百年孤独(英文版)-第71部分
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he yellow butterflies that were still acpanying her。 Fernanda never found out nor did she take the trouble to； whether that stony silence was a determination of her will or whether she had bee mute because of the impact of the tragedy。 Meme barely took notice of the journey through the formerly enchanted region。 She did not see the shady； endless banana groves on both sides of the tracks。 She did not see the white houses of the gringos or their gardens； dried out by dust and heat； or the women in shorts and bluestriped shirts playing cards on the terraces。 She did not see the oxcarts on the dusty roads loaded down with bunches of bananas。 She did not see the girls diving into the transparent rivers like tarpons； leaving the passengers on the train with the bitterness of their splendid breasts； or the miserable huts of the workers all huddled together where Mauricio Babilonia’s yellow butterflies fluttered about and in the doorways of which there were green and squalid children sitting on their pots； and pregnant women who shouted insults at the train。 That fleeting vision； which had been a celebration for her when she came home from school； passed through Meme’s heart without a quiver。 She did not look out of the window； not even when the burning dampness of the groves ended and the train went through a poppyladen plain where the carbonized skeleton of the Spanish galleon still sat and then came out into the dear air alongside the frothy； dirty sea where almost a century before Jos？Arcadio Buendía’s illusions had met defeat。
At five o’clock in the afternoon； when they had e to the last station in the swamp； she got out of the train because Fernanda made her。 They got into a small carriage that looked like an enormous bat； drawn by an asthmatic horse； and they went through the desolate city in the endless streets of which； split by saltiness； there was the sound of a piano lesson just like the one that Fernanda heard during the siestas of her adolescence。 They went on board a riverboat； the wooden wheel of which had a sound of conflagration； and whose rusted metal plates reverberated like the mouth of an oven。 Meme shut herself up in her cabin。 Twice a day Fernanda left a plate of food by her bed and twice a day she took it away intact； not because Meme had resolved to die of hunger； but because even the smell of food was repugnant to her and her stomach rejected even water。 Not even she herself knew that her fertility had outwitted the mustard vapors； just as Fernanda did not know until almost a year later； when they brought the child。 In the suffocating cabin； maddened by the vibration of the metal plates and the unbearable stench of the mud stirred up by the paddle wheel； Meme lost track of the days。 Much time had passed when she saw the last yellow butterfly destroyed in the blades of the fan and she admitted as an irremediable truth that Mauricio Babilonia had died。 She did not let herself be defeated by resignation； however。 She kept on thinking about him during the arduous muleback crossing of the hallucinating plateau where Aureliano Segundo had bee lost when he was looking for the most beautiful woman who had ever appeared on the face of the earth； and when they went over the mountains along Indian trails and entered the gloomy city in whose stone alleys the funereal bronze bells of thirtytwo churches tolled。 That night they slept in the abandoned colonial mansion on boards that Fernanda laid on the floor of a room invaded by weeds； wrapped in the shreds of curtains that they pulled off the windows and that fell to pieces with every turn of the body。 Meme knew where they were because in the flight of her insomnia she saw pass by the gentleman dressed in black whom they delivered to the house inside a lead box on one distant Christmas Eve。 On the following day； after mass； Fernanda took her to a somber building that Meme recognized immediately from her mother’s stories of the convent where they had raised her to be a queen； and then she understood that they had e to the end of the journey。 While Fernanda was speaking to someone in the office next door； Meme remained in a parlor checkered with large oil paintings of colonial archbishops； still wearing an etamine dress with small black flowers and stiff high shoes which were swollen by the cold of the uplands。 She was standing in the center of the parlor thinking about Mauricio Babilonia under the yellow stream of light from the stained glass windows when a very beautiful novice came out of the office carrying her suitcase with the three changes of clothing。 As she passed Meme she took her hand without stopping。
“e； Renata；？she said to her。
Meme took her hand and let herself be led。 The last time that Fernanda saw her； trying to keep up with the novice； the iron grating of the cloister had just closed behind her。 She was still thinking about Mauricio Babilonia； his smell of grease； and his halo of butterflies； and she would keep on thinking about him for all the days of her life until the remote autumn morning when she died of old age； with her name changed and her head shaved and without ever having spoken a word； in a gloomy hospital in Cracow。
Fernanda returned to Macondo on a train protected by armed police。 During the trip she noticed the tension of the passengers； the military preparations in the towns along the line； and an atmosphere rarified by the certainty that something serious was going to happen； but she had no information until she reached Macondo and they told her that Jos？Arcadio Segundo was inciting the workers of the banana pany to strike。 “That’s all we need；？Fernanda said to herself。 “An anarchist in the family。？The strike broke out two weeks later and it did not have the dramatic consequences that had been feared。 The workers demanded that they not be obliged to cut and load bananas on Sundays； and the position seemed so just that even Father Antonio Isabel interceded in its favor because he found it in accordance with the laws of God。 That victory； along with other actions that were initiated during the following months； drew the colorless Jos？Arcadio Segundo out of his anonymity； for people had been accustomed to say that he was only good for filling up the town with French whores。 With the same impulsive decision with which he had auctioned off his fighting cocks in order to anize a harebrained boat business； he gave up his position as foreman in the banana pany and took the side of the workers。 Quite soon he was pointed out as the agent of an international conspiracy against public order。 One night； during the course of a week darkened by somber rumors； he miraculously escaped four revolver shots taken at him by an unknown party as he was leaving a secret meeting。 The atmosphere of the following months was so tense that even ？rsula perceived it in her dark corner； and she had the impression that once more she was living through the dangerous times when her son Aureliano carried the homeopathic pills of subversion in his pocket。 She tried to speak to Jos？Arcadio Segundo； to let him know about that precedent； but Aureliano Segundo told her that since the night of the attempt on his life no one knew his whereabouts。
“Just like Aureliano；？？rsula exclaimed。 “It’s as if the world were repeating itself。？
Fernanda； was immune to the uncertainty of those days。 She had no contact with the outside world since the violent altercation she had had with her husband over her having decided Memes fate without his consent。 Aureliano Segundo was prepared to rescue his daughter with the help of the police if necessary； but Fernanda showed him some papers that were proof that she had entered the convent of her own free will。 Meme had indeed signed once she was already behind the iron grating and she did it with the same indifference with which she had allowed herself to be led away。 Underneath it all； Aureliano Segundo did not believe in the legitimacy of the proof。 Just as he never believed that Mauricio Babilonia had gone into the yard to steal chickens； but both expedients served to ease his conscience； and thus he could go back without remorse under the shadow of Petra Cotes； where he revived his noisy revelry and unlimited gourmandiz
