世紀文學經典:《百年孤獨》第18章Part5
“Go to your room,?Jos?Arcadio said.
Aureliano went and did not come out again even from curiosity when he heard the sound of the solitary funeral ceremonies. Sometimes, from the kitchen, he would see Jos?Arcadio strolling through the house, smothered by his anxious breathing, and he continued hearing his steps in the ruined bedrooms after midnight. He did not hear his voice for many months, not only because Jos?Arcadio never addressed him, but also because he had no desire for it to happen or time to think about anything else but the parchments. On Fernanda’s death he had taken out the next-to-the-last little fish and gone to the wise Catalonian’s bookstore in search of the books he needed. Nothing he saw along the way interested him, perhaps because he lacked any memories for comparison and the deserted streets and desolate houses were the same as he had imagined them at a time when he would have given his soul to know them. He had given himself the permission denied by Fernanda and only once and for the minimum time necessary, so without pausing he went along the eleven blocks that separated the house from the narrow street where dreams had been interpreted in other days and he went panting into the confused and gloomy place where there was barely room to move. More than a bookstore, it looked like a dump for used books, which were placed in disorder on the shelves chewed by termites, in the corners sticky with cobwebs, and even in the spaces that were supposed to serve as passageways. On a long table, also heaped with old books and papers, the proprietor was writing tireless prose in purple letters, somewhat outlandish, and on the loose pages of a school notebook. He had a handsome head of silver hair which fell down over his forehead like the plume of a cockatoo, and his blue eyes, lively and close-set, revealed the gentleness of a man who had read all of the books. He was wearing short pants and soaking in perspiration, and he did not stop his writing to see who had come in. Aureliano had no difficulty in rescuing the five books that he was looking for from that fabulous disorder, because they were exactly where Melquíades had told him they would be. Without saying a word he handed them, along with the little gold fish, to the wise Catalonian and the latter examined them, his eyelids contracting like two clams. “You must be mad,?he said in his own language, shrugging his shoulders, and he handed back to Aureliano the five books and the little fish.
“You can have them?he said in Spanish. “The last man who read these books must have been Isaac the Blindman, so consider well what you’re doing.?
“快滾回自己的房間去，”霍·阿卡蒂奧說。
奧雷連諾。 布恩蒂亞只好向自己的房間走去，連菲蘭達孤寂的出殯也沒去看一眼。有時，他從敞開的廚房門裏望見霍·阿卡蒂奧氣喘吁吁地在房子裏走來走去，深夜聽到一間間破舊的臥窒裏傳來他的腳步聲。不過他一連幾個月都沒聽到霍·阿卡蒂奧的嗓音，倒不是因爲霍·阿卡蒂奧沒跟他談話，而是因爲他自己既沒有談話的願望，也沒有時間考慮羊皮紙手稿以外的其他事情。菲蘭達死後，他從地窖裏取出僅存的兩條小金魚中的一條，到博學的加泰隆尼亞人那家書店裏去買他需要的那幾本書。他路上見到的一切都沒引起他的任何興趣，也許是他沒有什麼可以回憶的，沒有什麼可跟看見的事物相比較的；那些荒涼的街道和無人過問的房子，就跟以往一些日子他所想象的完全一樣，當時只要望上它們一眼，哪怕獻出整個身心他都願意，從前菲蘭達不准他出門，這一次是他自己允許自己的；他決心走出房子，不過僅這一次，在最短的時間裏，懷着唯一的目的，所以他一刻不停地跑過十一條街道，正是這十一條街道把他家的房子和那條昔日有人圓夢的小街遠遠地隔開。他心裏卜卜直跳，走進一間雜亂、昏暗的屋子，屋子裏連轉身的地方都沒有。看來，這不是一家書店，而是一座舊書公墓，一堆堆舊書毫無秩序地放在螞蟻啃壞的、佈滿蜘蛛網的書架上，不但放在書架上，還放在書架之間窄窄的過道里，放在地板上。在一張堆放着許多鉅著的長桌上，店主正在不停地寫着什麼，既無頭也無尾；他在練習簿裏撕下一張張紙兒，寫滿了彎彎扭扭的紫色小字。他那漂亮的銀白色頭髮垂在額上，猶如一綹白鸚鵡的羽毛。他象那些博覽羣書的人一樣，滴溜溜的小眼睛裏閃着溫和善良的亮光。他滿身大汗地坐在那兒。只穿着一條短褲，甚至沒有擡頭看來人一眼。在這亂得出奇的書堆裏，奧雷連諾·布恩蒂亞沒有特別費勁就找出了他需要的五本書，它們正好放在梅爾加德斯指點過的地方。他一句話沒說，就把挑選出來的幾本書和一條小金魚遞給博學的加泰隆尼亞人，加泰隆尼亞人翻了翻書，眼臉又象蛤殼似地合上了。“你該不是瘋了吧，”他講了一句家鄉話，聳聳肩膀，又把書和金魚遞給奧雷連諾·布恩蒂亞。
“拿去吧，”他改用西班牙語說。“最後一個看這些書的人，大概是瞎子伊薩克，你可得仔細想想自己乾的事情。”
