一个情妇叫到他的吊床上来，从她身上得到一点儿快乐，然后就睡得象石头一样，没有一点忧虑的迹象。那时只有他一个人知道，他心烦意乱，永远失去了信心。最初，他陶醉于凯旋回国和辉煌的胜利，俯临“伟大”的深渊。他喜欢坐在马博罗①公爵的肖像右方——这是他在战争艺术上的伟大导师，此人的虎皮衣服曾引起成年人的赞赏和孩子们的惊讶。正是那时，他决定不让任何人（甚至乌苏娜）接近他三米远。不管他到了哪儿，他的副官都用粉笔在地上画一个圆圈，他站在圆圈中心（只有他一个人可以站进圆圈），用简短而果断的命令决定世界的命运。枪决蒙卡达将军之后，他刚一到达马诺尔，就赶忙去满足受害者的最后愿望。寡妇收下了眼镜、手表、戒指和女神像，可是不许他跨进门槛。
“你不能进来，上校，”她说。“你可以指挥你的战争，可是我的家是由我指挥的。”
①马博罗（1650一1722），英国将军，1704年在德国西南多瑙河畔的布伦亨村击溃法国军队。
奥雷连诺上校丝毫没有表示自己的恼怒，但在他的随身卫队抢劫和烧毁了寡妇的房子之后，他的心才平静下来。“提防你的心吧，奥雷连诺，”格林列尔多·马克斯当时警告他。“你在活活地烂掉。”大约这个时候，奥雷连诺上校召开了第二次起义部队指挥官会议。到场的有各式各样的人：空想家、野心家、冒险家、社会渣滓、甚至一般罪犯。其中有一个保守党官员是由于逃避盗用公款的惩罚才参加革命的。许多人根本就不知道他们为什么战斗，在这群形形色色的人中间，不同的信念将会引起内部爆炸，但最惹人注目的却是一个阴沉沉的权势人物——泰菲罗.瓦加斯将军。这是一个纯血统的印第安人，粗野、无知，具有诡谲伎俩和预见才能，善于把他的部下变成极端的宗教狂。奥雷连诺上校打算在会议上把起义部队的指挥统一起来，反对政客们的鬼把戏。可是泰菲罗·瓦加斯将军破坏了他的计划：在几小时内，就瓦解了优秀指挥官的联合，攫取了总指挥权。。这是一头值得注意的野兽，”奥雷连诺上校向自己的军官们说。“对咱们来说，这样的人比*的陆军部长还危险。”于是，平常以胆怯著称的一个上尉小心地举起了食指。
“这很简单，上校，”他说。”应当把他杀死。”
刹那间，这个建议超过了他自己的想法，他感到不安的倒不是这个建议多么残忍，而是实现这个建议的方式。
“别指望我会发出这样的命令，”他回答。
他确实没有发出这样的命令。然而两个星期之后，泰菲罗将军中了埋伏，被大砍刀剁成内酱，于是奥雷连诺上校担任了总指挥。就在那天夜里，他的权力得到起义部队所有的指挥官承认以后，他突然惊恐地醒来，大叫大嚷地要人给他一条毛毯。身体内部彻骨的寒冷，在灼热的太阳下也折磨着他，在许多肩里都使他睡不着觉，终于变成一种病症，他原来醉心于权力，现在一阵一阵地对自己感到很不满意了。为了治好寒热病，他下令枪毙劝他杀死泰菲罗·瓦加斯将军的年轻军官。但他还没发出命令，甚至还没想到这种命令，他的部下就那么干了，他们经常超过他自己敢于达到的界线。他虽有无限的权力，可是陷入孤独，开始迷失方向。现在，在他占领的城镇里，群众的欢呼也惹他生气，他觉得这些人也是这样欢迎他的敌人的。在每一个地方，他都遇见一些年轻人，他们用他那样的眼睛看他。用他那样的腔调跟他说话，对他采取他对他们的那种怀疑态度，而且把自己叫做他的儿子。他觉得奇怪——他仿佛变成了许多人，但是更加孤独了。他怀疑自己的军官都在骗他，他对马博罗公爵也冷淡了。“最好的朋友是已经死了的，”当时他喜欢这么说。由于经常多疑，由于连年战争的恶性循环，他已困乏不堪；他绕来绕去，实际上是原地踏步，但却越来越衰老，越来越精疲力尽，越来越不明白：为什么？怎么办？到何时为止？在粉笔划的圆圈外面，经常都站着什么人：有的缺钱；有的儿子患了百日咳；有的希望长眠，因为对肮脏的战争已经感到厌恶；但是有的却鼓起余力，采取“立正，，姿势，报告说：“一切正常，上校。”然而，在绵延不断的战争中，“正常”恰恰是最可怕的：表示毫无进展。奥雷连诺上校陷入孤独，不再产生什么预感，为了摆脱寒热病（这种病一直陪他到死）．他打算在马孔多找到最后的栖身之所，在住事的回忆中得到温暖。他的消极情绪是那么严重，有人报告他*党代表团前来跟他讨论最重要的政治问题时．他只是在吊床上翻了个身，甚至没让自己睁开眼睛。
“带他们去找妓女吧，”他嘟哝着说。
代表团成员是六个穿着礼服，戴着高筒帽的律师，以罕见的斯多葛精神忍受了＋一月里灼热的太阳。乌苏娜让他们住在她家里。白天的大部分时间，他们都呆在卧室内秘密商量，晚上则要求给他们一个卫队和一个手风琴合奏队，并且包下了整个卡塔林诺游艺场。“别打搅他们，”奥雷连诺上校命令说。“我清楚地知道他们需要什么。”十二月初举行的期待已久的谈判用了不到一个小时，虽然许多人都以为这次谈判会变成没完没了的争论。
在闷热的客厅里，幽灵似的自动钢琴是用裹尸布一样的白罩单遮住的，奥雷连诺上校的副官们在钢琴旁边用粉笔划了个圈子；可是上校这一次没有走进圈子。他坐在他那些政治顾问之间的椅子上，用毛毯裹着身子，默不作声地倾听代表团简短的建议。他们要求他：第一，不再重新审核土地所有权，以便恢复*派地主对*党的支持；第二，不再反对教会*，以便取得信徒们的支持，第三，不再要求婚生子女和非婚生子女的平等权利，以便维护家庭的圣洁和牢固关系。
“这就是说，”在建议念完之后，奥雷连诺上校微笑着说，“咱们战斗只是为了权力罗。”
“从策略上考虑，我们对自己的纲领作了这些修改，”其中一个代表回答。“目前最主要的是扩大我们的群众基础，其他的到时候再说。”
奥雷连诺上校的一位政治顾问连忙插活。
“这是跟健全的理性相矛盾的，”他说。“如果你们的修改是好的，那就应当承认保守制度是好的。如果我们凭借你们的修改能够扩大你们所谓的群众基础，那就应当承认保守制度拥有广泛的群众基础。结果我们就得承认，将近二十年来我们是在反对民族利益。”
他打算继续说下去，可是奥雷连诺上校用字势阻止了他。“别浪费时间了，教授，”他说。“最主要的是，从现在起，我们战斗就只是为了权力啦。”他仍然面带微笑，拿起代表团给他的文件，准备签字。
“既然如此，”他最后说，“我们就无异议了。”
他的军官们极度惊愕，面面相觑。
“原谅我，上校，”格林列尔多·马克斯上校柔和地说。”这是背叛。”
奥雷连诺上校把蘸了墨水的笔拿在空中，在这个大胆的人身上使出了自己的威风。
“把你的武器交给我，”他下了命令。
格林列尔多·马克斯上校站起身来，把武器放在桌上。
“到兵营去吧，”奥雷连诺上校命令他。“让军事法庭来处置你。”
然后，他在声明上签了字，把它交还代表团，说：
“先生们，这是你们的纸儿。我希望你们能够从中捞到一些好处。”
过了两天，格林列尔多·马克斯上校被控叛国，判处死刑。重新躺上吊床的奥雷连诺上校，根本就不理睬赦免的要求。他命令不让任何人打扰他。行刑的前一天，乌苏娜不顾他的命令，跨进他的卧室。她穿着黑衣服，显得异常庄严，在三分钟的会见中始终没有坐下。“我知道你要枪毙格林列尔多，”她平静地说，”我没有法子阻止你。可我要给你一个警告：只要我看见他的尸体，我就要凭我父母的骸骨发誓，凭霍·阿·布恩蒂亚死后的名声发誓，对天发誓：不管你藏在哪儿，我都要拖你出来，亲手把你打死。”在离开房间之前，她不等口答就下了断语：“你那么干，就象是长了一条猪尾巴出世的。”
在漫长的黑夜里，正当格林列尔多·马克斯上校想起自己在阿玛兰塔房间里度过的那些黄昏时，奥雷连诺上校却挣扎了许多个小时，企图凿穿孤独的硬壳。自从那个遥远的下午父亲带他去参观冰块以后，命运给他的唯一愉快的时刻是在制作小全鱼的首饰作坊里度过的。他发动过三十二次战争，破坏过自己跟死神的一切协议，象猪一样在“光荣”的粪堆里打滚，然而几乎迟了四十年寸发现普通人的生活是可贵的。
他就这样一夜未睡，弄得精疲力尽；黎明，距离行刑只有一个小时，他走进了回室。“滑稽戏收场啦，老朋友，”他向格林列尔多·马克斯上校说。“趁咱们那些酒鬼还没枪毙你，咱们离开这儿吧。”格林列尔多·马克斯上校无法掩饰这种行为使他产生的蔑视。
“不，奥雷连诺，”他回答。“我宁肯死，也不愿看见你变成一个残忍的暴君。”
“你不会看见的，”奥雷连诺上校说。“穿上你的鞋子，帮助我结束这种讨厌的战争吧。”
他这么说的时候，还不知道结束战争比发动战争困难得多。为了迫使*提出有利于起义者的和平条件，他需要进行一年血腥、残酷的战斗；而让自己的人相信接受这些条件的必要性，又需要一年的工夫。他的军官们不愿出卖胜利，发动了起义；他镇压这些起义，残酷到了难以想象的地步，甚至不惜依靠敌人的力量坚决粉碎这些抵抗。
他决不是当时一个比较出色的军人。他相信他终归是为自身的解放、而不是为抽象的理想和口号进行战斗（政客们善于根据情况不断变换这些口号），所以充满了热情。就象以前为了胜利而坚定不移地作战一样，为失败作战的格林列尔多·马克斯上校指责了奥雷连诺上校不必要的蛮勇。“不用担心，”奥雷连诺上校微笑着说。“死亡比想象的困难得多。”对他来说，确实如此。他相信自己的死期是预先注定了的，这种信心给了他一种神秘的免疫力——在预定的期限之前不死；这种免疫力使他在战争的危险中不受伤害，使他最终能够赢得失败——赢得失败比赢得胜利困难得多，需要更大的流血和牺牲。
奥雷连诺上校在将近二十年的战争中，曾经多次回到他的家里，可是，他那经常的匆忙状态，卫队簇拥的神气样儿，几乎具有传奇色彩的荣誉光环（甚至乌苏娜对这种光坏也不能漠然视之），终于使他变成了一个陌生人。上一次来到马孔多的时候，他为三个情妇租了一间房子，只抽空应邀回家吃过两三次饭）跟家里的人相见。俏姑娘雷麦黛丝和战争中期出生的孪生子几乎不认得他。阿玛兰塔怎么也无怯使哥哥的形象和传奇勇士的形象一致起来；前者是在制作小金鱼的工作中度过青年时代的，后者却在自己和其他的人之间设置了三米的距离。然而，停战的消息传来的时候，大家以为奥雷连诺上校很快就会回到家里，重新变成一个得到亲人喜爱的普通人，长久蛰伏的亲“人感情也就复苏了，而且比以前更加强烈。
“咱们家里终于又有一个男人啦，”乌苏娜说。
阿玛兰塔第一个认为她们已经永远失去了他。停战之前一个星期，他回到了家里：没有侍从，只有两个赤足的勤务兵走在前头，把骡子的鞍俸和翰具以及一小箱诗篇放在廊上——这是奥雷连诺上校往日那种堂皇的行装中唯一剩下的东西；他走过阿玛兰塔房间旁边的时候，她叫了他一声。奥雷连诺上校仿佛想不起在他面前的是谁。
“我是阿玛兰塔，”她看见哥哥归来感到高兴，亲热地说，并且让他看看缠着黑绷带的手。“瞧吧。”
奥雷连诺上校就象那个遥远的早晨一样微微一笑，当时他被判处死刑以后回到了马孔多，第一次看见了这个绷带。
“可怕，”他说，“时间过得多快啊！”
*军不得不在宅子前面设置警卫。奥雷连诺上校是在讥笑和唾骂声中口到马孔多的，有人指责他为了较高的售价故意拖延战争。寒热病使他不住地发抖，腋下的脓疮又发作了，六个月以前，乌苏娜听到停战消息的时候，就打开和收拾了儿子的卧室，在各个角落里烧起了没药，以为儿子回来之后就会在雷麦黛丝破旧的玩具中间安度晚年了。其实，在过去的两年中，他已经算清了一生的账，甚至谈不上什么晚年了。他经过乌苏娜拾掇得特别仔细的首饰作坊时，没有发现钥匙是留在锁孔里的。而且在这房子里，时光造成的细微而令人难过的破坏，也没引起他的注意，任何一个记性很好的人，在长久离开之后，看见这些破坏都是会震惊的，可是任何东西都没引起他心中的痛苦：墙上剥落的灰泥，角落里凌乱的蛛网，弃置不顾的秋海棠，白蚁蛀坏的木梁，长了青苔的门框，一怀旧之情给他设置的这些诡谲的陷阶都没使他掉进去。他坐在长廊上，用毛毯裹着身子，也没脱掉靴子，仿佛是顺便到房子里来躲雨的，整个儿下午都瞧着雨水落到秋海棠上。乌苏娜终于明白。她无法长久把他留在家里。“也许还要去打仗。”她想，“如果不是打仗，那就是死。”这种想法是那么明确、可信，乌苏娜认为它是一种预兆。
傍晚，吃晚饭的时候，奥雷连诺第二右芋拿面包，左手握汤匙。他的孪生兄弟霍·阿卡蒂奥第二呢，左手拿面包，右手握汤匙。两人动作起来是那么协调，仿佛不是面对面坐着的两兄弟，而是一种巧妙的镜子装置。孪生兄弟知道他们两人完全相似，就在那天想出这种表演来欢迎奥雷连诺上校。可是奥雷连诺上校什么也没看见。他对周围的一切是那么疏远，甚至没有注意到赤身露体经过饭厅的俏姑娘雷麦黛丝。只有乌苏娜一人敢于把他从沉思状态中唤醒过来。
“假如你又要走，”她在晚餐时说。“你起码应当记住今儿晚上我们是什么样子。”
奥雷连诺上校这时明白，乌苏娜是唯一识破他精神空虚的人，但他并不觉得奇怪。他多年来第一次直勾勾地盯地她的面孔。她的皮肤布满了皱纹，牙齿已经磨损，头发枯萎、稀疏，眼神显得惊恐。他拿她跟老早以前那天下午的乌苏娜比较了一下，当时他曾预言热汤锅将要掉到地上，结果真的掉下去粉碎了。片刻间，他发现了半个多世纪日常的操劳在她身上留下的擦伤、茧子、疮痪和伤疤，这些可悲的痕迹甚至没有引起他一般的怜悯。于是他作了最后的努力，在自己心中寻找善良的感情已经发霉的地方，可是找不到它。从前，他在自己的皮肤上闻到乌苏娜的气味时，起码还有一点羞涩之类的感觉，而且经常觉得他的思想和母亲的思想息息相通，但这一切都被战争消灭了。甚至他的妻子雷麦黛丝，在他心中也只剩下一个陌生姑娘模糊的形象，这姑娘在年龄上是相当于他的女儿的·他在爱情的沙漠上邂逅过许多女人，他和她们在沿海地带撒下了不少种子，但是他的心里却没留下她们的任何痕迹。通常，她们都在黑夜里来找他，黎明前就离去，第二天已经没有什么东西使他想起她们，剩下的只是整个身体上某种困乏的感觉。能够胜过时间和战争的唯一的感情，是他童年时代对哥哥霍·阿卡蒂奥的感情，但它的基础不是爱，而是串通。
“对不起，”他抱歉地回答乌苏娜的要求。“战争把一切都葬送啦。”
次日，他就忙于消灭自己留居人世的一切痕迹。在首饰作坊里，他没碰的只是没有他个人烙印的东西；他把自己的衣服赠给了勤务兵，而将武器埋在院子里，悔悟的心情就象他父亲把杀死普鲁登希奥·阿吉廖尔的标枪埋藏起来那样。他留给自己的只是一支剩了一发子弹的手枪。他想取下客厅里长明灯照着的雷麦黛丝的相片时，乌苏娜才阻止他。“这相片早就不是你的啦，”乌苏娜说。“这是家中的圣物。”停战协定签字前夕，家里几乎没有留下一件东西能够使人想起奥雷连诺上校时，他才把一小箱诗篇拎进面包房，圣索菲娅·德拉佩德正在生炉子。
“拿这个生火吧，”说着，他把一卷发黄的纸儿递给她。“这种旧东西容易引火。”
圣索菲娅·德拉佩德是个寡言、随和的人，从不违拗任何人，甚至她自己的孩子，可她觉得奥雷连诺上校叫她做的是一件违禁的事。
“这是重要的纸儿嘛，”她说。
“不，”上校回答。“这都是为自个儿写的。”
“那么，”她说，“你自个儿烧吧，上校。”
他不仅这么做了，甚至用斧头辟开箱子，把木片扔到火里。几小时前，皮拉·苔列娜来看过他。奥雷连诺上校多年没有跟她见过面，一见她就觉得诧异，她变得又老又胖，笑声也不如从前响亮了：但他同时也感到惊讶，她在纸牌占卜上达到了多深的程度啊！“当心嘴巴，”——这是皮拉·苔列娜提醒过他的，于是他想：前一次，在他名望最高的时候，她的这句话难道不是对他未来命运的惊人预见吗？在跟皮拉·苔列娜见面之后不久，他竭力不表露特殊的兴趣，问了问刚给他的脓疮排了脓的私人医生，心脏的准确位置究竟在哪儿。医生用听诊器听了一听，就用蘸了碘酒的棉花在他胸上画了个圈子。
星期二——停战协定签订的日子，天气寒冷，下着雨。奥雷连诺上校五点以前来到厨房，照常喝了一杯无糖的咖啡。“你就是在今天这样的日子出生的，”乌苏娜向他说。“你张开的眼睛把大家都吓了一跳。”他没理会她，因为他正在倾听士兵们的脚步声、号声、断续的命令声，这些声音震动了清晨岑寂的空气。经过多年的战争，奥雷连诺上校虽然应当习惯于这样的声音了，可是此刻他却象青年时代第一次看见裸体女人那样感到膝头发软、身体打颤
