ipex-llm/docker/llm/serving/xpu/docker/vllm_online_benchmark.py

import requests
import time
from concurrent.futures import ThreadPoolExecutor
import concurrent
import numpy as np
from tqdm import tqdm
import json
import random
import sys

if len(sys.argv) < 3:
    print("Usage: python bench.py <model> <max_seq> [input_length] [output_length]")
    sys.exit(1)

print("running bench.py")
model_name = sys.argv[1]
print("model_name: " + str(model_name))
max_seq = sys.argv[2]
print("max_seq: " + str(max_seq))

input_length = int(sys.argv[3]) if len(sys.argv) > 3 else 1024
print("input_length: " + str(input_length))
output_length = int(sys.argv[4]) if len(sys.argv) > 4 else 512
print("output_length: " + str(output_length))

PROMPT_32 = "Once upon a time, there existed a little girl who liked to have adventures. She wanted to go to places and meet new people, and have fun"

PROMPT_128 = "In a distant future, humanity has expanded across the galaxy, establishing colonies on numerous planets. The interstellar community thrives under the guidance of the United Galactic Federation, which ensures peace and prosperity. However, a new threat emerges from the unknown regions of space, challenging the stability and security of the galaxy. Brave explorers and seasoned warriors must unite to uncover the secrets of this mysterious force and protect the future of all sentient beings.  Please continue the above story as long as possible, preferably more than 1000 tokens."

PROMPT_1024 = "Once upon a time, there existed a little girl who liked to have adventures. She wanted to go to places and meet new people, and have fun. However, her parents were always telling her to stay close to home, to be careful, and to avoid any danger. But the little girl was stubborn, and she wanted to see what was on the other side of the mountain. So she sneaked out of the house one night, leaving a note for her parents, and set off on her journey. As she climbed the mountain, the little girl felt a sense of excitement and wonder. She had never been this far away from home before, and she couldnt wait to see what she would find on the other side. She climbed higher and higher, her lungs burning from the thin air, until she finally reached the top of the mountain. And there, she found a beautiful meadow filled with wildflowers and a sparkling stream. The little girl danced and played in the meadow, feeling free and alive. She knew she had to return home eventually, but for now, she was content to enjoy her adventure. As the sun began to set, the little girl reluctantly made her way back down the mountain, but she knew that she would never forget her adventure and the joy of discovering something new and exciting. And whenever she felt scared or unsure, she would remember the thrill of climbing the mountain and the beauty of the meadow on the other side, and she would know that she could face any challenge that came her way, with courage and determination. She carried the memories of her journey in her heart, a constant reminder of the strength she possessed. The little girl returned home to her worried parents, who had discovered her note and anxiously awaited her arrival. They scolded her for disobeying their instructions and venturing into the unknown. But as they looked into her sparkling eyes and saw the glow on her face, their anger softened. They realized that their little girl had grown, that she had experienced something extraordinary. The little girl shared her tales of the mountain and the meadow with her parents, painting vivid pictures with her words. She spoke of the breathtaking view from the mountaintop, where the world seemed to stretch endlessly before her. She described the delicate petals of the wildflowers, vibrant hues that danced in the gentle breeze. And she recounted the soothing melody of the sparkling stream, its waters reflecting the golden rays of the setting sun. Her parents listened intently, captivated by her story. They realized that their daughter had discovered a part of herself on that journey—a spirit of curiosity and a thirst for exploration. They saw that she had learned valuable lessons about independence, resilience, and the beauty that lies beyond ones comfort zone. From that day forward, the little girls parents encouraged her to pursue her dreams and embrace new experiences. They understood that while there were risks in the world, there were also rewards waiting to be discovered. They supported her as she continued to embark on adventures, always reminding her to stay safe but never stifling her spirit. As the years passed, the little girl grew into a remarkable woman, fearlessly exploring the world and making a difference wherever she went. The lessons she had learned on that fateful journey stayed with her, guiding her through challenges and inspiring her to live life to the fullest. And so, the once timid little girl became a symbol of courage and resilience, a reminder to all who knew her that the greatest joys in life often lie just beyond the mountains we fear to climb. Her story spread far and wide, inspiring others to embrace their own journeys and discover the wonders that awaited them. In the end, the little girls adventure became a timeless tale, passed down through generations, reminding us all that sometimes, the greatest rewards come to those who dare to step into the unknown and follow their hearts. With each passing day, the little girls story continued to inspire countless individuals, igniting a spark within their souls and encouraging them to embark on their own extraordinary adventures. The tale of her bravery and determination resonated deeply with people from all walks of life, reminding them of the limitless possibilities that awaited them beyond the boundaries of their comfort zones. People marveled at the little girls unwavering spirit and her unwavering belief in the power of dreams. They saw themselves reflected in her journey, finding solace in the knowledge that they too could overcome their fears and pursue their passions. The little girl\'s story became a beacon of hope, a testament to the human spirit"

PROMPT_2048 = "“You’re an idiot,” she said.\nI smiled and leaned back in the chair, looking at her over my glasses. “No, I’m not.”\n“If you were smart you would have learned to dance years ago. You’ve got two left feet.” She held up both of her hands with four fingers extended then made a circular motion that looked like an airplane.\nI leaned forward and put my glasses on the table in front of me, reaching for her hands as I did so, grabbing them before they could leave mine. “The next time you do something like this, call me. The phone number is right here,” I said as I pointed at a piece of paper under a stack of papers on my desk.\n“Fine,” she huffed and turned to leave the room. But she stopped at the doorway when she saw the bookshelves that lined one wall. “What are these for?” She stepped closer, tilting her head back and forth as she looked up. The shelves were three stories high with stacks of books on every level.\n“Books.” I smiled again. “I have a lot of books.”\nShe didn’t respond to that so I continued: “And there are more in the basement.”\n“But you can’t move them all here, right? This place is just too small for all those books. Maybe we should look for a bigger office building.” She looked back at me but said nothing as she took another few steps towards the door and then stopped again when she saw my grandfather clock on the wall.\n“And this?” she pointed to the clock, which had been in the family for over seventy years. “It’s just a clock isn’t it?”\nI laughed. “You can say that, but I know better.” It was then that I told her my grandfather’s story. He made that clock, and it was his favorite possession. When he died she inherited the clock; or at least she thought she did. After a few weeks of trying to sell it on eBay, she gave up because no one would pay what she felt it was worth.\n“You should have had an auction,” she suggested, leaning in towards me again. “Then maybe you could get more for it.”\n“No,” I shook my head. “I don’t want to sell the clock.”\nShe smiled, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. She took a step back and looked at me again, not saying anything, just staring. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the background as she waited for my next words.\n“My grandfather made this clock. He did everything by hand.” I could see that she had no idea what to say or do so I continued: “It’s his favorite possession, and it means more to me than anything else he ever owned. So, if you want the books, you can have them…” I looked at her face for just a second before continuing, “but you won’t take the clock.”\nShe finally responded with: “But what about the money?” She looked around again and said, “I think we could make more selling these books than you would get from all of them. You must have thousands of books here!”\nI took another step forward and put my hand on her shoulder as I spoke to her in a very low voice. “You’ve got it all wrong,” I told her. “There are only two or three hundred books. I’m not looking for money – I’m looking for someone who understands how important this clock is.”\n“How much do you want for the books?” she asked, still staring at me intently as she waited for my answer.\n“Forget about the money,” I said again. “If you really want to buy them, we can take our time and talk more later. But if you just want their value in paperbacks, that’s not what they’re worth.” She still seemed confused by everything I had said so far, so I tried to simplify my words as much as possible: “The books are mine; the clock is my grandfather’s. These books have been passed down through several generations of our family and are irreplaceable. Do you understand?”\n“I guess not,” she answered as she walked away from me, still looking at me but not saying a word. She took two more steps before turning around to say one last thing: “Well, good luck with the books, then.” With that, she went back into her house and out of sight, still walking without talking.\nAfter a few minutes, I slowly walked back toward my grandfather’s home. As I got closer, I could see the roof in the distance; the white crosses on the top of it were hard to miss. It seemed as if the entire town had gathered around there at that moment – people were all over the road around us, watching the commotion and chattering about what was going on.\nWhen my grandfather first saw me, he looked up from his chair with a smile on his face: “There you are.” He looked down at his hands, then back toward me as I walked forward to talk to him for the first time in years: “It’s been too long since we last spoke; it’s good to see you again.”\n“And you,” I said. Then, looking past my grandfather and directly into the face of the man who was sitting next to him (my mother’s father), I said, “I see he got your clock back for you, too. How is he?” My grandfather smiled as he looked up at me again:\n“He’s fine,” he answered, still smiling as he watched my mother’s family and mine chat with one another in the middle of all these people – a situation that I had never seen before. “Come on inside.” He stood up from his chair to do just that; my mom and her sister were already walking out of the building. “I have things for you.”\nMy grandfather led us inside, down some steps where he used to serve as the pastor in his church; there was a big room full of chairs at the bottom with pictures on the wall – all kinds of pictures, from when my family first started coming here to visit and other pictures we took while staying here over the years. All these photographs were all around us as I followed my grandfather through the building:\n“My house is just up the street,” he said. He stopped at a picture on the wall that was taken in the summer when we came to visit, smiling as he looked toward it with his arms folded – the picture was of him and his wife and two of their daughters, all standing together by one of the trees outside; there were other pictures around this one, some from much earlier than when my grandfather first started serving here. “We used to sit in a booth in that restaurant right over there – you remember?” I nodded as we went past it.\nMy grandfather stopped at another picture on the wall: it was of him and his wife with two other families, all sitting around a table together, smiling. He looked down at this one for a moment; then he said, “We used to do things like this every year, when we came to visit.” It was an older picture than the last one my grandfather had stopped in front of; I didn’t know it before but now I realized how much he has aged.\nMy grandparents have lived together for many years. They used to live in a house right next door, so they could walk over whenever they wanted; that is what they have done here all these years – as my grandfather said, “we’ve come here every summer since I was eleven.” But he and his wife are getting old now. He isn’t able to walk much anymore, but it makes him happy when he does: “My health has not been good lately,” he said.\n“You will never have a better time in your life than this one right now; you will never be as happy as you are now.” And for the first time since I have known him – since I was very little and started coming here every summer – my grandfather smiled at me, his eyes sparkling with excitement.\n“I know,” I said. “That’s why I’m really looking forward to it. It will be a lot of fun.” Then he turned back to the picture again; “See this?” he asked, pointing. “I remember that day, all sixteen of us there together. I was eleven then – my dad had taken me and my brother for our first trip away from home – and that was when we used to go to the cottage.” He stared at it for a while longer; he had tears in his eyes. “I loved this picture,” he said, turning it over again with one hand so I could see the back of it.\n“This is my best memory,” he explained. “It was taken on my birthday. That’s what makes me happiest.” He pointed to a man who had a pipe in his mouth. “That’s my uncle,” he said. “He gave all of us kids cigars for our birthdays, and we used to take turns lighting them – then everyone would sit around outside in the sunshine and smoke together like that. It was such a good time.” Then he held up his hand, as if to say, that’s enough now; and he went on, “Anyway, I don’"

CHINESE_PROMPT = """
多年以后，奥雷连诺上校站在行刑队面前，准会想起父亲带他去参观冰块的那个遥远的下午。当时，马孔多是个二十户人家的村庄，一座座土房都盖在河岸上，河水清澈，沿着遍布石头的河床流去，河里的石头光滑、洁白，活象史前的巨蛋。

这块天地还是新开辟的，许多东西都叫不出名字，不得不用手指指点点。每年三月，衣衫褴楼的吉卜赛人都要在村边搭起帐篷，在笛鼓的喧嚣声中，向马孔多的居 民介绍科学家的最新发明。他们首先带来的是磁铁。一个身躯高大的吉卜赛人，自称梅尔加德斯，满脸络腮胡子，手指瘦得象鸟的爪子，向观众出色地表演了他所谓 的马其顿炼金术士创造的世界第八奇迹。他手里拿着两大块磁铁，从一座农舍走到另一座农舍，大家都惊异地看见，铁锅、铁盆、铁钳、铁炉都从原地倒下，木板上 的钉子和螺丝嘎吱嘎吱地拼命想挣脱出来，甚至那些早就丢失的东西也从找过多次的地方兀然出现，乱七八糟地跟在梅尔加德斯的魔铁后面。“东西也是有生命 的，”

吉卜赛人用刺耳的声调说，“只消唤起它们的灵性。”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚狂热的想象力经常超过大自然的创造力，甚至越过奇迹和魔力的限度，他认为这种暂时无用的科学发明可以用来开采地下的金子。

梅尔加德斯是个诚实的人，他告诫说：“磁铁干这个却不行。”可是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚当时还不相信吉卜赛人的诚实，因此用自己的一匹骡子和两只山羊换下了两 块磁铁。这些家畜是他的妻子打算用来振兴破败的家业的，她试图阻止他，但是枉费工夫。“咱们很快就会有足够的金子，用来铺家里的地都有余啦。”——丈夫回 答她。在好儿个月里，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚都顽强地努力履行自己的诺言。他带者两块磁铁，大声地不断念着梅尔加德斯教他的咒语，勘察了周围整个地区的一寸寸土 地，甚至河床。但他掘出的唯一的东西，是十五世纪的一件铠甲，它的各部分都已锈得连在一起，用手一敲，皑甲里面就发出空洞的回声，仿佛一只塞满石子的大葫 芦。

三月间，吉卜赛人又来了。现在他们带来的是一架望远镜和一只大小似鼓的放大镜，说是阿姆斯特丹犹太人的最新发明。他们把望远镜安在 帐篷门口，而让一个吉卜赛女人站在村子尽头。花五个里亚尔，任何人都可从望远镜里看见那个仿佛近在飓尺的吉卜赛女人。“科学缩短了距离。”梅尔加德斯说。 “在短时期内，人们足不出户，就可看到世界上任何地方发生的事儿。”在一个炎热的晌午，吉卜赛人用放大镜作了一次惊人的表演：他们在街道中间放了一堆干 草，借太阳光的焦点让干草燃了起来。磁铁的试验失败之后，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚还不甘心，马上又产生了利用这个发明作为作战武器的念头。梅尔加德斯又想劝阻 他，但他终于同意用两块磁铁和三枚殖民地时期的金币交换放大镜。乌苏娜伤心得流了泪。这些钱是从一盒金鱼卫拿出来的，那盒金币由她父亲一生节衣缩食积攒下 来，她一直把它埋藏在自个儿床下，想在适当的时刻使用。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚无心抚慰妻子，他以科学家的忘我精神，甚至冒着生命危险，一头扎进了作战试验。他 想证明用放大镜对付敌军的效力，就力阳光的焦点射到自己身上，因此受到灼伤，伤处溃烂，很久都没痊愈。这种危险的发明把他的妻子吓坏了，但他不顾妻子的反 对，有一次甚至准备点燃自己的房子。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚待在自己的房间里总是一连几个小时，计算新式武器的战略威力，甚至编写了一份使用这种武器的《指 南》，阐述异常清楚，论据确凿有力。他把这份《指南》连同许多试验说明和几幅图解，请一个信使送给政府；

这个信使翻过山岭，涉过茫茫苍 苍的沼地，游过汹涌澎湃的河流，冒着死于野兽和疫病的危阶，终于到了一条驿道。当时前往首都尽管是不大可能的，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚还是答应，只要政府一声令 下，他就去向军事长官们实际表演他的发明，甚至亲自训练他们掌握太阳战的复杂技术。他等待答复等了几年。最后等得厌烦了，他就为这新的失败埋怨梅尔加德 斯，于是吉卜赛人令人信服地证明了自己的诚实：他归还了金币，换回了放大镜，并且给了霍·阿·布恩蒂亚几幅葡萄牙航海图和各种航海仪器。梅尔加德斯亲手记 下了修道士赫尔曼着作的简要说明，把记录留给霍·阿·布恩蒂亚，让他知道如何使用观象仪、罗盘和六分仪。在雨季的漫长月份里，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚部把自己关 在宅子深处的小房间里，不让别人打扰他的试验。他完全抛弃了家务，整夜整夜呆在院子里观察星星的运行；为了找到子午线的确定方法，他差点儿中了暑。他完全 掌握了自己的仪器以后，就设想出了空间的概念，今后，他不走出自己的房间，就能在陌生的海洋上航行，考察荒无人烟的土地，并且跟珍禽异兽打上交道了。正是 从这个时候起，他养成了自言自语的习惯，在屋子里踱来踱去，对谁也不答理，而乌苏娜和孩子们却在菜园里忙得喘不过气来，照料香蕉和海芋、木薯和山药、南瓜 和茄子。可是不久，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚紧张的工作突然停辍，他陷入一种种魄颠倒的状态。好几天，他仿佛中了魔，总是低声地嘟嚷什么，并为自己反复斟酌的各种 假设感到吃惊，自己都不相信。最后，在十二月里的一个星期、吃午饭的时候，他忽然一下子摆脱了恼人的疑虑。孩子们至死部记得，由于长期熬夜和冥思苦想而变 得精疲力竭的父亲，如何洋洋得意地向他们宣布自己的发现：

“地球是圆的，象橙子。”

乌苏娜失去了耐心，“如果你想发 癫，你就自个几发吧！”她嚷叫起来，“别给孩子们的脑瓜里灌输古卜赛人的胡思乱想。”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚一动不动，妻子气得把观象仪摔到地上，也没有吓倒 他。他另做了一个观象仪，并且把村里的一些男人召到自己的小房间里，根据在场的人椎也不明白的理论，向他们证明说，如果一直往东航行，就能回到出发的地 点。马孔多的人以为霍·阿·布恩蒂亚疯了，可兄梅尔加德斯回来之后，马上消除了大家的疑虑。他大声地赞扬霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的智慧：光靠现象仪的探测就证实 了一种理论，这种理论虽是马孔多的居民宜今还不知道的，但实际上早就证实了；梅尔加德斯为了表示钦佩，赠给霍·阿·布恩蒂亚一套东西——炼金试验室设备， 这对全村的未来将会产生深远的影响。
十六世纪，海盗弗兰西斯·德拉克围攻列奥阿察的时候，乌苏娜。伊古阿兰的曾祖母被当当的警钟声和隆隆的炮击声吓坏了，由于神经紧张，竞一屁股坐 在生了火的炉子上。因此，曾祖母受了严重的的伤，再也无法过夫妻生活。她只能用半个屁股坐着，而且只能坐在软垫子上，步态显然也是不雅观的；所以，她就不 愿在旁人面前走路了。她认为自己身上有一股焦糊味儿，也就拒绝跟任何人交往。她经常在院子里过夜，一直呆到天亮，不敢走进卧室去睡觉：因为她老是梦见英国 人带着恶狗爬进窗子，用烧红的铁器无耻地刑讯她。她给丈夫生了两个儿子；她的丈夫是亚拉冈的商人，把自己的一半钱财都用来医治妻子，希望尽量减轻她的痛 苦。最后，他盘掉自己的店铺，带者一家人远远地离开海滨，到了印第安人的一个村庄，村庄是在山脚下，他在那儿为妻子盖了一座没有窗子的住房，免得她梦中的 海盗钻进屋子。

在这荒僻的村子里，早就有个两班牙人的后裔，叫做霍塞·阿卡蒂奥·布恩蒂亚，他是栽种烟草的；乌苏娜的曾祖父和他一起经 营这桩有利可图的事业，短时期内两人都建立了很好的家业。多少年过去了，西班牙后裔的曾孙儿和亚拉冈人的曾孙女结了婚。每当大夫的荒唐行为使乌苏娜生气的 时候，她就一下子跳过世事纷繁的三百年，咒骂弗兰西斯·德拉克围攻列奥阿察的那个日子。不过，她这么做，只是为了减轻心中的痛苦；实际上，把她跟他终生连 接在一起的，是比爱情更牢固的关系：共同的良心谴责。乌苏娜和丈夫是表兄妹，他俩是在古老的村子里一块儿长大的，由于沮祖辈辈的垦殖，这个村庄已经成了今 省最好的一个。尽管他俩之间的婚姻是他俩刚刚出世就能预见到的，然而两个年轻人表示结婚愿望的时候，双方的家长都反对。几百年来，两族的人是杂配的，他们 生怕这两个健全的后代可能丢脸地生出一只蜥蜴。这样可怕的事已经发牛过一次。乌苏娜的婶婶嫁给霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的叔叔，生下了一个儿子：这个儿子一辈子部 穿着肥大的灯笼裤，活到四十二岁还没结婚就流血而死，因为他生下来就长着一条尾巴——尖端有一撮毛的螺旋形软骨。这种名副其实的猪尾巴是他不愿让任何一个 女人看见的，最终要了他的命，因为一个熟识的屠夫按照他的要求，用切肉刀把它割掉了。十九岁的霍·阿·布恩蒂亚无忧无虑地用一句话结束了争论：“我可不在 乎生出猪崽子，只要它们会说话就行。”于是他俩在花炮声中举行了婚礼铜管乐队，一连闹腾了三个昼夜。在这以后，年轻夫妇本来可以幸福地生活，可是乌苏娜的 母亲却对未来的后代作出不大吉利的预言，借以吓唬自己的女儿，甚至怂恿女儿拒绝按照章法跟他结合。她知道大夫是个力大、刚强的人，担心他在她睡着时强迫 她，所以，她在上床之前，都穿上母亲拿厚帆布给她缝成的一条衬裤；衬裤是用交叉的皮带系住的，前面用一个大铁扣扣紧。夫妇俩就这样过了若干月。白天，他照 料自己的斗鸡，她就和母亲一块儿在刺染上绣花。夜晚，年轻夫妇却陷入了烦恼而激烈的斗争，这种斗争逐渐代替了爱情的安慰。可是，机灵的邻人立即觉得情况不 妙，而且村中传说，乌苏娜出嫁一年以后依然是个处女，因为丈大有点儿毛病。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚是最后听到这个谣言的。

“乌苏娜，你听人家在说什么啦，”他向妻子平静他说。

“让他们去嚼舌头吧，”她回答。“咱们知道那不是真的。”

他们的生活又这样过了半年，直到那个倒霉的星期天，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的公鸡战胜了普鲁登希奥·阿吉廖尔的公鸡。输了的普鲁登希奥·阿吉廖尔，一见鸡血就气得发疯，故意离开霍·阿·布恩蒂亚远一点儿，想让斗鸡棚里的人都能听到他的话。

“恭喜你呀！”他叫道。“也许你的这只公鸡能够帮你老婆的忙。咱们瞧吧！”

霍·阿·布恩蒂亚不动声色地从地上拎起自己的公鸡。“我马上就来，”他对大家说，然后转向普鲁登希奥，阿吉廖尔：

“你回去拿武器吧，我准备杀死你。”

过了十分钟，他就拿着一枝粗大的标枪回来了，这标枪还是他祖父的。斗鸡棚门口拥聚了几乎半个村子的人，普鲁登希奥·阿吉廖尔正在那儿等候。他还来不及自 卫，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的标枪就击中了他的咽喉，标枪是猛力掷出的，非常准确；由于这种无可指摘的准确，霍塞·奥雷连诺·布恩蒂亚（注：布恩蒂亚的祖父）

从前曾消灭了全区所有的豹子。夜晚在斗鸡棚里，亲友们守在死者棺材旁边的时候，霍·阿·布恩蒂业走进自己的卧室，看见妻子正在穿她的“贞节裤”。他拿标枪对准她，命令道：“脱掉！”乌苏娜并不怀疑丈夫的决心。“出了事，你负责，”

她警告说。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚把标枪插入泥地。

“你生下蜥蜴，咱们就抚养蜥蜴，”他说。“可是村里再也不会有人由于你的过错而被杀死了。”

这是一个美妙的六月的夜晚，月光皎洁，凉爽宜人。他俩通古未睡，在床上折腾，根本没去理会穿过卧室的轻风，风儿带来了普鲁登希奥·阿吉廖尔亲人的哭声。

人们把这桩事情说成是光荣的决斗，可是两夫妇却感到了良心的谴责。有一天夜里，乌苏娜还没睡觉，出去喝水，在院子里的大土罐旁边看见了普鲁登希奥·阿吉 廖尔。他脸色死白、十分悲伤，试图用一块麻屑堵住喉部正在流血的伤口。看见死人，乌苏娜感到的不是恐惧，而是怜悯。她回到卧室里，把这件怪事告诉了丈夫， 可是丈夫并不重视她的话。“死人是不会走出坟墓的，”他说。“这不过是咱们受到良心的责备。”过了两夜，乌苏娜在浴室里遇见普鲁登希奥·阿吉廖尔——他正 在用麻屑擦洗脖子上的凝血。另一个夜晚，她发现他在雨下徘徊。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚讨厌妻子的幻象，就带着标枪到院子里去。死人照旧悲伤地立在那儿。

“滚开！”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚向他吆喝。“你回来多少次，我就要打死你多少次。”
皮拉·苔列娜的儿子出世以后两个星期，祖父和祖母把他接到了家里。乌苏娜是勉强收留这小孩儿的，因为她又没拗过丈大的固执脾气；想让布恩蒂亚家 的后代听天由命，是他不能容忍的。但她提出了个条件：决不让孩子知道自己的真正出身。孩子也取名霍·阿卡蒂奥，可是为了避免混淆不清，大家渐渐地只管他叫 阿卡蒂奥了。这时，马孔多事业兴旺，布恩蒂亚家中一片忙碌，孩子们的照顾就降到了次要地位，负责照拂他们的是古阿吉洛部族的一个印第安女人，她是和弟弟一 块儿来到马孔多的，借以逃避他们家乡已经猖獗几年的致命传染病——失眠症。姐弟俩都是驯良、勤劳的人，乌苏娜雇用他们帮她做些家务。所以，阿卡蒂奥和阿玛 兰塔首先说的是古阿吉洛语，然后才说西班牙语，而且学会喝晰蜴汤、吃蜘蛛蛋，可是乌苏娜根本没有发现这一点，因她制作获利不小的糖鸟糖兽太忙了。马孔多完 全改变了面貌。乌苏娜带到这儿来的那些人，到处宣扬马孔多地理位置很好、周围土地肥沃，以致这个小小的村庄很快变戍了一个热闹的市镇，开设了商店和手工业 作坊，修筑了永久的商道，第一批阿拉伯人沿着这条道路来到了这儿，他们穿着宽大的裤子，戴着耳环，用玻璃珠项链交换鹦鹉。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚没有一分钟的休 息。他对周围的现实生活入了迷，觉得这种生活比他想象的大于世界奇妙得多，于是失去了对炼金试验的任何兴趣，把月复一月变来变去的东西搁在一边，重新成了 一个有事业心的、精力充沛的人了，从前，在哪儿铺设街道，在哪儿建筑新的房舍，都是由他决定的，他不让任何人享有别人没有的特权。新来的居民也十分尊敬 他，甚至请他划分土地。没有征得他的同意，就不放下一块基石，也不砌上一道墙垣。玩杂技的吉卜赛人回来的时候，他们的活动游艺场现在变成了一个大赌场，受 到热烈的欢迎。因为大家都希望霍·阿卡蒂奥也跟他们一块儿回来。但是霍·阿卡蒂奥并没有回来，那个“蛇人”也没有跟他们在一起，照乌苏娜看来，那个“蛇人 是唯”一知道能在哪儿找到她的儿子的；因此，他们不让吉卜赛人在马孔多停留，甚至不准他们以后再来这儿：现在他们已经认为吉卜赛人是贪婪佚的化身了。然而 霍·阿·布恩蒂亚却认为，古老的梅尔加德斯部族用它多年的知识和奇异的发明大大促进了马孔多的发展，这里的人永远都会张开双臂欢迎他们。可是，照流浪汉们 的说法，梅尔加德斯部族已从地面上消失了，因为他们竟敢超越人类知识的限度。

霍·阿·布恩蒂亚至少暂时摆脱了幻想的折磨以后，在短时期 内就有条不紊地整顿好了全镇的劳动生活；平静的空气是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚有一次自己破坏的，当时他放走了马孔多建立之初用响亮的叫声报告时刻的鸟儿，而给每 一座房子安了一个音乐钟。这些雕木作成的漂亮的钟，是用鹦鹉向阿拉伯人换来的，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚把它们拨得挺准，每过半小时，它们就奏出同一支华尔兹舞曲 的几节曲于让全镇高兴一次，——每一次都是几节新的曲于，到了晌午时分，所有的钟一齐奏出整支华尔兹舞曲，一点几也不走调。在街上栽种杏树，代替槐树，也 是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的主意，而且他还发明了一种使这些杏树永远活着的办法（这个办法他至死没有透露）。过了多年，马孔多建筑了一座座锌顶木房的时候，在它 最老的街道上仍然挺立着一棵棵杏树，树枝折断，布满尘埃，但谁也记不得这些树是什么人栽的了。

父亲大力整顿这个市镇，母亲却在振兴家 业，制作美妙的糖公鸡和糖鱼，把它们插在巴里萨木棍儿上，每天两次拿到街上去卖，这时，奥雷连诺却在荒弃的试验室里度过漫长的时刻，孜孜不倦地掌握首饰技 术。他已经长得挺高，哥哥留下的衣服很快不合他的身材了，他就改穿父亲的衣服，诚然，维希塔香不得不替他把衬衫和裤子改窄一些，因为奥雷连诺比父亲和哥哥 都瘦。

进入少年时期，他的嗓音粗了，他也变得沉默寡言、异常孤僻，但是他的眼睛又经常露出紧张的神色，这种神色在他出生的那一天是使他 母亲吃了一惊的。奥雷连诺聚精会神地从事首饰工作，除了吃饭，几乎不到试验室外面去。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚对他的孤僻感到不安，就把房门的钥匙和一点儿钱给了 他，以为儿子可能需要出去找找女人。奥雷连诺却拿钱买了盐酸，制成了王水，给钥匙镀了金。可是，奥雷连诺的古怪比不上阿卡蒂奥和阿玛兰塔的古怪。——这两 个小家伙的乳齿开始脱落，仍然成天跟在印第安人脚边，揪住他们的衣服下摆，硬要说古阿吉洛语，不说西班牙语。“你怨不了别人，”乌苏娜向大夫说。“孩子的 狂劲儿是父母遗传的，”他认为后代的怪诞习惯一点也不比猪尾巴好，就开始抱怨自己倒霉的命运，可是有一次奥色连诺突然拿眼睛盯着她，把她弄得手足无措起 来。

“有人就要来咱们这儿啦，”他说。

象往常一样，儿子预言什么事情，她就用家庭主妇的逻辑破除他的预言。有人到这儿来，那没有什么特别嘛。每天都有几十个外地人经过马孔多，可这并没有叫人操心，他们来到这儿，并不需要预言。然而，奥雷连诺不顾一切逻辑，相信自己的预言。

“我不知道来的人是谁，”他坚持说，“可这个人已在路上啦。”

的确，星期天来了个雷贝卡。她顶多只有十一岁，是跟一些皮货商从马诺尔村来的，经历了艰苦的旅程，这些皮货商受托将这个姑娘连同一封信送到霍·阿·布恩 蒂亚家里，但要求他们帮忙的人究竟是推，他们就说不清楚了。这姑娘的全部行李是一只小衣箱、一把画着鲜艳花朵的木制小摇椅以及一个帆布袋；袋子里老是发出 “咔嚓、咔嚓、咔嚓”的响声——那儿装的是她父母的骸骨。捎绘霍·间·布恩蒂亚的信是某人用特别亲切的口吻写成的，这人说，尽管时间过久，距离颇远，他还 是热爱霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的，觉得自己应当根据基本的人道精神做这件善事——把孤苦伶何的小姑娘送到霍·阿·布恩蒂亚这儿来；这小姑娘是乌苏娜的表侄女，也 就是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的亲戚，虽是远房的亲戚；因为她是他难忘的朋友尼康诺尔·乌洛阿和他可敬的妻子雷贝卡·蒙蒂埃尔的亲女儿，他们已去天国，现由这小姑 娘把他们的骸骨带去，希望能照基督教的礼仪把它们埋掉。以上两个名字和信未的签名都写得十分清楚，可是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚和乌苏娜都记不得这样的亲戚，也记 不起人遥远的马诺尔村捎信来的这个熟人了。从小姑娘身上了解更多的情况是完全不可能的。她一走进屋子，马上坐在自己的摇椅里，开始咂吮指头，两只惊骇的大 眼睛望着大家，根本不明白人家问她什么。她穿着染成黑色的斜纹布旧衣服和裂开的漆皮鞋。扎在耳朵后面的两络头发，是用黑蝴蝶系住的。脖子上挂着一只香袋， 香袋上有一个汗水弄污的圣像，而右腕上是个铜链条，链条上有一个猛兽的獠牙——防止毒眼的小玩意。她那有点发绿的皮肤和胀鼓鼓、紧绷绷的肚子，证明她健康 不佳和经常挨饿，但别人给她拿来吃的，她却一动不动地继续坐着，甚至没有摸一摸放在膝上的盘子。大家已经认为她是个聋哑姑娘，可是印第安人用自己的语言问 她想不想喝水，她马上转动眼珠，仿佛认出了他们，肯定地点了点头。

他们收留了她，因为没有其他办法。他们决定按照信上对她母亲的称呼， 也管她叫雷贝卡，因为奥雷连诺虽然不厌其烦地在她面前提到一切圣徒的名字，但她对任何一个名字都无反应。当时马孔多没有墓地，因为还没死过一个人，装着骸 骨的袋于就藏了起来，等到有了合适的地方再埋葬，所以长时间里，这袋子总是东藏西放，塞在难以发现的地方，可是经常发出“咔嚓、咔嚓、咔嚓”的响声，就象 下蛋的母鸡咯咯直叫。过了很久雷贝卡才跟这家人的生活协调起来。起初她有个习惯：在僻静的屋角里，坐在摇椅上咂吮指头。任何东西都没引起她的注意，不过， 每过半小时响起钟声的时候，她都惊骇地四面张望，仿佛想在空中发现这种声音似的。

好多天都无法叫她吃饭。谁也不明白她为什么没有饿死， 直到熟悉一切的印第安人发现（因为他们在屋子里用无声的脚步不断地来回走动）雷贝卡喜欢吃的只是院子里的泥土和她用指甲从墙上刨下的一块块石灰。显然，由 于这个恶劣的习惯，父母或者养育她的人惩罚过她，泥上和石灰她都是偷吃的，她知道不对，而且尽量留存一些，无人在旁时可以自由自在地饱餐一顿。从此，他们 对雷贝卡进行了严密的监视，给院子里的泥土浇上牛胆，给房屋的墙壁抹上辛辣的印第安胡椒，恕用这种办法革除姑娘的恶习，但她为了弄到这类吃的，表现了那样 的机智和发明才干，使得乌苏娜不得不采取最有效的措施。她把盛着橙子汁和大黄的锅子整夜放在露天里，次日早饭之前拿这种草药给雷贝卡喝。虽然谁也不会建议 乌苏娜拿这种混合药剂来治疗不良的泥土嗜好，她还是认为任何苦涩的液体进了空肚子，都会在肝脏里引起反应。雷贝卡尽管样子瘦弱，却十分倔强：要她吃药，就 得把她象小牛一样缚住，因为她拼命挣扎，乱抓、乱咬、乱哗，大声叫嚷，今人莫名其妙，据印第安人说，她在骂人，这是古阿吉洛语中最粗鲁的骂人活。乌苏娜知 道了这一点，就用鞭挞加强治疗。所以从来无法断定，究竟什么取得了成效——大黄呢，鞭子呢，或者二者一起；大家知道的只有一点，过了几个星期，雷贝卡开始 出现康复的征象。现在，她跟阿卡蒂奥和阿玛兰塔一块儿玩耍了，她们拿她当做姐姐；她吃饭有味了，会用刀叉了。随后发现，她说西班牙语象印第安语一样流利， 她很能做针线活，还会用自编的可爱歌词照自鸣钟的华尔兹舞曲歌唱。很快，她就似乎成了一个新的家庭成员，她比亲生子女对乌苏娜还亲热；她把阿玛兰塔叫做妹 妹，把阿卡蒂奥叫做弟弟，把奥雷连诺称做叔叔，把霍·阿，布恩蒂亚称做伯伯。这么一来，她和其他的人一样就有权叫做雷贝卡·布恩蒂亚了，——这是她唯一的 名字，至死都体面地叫这个名字。

雷贝卡摆脱了恶劣的泥土嗜好，移居阿玛兰塔和阿卡蒂奥的房间之后，有一天夜里，跟孩子们在一起的印第安 女人偶然醒来，听到犄角里断续地发出一种古怪的声音。她吃惊地从床上一跃而起，担心什么牲畜钻进了屋子，接着便看见雷贝卡坐在摇椅里，把一个指头塞在嘴 里；在黑暗中，她的两只眼睛象猫的眼睛一样闪亮。

维希塔香吓得发呆，在姑娘的眼睛里，她发现了某种疾病的征状，这种疾病的威胁曾使她和弟弟永远离开了那个古老的王国，他俩还是那儿的王位继承人咧。这儿也出现了失眠症。

还没等到天亮，印第安人卡塔乌尔就离开了马孔多。他的姐姐却留了下来，因为宿命论的想法暗示她，致命的疾病反正会跟着她的，不管她逃到多远的地方。然 而，谁也不了解维希塔香的不安。“咱们永远不可睡觉吗？那就更好啦，”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚满意他说。“咱们可从生活中得到更多的东西。”可是印第安女人说 明：患了这种失眠症，最可怕的不是睡不着觉，因为身体不会感到疲乏；最糟糕的是失眠症必然演变成健忘症。她的意思是说，病人经常处于失眠状态，开头会忘掉 童年时代的事儿，然后会忘记东西的名称和用途，最后再也认不得别人，甚至意识不到自己的存在，失去了跟往日的一切联系，陷入一种白痴似的状态。霍·阿·布 恩蒂亚哈哈大笑，差点儿没有笑死，他得出结论说，迷信的印第安人捏造了无数的疾病，这就是其中的一种。可是为了预防万一，谨慎的乌苏娜就让雷贝卡跟其他的 孩子隔离了。

过了几个星期，维希塔香的恐惧过去之后，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚夜间突然发现自己在床上翻来复去合不上眼。乌苏娜也没睡着，问他 是怎么回事，他回答说：“我又在想普鲁登希奥啦。”他俩一分钟也没睡着，可是早上起来却是精神饱满的，立即忘了恶劣的夜晚。吃早饭时，奥雷连诺惊异地说， 他虽在试验室星呆了整整一夜，可是感到自己精神挺好，——他是在试验室里给一枚胸针镀金，打算把它当做生日礼物送给乌苏娜。然而，谁也没有重视这些怪事， 直到两天以后，大家仍在床上合不了眼，才知道自己已经五十多个小时没有睡觉了。

“孩子们也没睡着。这种疫病既然进了这座房子，谁也逃避不了啦，”印第安女人仍用宿命论的口吻说。

的确，全家的人都息了失眠症，乌苏娜曾从母亲那儿得到一些草药知识，就用乌头熬成汤剂，给全家的人喝了，可是大家仍然不能成眠，而且白天站着也做梦。

处在这种半睡半醒的古怪状态中，他们不仅看到自己梦中的形象，而且看到别人梦中的形象。仿佛整座房子都挤满了客人。雷贝卡坐在厨房犄角里的摇椅上，梦见 一个很象她的人，这人穿着白色亚麻布衣服，衬衫领子上有一颗金色钮扣，献给她一柬玫瑰花。他的身边站着一个双手细嫩的女人，她拿出一朵玫瑰花来，佩戴在雷 贝卡的头发上，乌苏娜明白，这男人和女人是姑娘的父母，可是不管怎样竭力辨认，也不认识他们，终于相信以前是从来没有见过他们的。同时，由于注意不够（这 是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚不能原谅自己的），家里制作的糖动物照旧拿到镇上去卖。大人和孩子都快活地吮着有味的绿色公鸡、漂亮的粉红色小鱼、最甜的黄色马儿。这 些糖动物似乎也是患了失眠症的。星期一天亮以后，全城的人已经不睡觉了。起初，谁也不担心。许多的人甚至高兴，——因为当时马孔多百业待兴，时间不够。人 们那么勤奋地工作，在短时间内就把一切都做完了，现在早晨三点就双臂交叉地坐着，计算自鸣钟的华尔兹舞曲有多少段曲调。想睡的人——井非由于疲乏，而是渴 望做梦——采取各种办法把自己弄得精疲力尽，他们聚在一起，不住地絮絮叨叨，一连几小时把同样的奇闻说了又说，大讲特讲白色阉鸡的故事。一直把故事搞得复 杂到了极点。这是一种没完没了的玩耍——讲故事的人问其余的人，他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事，如果他们回答他“是的”，他就说他要求回答的不是“是的”， 而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事；如果他们回答说“不”，他就说他要求回答的不是“不”，而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事；如果大家 沉默不语，他就说他要求的不是沉默不语，而是要求回答：他们想不想听白色阉鸡的故事，而且谁也不能走开，因为他说他没有要求他们走开，而是要求回答：他们 想不想听白色阉鸡的故事。就这样，一圈一圈的人，整夜整夜说个没完。

霍·阿·布恩蒂亚知道传染病遍及整个市镇，就把家长们召集起来，告 诉他们有关这种失眠症的常识，并且设法防止这种疾病向邻近的城乡蔓延。于是，大家从一只只山羊身上取下了铃铛——用鹦鹉向阿拉伯人换来的铃铛，把它们挂在 马孔多人口的地方，供给那些不听岗哨劝阻、硬要进镇的人使用。凡是这时经过马孔多街道的外来人都得摇摇铃铛，让失眠症患者知道来人是健康的。他们在镇上停 留的时候，不准吃喝，因为毫无疑问，病从口人嘛，而马孔多的一切食物和饮料都染上了失眠症，采取这些办法，他们就把这种传染病限制在市镇范围之内了。隔离 是严格遵守的，大家逐渐习惯了紧急状态。生活重新上了轨道，工作照常进行，谁也不再担心失去了无益的睡眠习惯。

在几个月中帮助大家跟隐 忘症进行斗争的办法，是奥雷连诺发明的。他发现这种办法也很偶然。奥雷连诺是个富有经验的病人——因为他是失眠症的第一批患者之一——完全掌握了首饰技 术。有一次，他需要一个平常用来捶平金属的小铁砧，可是记不起它叫什么了。父亲提醒他：“铁砧。”奥雷连诺就把这个名字记在小纸片上，贴在铁砧底儿上。现 在，他相信再也不会忘记这个名字了。可他没有想到，这件事儿只是健忘症的第一个表现。过了几天他已觉得，他费了大劲才记起试验室内几乎所有东西的名称。于 是，他给每样东西都贴上标签，现在只要一看签条上的字儿，就能确定这是什么东西了。不安的父亲叫苦连天，说他忘了童年时代甚至印象最深的事儿，奥雷连诺就 把自己的办法告诉他，于是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚首先在自己家里加以采用，然府在全镇推广。他用小刷子蘸了墨水，给房里的每件东西都写上名称：“桌”、“钟”、 “们”、“墙”、“床”、“锅”。然后到畜栏和田地里去，也给牲畜、家禽和植物标上名字：“牛”、“山羊”、“猪”、“鸡”、“木薯”、“香蕉”。人们研 究各种健忘的事物时逐渐明白，他们即使根据签条记起了东西的名称，有朝一日也会想不起它的用途。随后，他们就把签条搞得很复杂了。一头乳牛脖子上挂的牌 子，清楚他说明马孔多居民是如何跟健忘症作斗争的：“这是一头乳牛。每天早晨挤奶，就可得到牛奶，把牛奶煮沸，掺上咖啡，就可得牛奶咖啡。”就这样，他们 生活在经常滑过的现实中，借助字儿能把现实暂时抓住，可是一旦忘了字儿的意义，现实也就难免忘诸脑后了。

市镇入口的地方挂了一块脾子： “马孔多”，中心大街上挂了另一块较大的牌子：“”上帝存在“。所有的房屋都画上了各种符号，让人记起各种东西。然而，这一套办法需要密切的注意力，还要 耗费很在的精神，所以许多人就陷入自己的幻想世界，——这对他们是不太实际的，却是更有安慰的。推广这种自欺的办法，最起劲的是皮拉·苔列娜，她想出一种 用纸牌测知过去的把戏，就象她以前用纸牌预卜未来一样。由于她那些巧妙的谎言，失眠的马孔多居民就处于纸牌推测的世界，这些推测含糊不清，互相矛盾，面在 这个世界中，只能模糊地想起你的父亲是个黑发男人，是四月初来到这儿的；母亲是个黝黑的女人，左手戴着一枚金戒指，你出生的日期是某月的最后一个星期二， 那一天百灵鸟在月桂树上歌唱。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚被这种安慰的办法击败了，他为了对抗，决定造出一种记忆机器，此种机器是他以前打算制造出来记住吉卜赛人的 一切奇异发明的，机器的作用原理就是每天重复在生活中获得的全部知识。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚把这种机械设想成一本旋转的字典，人呆在旋转轴上，利用把手操纵字 典，——这样，生活所需的一切知识短时间内就在眼前经过，他已写好了几乎一万四千张条目卡，这时，从沼泽地带伸来的路上，出现一个样子古怪的老人儿，摇着 悲哀的铃铛，拎着一只绳子系住的、胀鼓鼓的箱子，拉着一辆用黑布遮住的小车子。他径直朝霍·阿·布恩蒂亚的房子走来。

维希塔香给老头儿 开了门，却不认得他，把他当成一个商人，老头儿还没听说这个市镇绝望地陷进了健忘症的漩涡，不知道在这儿是卖不出什么东西的。这是一个老朽的人。尽管他的 嗓音犹豫地发颤，双乎摸摸索索的，但他显然是从另一个世界来的，那里的人既能睡觉，又能记忆。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚出来接见老头儿的时候，老头儿正坐在客厅 里，拿破旧的黑帽子扇着，露出同情的样儿，注意地念了念贴在墙上的字条。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚非常恭敬地接待他，担心自己从前认识这个人，现在却把他给忘了。 然而客人识破了他的佯装，感到自己被他忘却了，——他知道这不是心中暂时的忘却，而是另一种更加冷酷的、彻底的忘却，也就是死的忘却。

接着，他一切都明白了。他打开那只塞满了不知什么东西的箱子，从中掏出一个放着许多小瓶子的小盒子。他把一小瓶颜色可爱的药水递给房主人，房主人把它喝 了，马上恍然大悟。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚两眼噙满悲哀的泪水，然后才看出自己是在荒谬可笑的房间里，这儿的一切东西都贴上了字条；他羞愧地看了看墙上一本正经 的蠢话，最后才兴高采烈地认出客人就是梅尔加德斯。

马孔多庆祝记忆复原的时候，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚和梅尔加德斯恢复了往日的友谊。吉卜赛 人打算留居镇上。他的确经历过死亡，但是忍受不了孤独，所以回到这儿来了。因为他忠于现实生活，失去了自己的神奇本领，被他的部族抛弃，他就决定在死神还 没发现的这个角落里得到一个宁静的栖身之所，把自己献给银版照相术。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚根本没有听说过这样的发明。可是，当他看见自己和全家的人永远印在彩 虹色的金属版上时，他惊得说不出话了；霍·阿·布恩蒂亚有一张锈了的照相底版就是这时的——蓬乱的灰色头发，铜妞扣扣上的浆领衬衫，一本正经的惊异表情。 乌苏娜笑得要死，认为他象“吓破了胆的将军。”说真的，在那晴朗的十二月的早晨，梅尔加德斯拍照的时候，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚确实吓坏了：他生怕人像移到金属 版上，人就会逐渐消瘦。不管多么反常，乌苏娜这一次却为科学辩护，竭力打消丈夫脑瓜里的荒谬想法。他忘了一切旧怨，决定让梅尔加德斯住在他们家里。然而， 乌苏娜自己从不让人给她拍照，因为（据她自己的说法）她不愿留下像来成为子孙的笑柄。那天早晨，她给孩子们穿上好衣服，在他们脸上搽了粉，让每人喝了一匙 骨髓汤，使他们能在梅尔加德斯奇异的照相机前面凝然不动地站立几乎两分钟。在这张“全家福”（这是过去留下的唯一的照片）上，奥雷连诺穿着黑色丝绒衣服， 站在阿玛兰塔和雷贝卡之间，他的神情倦怠，目光明澈，多年以后，他就是这副神态站在行刑队面前的。可是，照片上的青年当时还没听到命运的召唤，他只是一个 能干的首饰匠，由于工作认真，在整个沼泽地带都受到尊重。他的作坊同时是梅尔加德斯的试验室，这儿几乎听不到他的声音。在瓶子的当嘟声和盘子的敲击声中， 在接连不断的灾难中：酸溢出来了，溴化银浪费掉了，当他的父亲和吉卜赛人大声争论纳斯特拉达马斯的预言时，奥雷连诺似乎呆在另一个世界里。奥雷连诺忘我地 工作，善于维护自己的利益，因此在短时期内，他挣的钱就超过了乌苏娜出售糖动物的收益。大家觉得奇怪的只有一点——他已经是个完全成熟的人，为什么至今不 结交女人，的确，他还没有女人。

过了几个月，那个弗兰西斯科人又来到了马孔多；他是个老流浪汉，差不多两百岁了。他常常路过马孔多，带 来自编的歌曲。在这些歌曲中，弗兰西斯科人非常详细地描绘了一些事情，这些事情都发生在他途中经过的地方——从马诺尔村到沼泽地另一边的城乡里，所以，谁 想把信息传给熟人，或者想把什么家事公诸于世，只消付两分钱，弗兰西斯科人就可把它列入自己的节目。有一天傍晚，乌苏娜听唱时希望知道儿子的消息，却完全 意外地听到了自己母亲的死讯。“弗兰西斯科人”

这个绰号的由来，是他在编歌比赛中战胜过魔鬼，他的真名实姓是谁也不知道的；

失眠症流行时，他就从马孔多消失了，现在又突然来到了卡塔林诺游艺场。大家都去听他吟唱，了解世界上发生的事儿。跟弗兰西斯科人一起来到马孔多的，有一 个妇人和一个年轻的混血姑娘；妇人挺胖，是四个印第安人用摇椅把她抬来的；她头上撑着一把小伞，遮住阳光。混血姑娘却是一副可怜相。这一次，奥雷连诺也来 到了卡塔林诺游艺场。弗兰西斯科人端坐在一群听众中间，仿佛一条硕大的变色龙。

他用老年人颤抖的声调歌唱，拿华特·赖利在圭亚那给他的 那个古老的手风琴伴奏，用步行者的大脚掌打着拍子；他的脚掌已给海盐弄得裂开了。屋子深处看得见另一个房间的门，一个个男人不时挨次进去，摇椅抬来的那个 胖妇人坐在门口，默不作声地扇着扇子，卡塔林诺耳后别着一朵假玫瑰，正在卖甘蔗酒，并且利用一切借口走到男人跟前，把手伸到他们身上去摸不该摸的地方。时 到午夜，热得难受。奥雷连诺听完一切消息，可是没有发现任何跟自己的家庭有关的事。他已经准备离开，这时那个妇人却用手招呼他。

“你也进去吧，”她说。“只花两角钱。”

奥雷连诺把钱扔到胖妇人膝上的一只匣子里，打开了房门，自己也不知道去干什么。床上躺着那个年轻的混血姑娘，浑身赤裸，她的胸脯活象母狗的乳头。在奥雷 连诺之前，这儿已经来过六十三个男人，空气中充满了那么多的碳酸气，充满了汗水和叹息的气味，已经变得十分污浊；姑娘取下湿透了的床单，要求奥雷连诺抓住 床唯的一头。床单挺重，好象湿帆布。他们抓住床单的两头拧了又拧，它才恢复了正常的重量。然后，他们翻过垫子，汗水却从另一面流了出来。奥雷连诺巴不得把 这一切没完没了地干下去。爱情的奥秘他从理论上是知道的，但是他的膝头却在战粟，他勉强才能姑稳脚跟。姑娘拾掇好了床铺，要他脱掉衣服时，他却给她作了混 乱的解释：“是他们要我进来的。他们要我把两角钱扔在匣子里，叫我不要耽搁。”姑娘理解他的混乱状态，低声说道：“你出去的时候，再扔两角钱，就可呆得久 一点儿。”奥雷连诺羞涩难堪地脱掉了衣服；他总是以为向己的裸体比不上哥哥的裸体。虽然姑娘尽心竭力，他却感到肉己越来越冷漠和孤独。“我再扔两角钱 吧，”他完全绝望地咕噜着说。姑娘默不作声地向他表示感谢。她皮包骨头，脊背磨出了血。由于过度疲劳，呼吸沉重、断断续续。两年前，在离马孔多很远的地 方，有一天晚上她没熄灭蜡烛就睡着了，醒来的时候，周围一片火焰，她和一个把她养大的老大娘一起居住的房子，烧得精光。从此以后，老大娘就把她带到一个个 城镇，让她跟男人睡一次觉捞取两角钱，用来弥补房屋的损失。按照姑娘的计算，她还得再这样生活十年左右，一夜接待七十个男人，因为除了偿债，还得支付她俩 的路费和膳食费以及印第安人的抬送费。老大娘第二次敲门的时候，奥雷连诺什么也没做就走出房间，好不容易忍住了泪水，这天夜里，他睡不着觉，老是想着混血 姑娘，同时感到怜悯和需要。他渴望爱她和保护她。他被失眠和狂热弄得疲惫不堪，次日早晨就决定跟她结婚，以便把她从老大娘的控制下解救出来，白个儿每夜都 得到她给七十个男人的快乐。可是早上十点他来到卡塔林诺游艺场的时候，姑娘已经离开了马孔多。

时间逐渐冷却了他那热情的、轻率的打算， 但是加强了他那希望落空的痛苦感觉。他在工作中寻求解脱。为了掩饰自己不中用的耻辱，他顺人了一辈子打光棍的命运。这时，梅尔加德斯把马孔多一切值得拍照 的都拍了照，就将银版照相器材留给霍·阿·布恩蒂亚进行荒唐的试验：后者决定利用银版照相术得到上帝存在的科学证明。他相信，拿屋内不同地方拍的照片进行 复杂的加工，如果上帝存在的话，他迟早准会得到上帝的照片，否则就永远结束有关上帝存在的一切臆想。梅尔加德斯却在深入研究纳斯特拉达马斯的理论。他经常 坐到很晚，穿着褪了色的丝绒坎肩直喘粗气，用他干瘦的鸟爪在纸上潦草地写着什么；他手上的戒指已经失去往日的光彩。有一天夜晚，他觉得他偶然得到了有关马 孔多未来的启示。马孔多将会变成一座辉煌的城市，有许多高大的玻璃房子，城内甚至不会留下布恩蒂亚家的痕迹。

“胡说八道，”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚气恼他说。“不是玻璃房子，而是我梦见的那种冰砖房子，并且这儿永远都会有布思蒂亚家的人，Peromniaseculasecul-orumo！”（拉丁语：永远永远）乌苏娜拼命想给这个怪人的住所灌输健全的思想。

她添了一个大炉灶，除了生产糖动物，开始烤山整篮整篮的面包和大堆大堆各式各样的布丁、奶油蛋白松饼和饼干——这一切在几小时内就在通往沼泽地的路上卖 光了。尽管乌苏娜已经到了应当休息的年岁，但她年复一年变得越来越勤劳了，全神贯注在兴旺的生意上，有一天傍晚，印第安女人正帮她把糖掺在生面里，她漫不 经心地望着窗外，突然看见院子里有两个似乎陌生的姑娘，都很年轻、漂亮，正在落日的余晖中绣花。这是雷贝卡和阿玛兰塔。她们刚刚脱掉穿了三年的悼念外祖母 的孝服。花衣服完全改变了她们的外貌。出乎一切预料，雷贝卡在姿色上超过了阿玛兰塔，她长着宁静的大眼睛、光洁的皮肤和具有魔力的手：她的手仿佛用看不见 的丝线在绣架的布底上刺绣。较小的阿玛兰塔不够雅致，但她从已故的外祖母身上继承了天生的高贵和自尊心。呆在她们旁边的是阿卡蒂奥，他身上虽已显露了父亲 的体魄，但看上去还是个孩子。他在奥雷连诺的指导下学习首饰技术，奥雷连诺还教他读书写字。乌苏娜明白，她家里满是成年的人，她的孩子们很快就要结婚，也 要养孩子，全家就得分开，因为这座房子不够大家住了。于是，她拿出长年累月艰苦劳动积攒的钱，跟工匠们商量好，开始扩充住宅。她吩咐增建：一间正式客厅 ——用来接待客人：另一间更舒适、凉爽的大厅——供全家之用，一个饭厅，拥有一张能坐十二人的桌子；九间卧室，窗户都面向庭院；一道长廊，由玫瑰花圃和宽 大的栏杆（栏杆上放着一盆盆碳类植物和秋海棠）挡住晌午的阳光。而且，她还决定扩大厨房，安置两个炉灶；拆掉原来的库房（皮拉·苔列娜曾在里面向霍·阿卡 蒂奥预言过他的未来），另盖一间大一倍的库房，以便家中经常都有充足的粮食储备。在院子里，在大栗树的浓荫下面，乌苏娜嘱咐搭两个浴棚：一个女浴棚，一个 男浴棚，而星后却是宽敞的马厩、铁丝网围住的鸡窝和挤奶棚，此外有个四面敞开的鸟笼，偶然飞来的鸟儿高兴栖息在那儿就栖息在那儿。乌苏娜带领着几十名泥瓦 匠和木匠，仿佛染上了大大的“幻想热”，决定光线和空气进人屋子的方位，划分面帆完全不受限。马孔多建村时修盖的这座简陋房子，堆满了各种工具和建筑材 料，工人们累得汗流浃背，老是提醒旁人不要妨碍他们干活，而他们总是碰到那只装着骸骨的袋子，它那沉闷的咔嚓声简直叫人恼火。谁也不明白，在这一片混乱 中，在生石灰和沥青的气味中，地下怎会立起一座房子，这房子不仅是全镇最大的，而且是沼泽地区最凉爽宜人的。最不理解这一点的是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚，甚至在 大变动的高潮中，他也没有放弃突然摄到上帝影像的尝试。新房子快要竣工的时候，乌苏娜把他拉出了幻想的世界，告诉他说，她接到一道命令：房屋正面必须刷成 蓝色，不能刷成他们希望的白色。她把正式公文给他看。霍·阿·布恩蒂亚没有马上明白他的妻子说些什么，首先看了看纸儿上的签字。

“这个人是谁？”他问。

“镇长，”乌苏娜怏怏不乐地回答。“听说他是政府派来的官儿。”

阿·摩斯柯特镇长先生是不声不响地来到马孔多的。第一批阿拉伯人来到这儿，用小玩意儿交换鹦鹉的时候，有个阿拉伯人开了一家雅各旅店，阿·摩斯柯特首先 住在这个旅店里，第二天才租了一个门朝街的小房间，离布恩蒂亚的房子有两个街区。他在室内摆上从雅各旅店买来的桌子和椅子，把带来的共和国国徽钉在墙上， 并且在门上刷了“镇长”二字。他的第一道命令就是要所有的房屋刷成蓝色，借以庆祝国家独立的周年纪念。

霍·阿·布恩蒂亚拿着复写的命令来找镇长，正碰见他在小办公室的吊床上睡午觉。“这张纸儿是你写的吗？”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚问。阿·摩斯柯特是个上了岁数的人，面色红润，显得胆怯，作了肯定的问答。“凭什么权力？”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚又问。

阿·摩斯柯特从办公桌抽屉内拿出一张纸来，递给他看。“兹派该员前往上述市镇执行镇长职务。”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚对这委任状看都不看一眼。

“在这个市镇上，我们不靠纸儿发号施令，”他平静地回答。“请你永远记住：我们不需要别人指手画脚，我们这儿的事用不着别人来管。”

阿·摩斯柯特先生保持镇定，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚仍然没有提高声音，向他详细他讲了讲：他们如何建村，如何划分土地、开辟道路，做了应做的一切，从来没有麻 烦过任何政府。谁也没有来麻烦过他们。“我们是爱好和平的人，我们这儿甚至还没死过人咧。”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚说。“你能看出，马孔多至今没有墓地。”他没 有抱怨政府，恰恰相反，他高兴没有人来妨碍他们安宁地发展，希望今后也是如此，因为他们建立马孔多村，不是为了让别人来告诉他们应该怎么办的。阿，摩斯柯 特先生穿上象裤子一样白的祖布短上衣，一分钟也没忘记文雅的举止。

“所以，如果你想留在这个镇上做一个普通的居民，我们完全欢迎。”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚最后说。“可是，如果你来制造混乱，强迫大伙儿把房子刷成蓝色，那你就拿起自己的行李，回到你来的地方去，我的房子将会白得象一只鸽子。”

阿·摩斯柯特先生脸色发白。他倒退一步，咬紧牙关，有点激动他说：

“我得警告你，我有武器。”

霍·阿·布恩蒂亚甚至没有发觉，他的双手刹那问又有了年轻人的力气，从前他靠这种力气曾把牲口按倒在地，他一把揪住阿·摩斯柯特的衣领，把他举到自己眼前。

“我这么做，”他说，“因为我认为我已到了余年，与其拖一个死人，不如花几分钟拖一个活人。”

就这样，他把悬在衣领上的阿·摩斯柯特先生沿着街道中间拎了过去，在马孔多到沼泽地的路上他才让他双脚着地。过了一个星期，阿·摩斯柯特又来了，带着六 名褴褛、赤足、持枪的士兵，还有一辆牛车，车上坐着他的妻子和七个女儿。随后又来了两辆牛车，载着家具、箱子他和其他家庭用具。镇长暂时把一家人安顿在雅 各旅店里，随后找到了房子，才在门外安了两名卫兵，开始办公，马孔多的老居民决定撵走这些不速之客，就带着自己年岁较大的几子去找霍·阿·布恩蒂亚，希望 他担任指挥。可是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚反对他们的打算，因为据他解释，阿·摩斯柯特先生既然跟妻子和女儿一起回来了，在他的一家人面前侮辱他，就不是男子汉大 丈夫了。事情应当和平解决。

奥雷连诺自愿陪伴父亲。这时，他已长了尖端翘起的黑胡髭，嗓音洪亮，这种嗓音在战争中是会使他大显威风的。 他们没带武器，也没理睬卫兵，径直跨进了镇长办公室，阿·摩斯柯特先生毫不慌乱。他把他们介绍给他的两个女儿；她们是偶然来到办公室的：一个是十六岁的安 芭萝，象她母亲一样满头乌发，一个是刚满九岁的雷麦黛丝，这小姑娘挺可爱，皮肤细嫩，两眼发绿。姐妹俩都挺文雅，很讲礼貌。布恩蒂亚父子两人刚刚进来，她 俩还没听到介绍，就给客人端来椅子。可是他们不愿坐下。

“好啦，朋友，”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚说，“我们让你住在这儿，但这并不是因为门外站着几个带枪的强盗，而是由于尊敬你的夫人和女儿。”

阿·摩斯柯特张口结舌，可是霍·阿·布恩蒂亚没有让他反驳。

“但是我们必须向你提出两个条件，”他补充说。“第一：每个人想把自己的房子刷成什么颜色就是什么颜色。第二：大兵们立即离开马孔多，镇上的秩序由我们负责。”

镇长起誓似的举起手来。

“这是真话？”

“敌人的话，”霍·阿·布恩蒂亚说。接着又苦楚地添了一句：“因为我得告诉你一点：你和我还是敌人。”

就在这一天下午，士兵们离开了市镇。过了几天，霍·阿·布恩蒂亚为镇长一家人找到了一座房子。除了奥雷连诺。大家都平静下来。镇长的小女儿雷麦黛丝，就 年龄来说，也适于做奥雷连诺的女儿，可是她的形象却留在他的心里，使他经常感到痛苦。这是肉体上的感觉，几乎妨碍他走路，仿佛一块石子掉进了他的鞋里。
"""

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MANY YEARS LATER as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones, which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them it was necessary to point. Every year during the month of March a family of ragged gypsies would set up their tents near the village, and with a great uproar of pipes and kettledrums they would display new inventions. First they brought the magnet. A heavy gypsy with an untamed beard and sparrow hands, who introduced himself as Melquíades, put on a bold public demonstration of what he himself called the eighth wonder of the learned alchemists of Macedonia. He went from house to house dragging two metal ingots and everybody was amazed to see pots, pans, tongs, and braziers tumble down from their places and beams creak from the desperation of nails and screws trying to emerge, and even objects that had been lost for a long time appeared from where they had been searched for most and went dragging along in turbulent confusion behind Melquíades’ magical irons. “Things have a life of their own,” the gypsy proclaimed with a harsh accent. “It’s simply a matter of waking up their souls.” José Arcadio Buendía, whose unbridled imagination always went beyond the genius of nature and even beyond miracles and magic, thought that it would be possible to make use of that useless invention to extract gold from the bowels of the earth. Melquíades, who was an honest man, warned him: “It won’t work for that.” But José Arcadio Buendía at that time did not believe in the honesty of gypsies, so he traded his mule and a pair of goats for the two magnetized ingots. Úrsula Iguarán, his wife, who relied on those animals to increase their poor domestic holdings, was unable to dissuade him. “Very soon well have gold enough and more to pave the floors of the house,” her husband replied. For several months he worked hard to demonstrate the truth of his idea. He explored every inch of the region, even the riverbed, dragging the two iron ingots along and reciting Melquíades’ incantation aloud. The only thing he succeeded in doing was to unearth a suit of fifteenth-century armor which had all of its pieces soldered together with rust and inside of which there was the hollow resonance of an enormous stone-filled gourd. When José Arcadio Buendía and the four men of his expedition managed to take the armor apart, they found inside a calcified skeleton with a copper locket containing a woman’s hair around its neck. In March the gypsies returned. This time they brought a telescope and a magnifying glass the size of a drum, which they exhibited as the latest discovery of the Jews of Amsterdam. They placed a gypsy woman at one end of the village and set up the telescope at the entrance to the tent. For the price of five reales, people could look into the telescope and see the gypsy woman an arm’s length away. “Science has eliminated distance,” Melquíades proclaimed. “In a short time, man will be able to see what is happening in any place in the world without leaving his own house.” A burning noonday sun brought out a startling demonstration with the gigantic magnifying glass: they put a pile of dry hay in the middle of the street and set it on fire by concentrating the sun’s rays. José Arcadio Buendía, who had still not been consoled for the failure of big magnets, conceived the idea of using that invention as a weapon of war. Again Melquíades tried to dissuade him, but he finally accepted the two magnetized ingots and three colonial coins in exchange for the magnifying glass. Úrsula wept in consternation. That money was from a chest of gold coins that her father had put together ova an entire life of privation and that she had buried underneath her bed in hopes of a proper occasion to make use of it. José Arcadio Buendía made no at. tempt to console her, completely  absorbed in his tactical experiments with the abnegation of a scientist and even at the risk of his own life. In an attempt to show the effects of the glass on enemy troops, he exposed himself to the concentration of the sun’s rays and suffered burns which turned into sores that took a long time to heal. Over the protests of his wife, who was alarmed at such a dangerous invention, at one point he was ready to set the house on fire. He would spend hours on end in his room, calculating the strategic possibilities of his novel weapon until he succeeded in putting together a manual of startling instructional clarity and an irresistible power of conviction. He sent it to the government, accompanied by numerous descriptions of his experiments and several pages of explanatory sketches; by a messenger who crossed the mountains, got lost in measureless swamps, forded stormy rivers, and was on the point of perishing under the lash of despair, plague, and wild beasts until he found a route that joined the one used by the mules that carried the mail. In spite of the fact that a trip to the capital was little less than impossible at that time, José Arcadio Buendía promised to undertake it as soon as the government ordered him to so that he could put on some practical demonstrations of his invention for the military authorities and could train them himself in the complicated art of solar war. For several years he waited for an answer. Finally, tired of waiting, he bemoaned to Melquíades the failure of his project and the gypsy then gave him a convincing proof of his honesty: he gave him back the doubloons in exchange for the magnifying glass, and he left him in addition some Portuguese maps and several instruments of navigation. In his own handwriting he set down a concise synthesis of the studies by Monk Hermann. which he left José Arcadio so that he would be able to make use of the astrolabe, the compass, and the sextant. José Arcadio Buendía spent the long months of the rainy season shut up in a small room that he had built in the rear of the house so that no one would disturb his experiments. Having completely abandoned his domestic obligations, he spent entire nights in the courtyard watching the course of the stars and he almost contracted sunstroke from trying to establish an exact method to ascertain noon. When he became an expert in the use and manipulation of his instruments, he conceived a notion of space that allowed him to navigate across unknown seas, to visit uninhabited territories, and to establish relations with splendid beings without having to leave his study. That was the period in which he acquired the habit of talking to himself, of walking through the house without paying attention to anyone, as Úrsula and the children broke their backs in the garden, growing banana and caladium, cassava and yams, ahuyama roots and eggplants. Suddenly, without warning, his feverish activity was interrupted and was replaced by a kind of fascination. He spent several days as if he were bewitched, softly repeating to himself a string of fearful conjectures without giving credit to his own understanding. Finally, one Tuesday in December, at lunchtime, all at once he released the whole weight of his torment. The children would remember for the rest of their lives the august solemnity with which their father, devastated by his prolonged vigil and by the wrath of his imagination, revealed his discovery to them: “The earth is round, like an orange.” Úrsula lost her patience. “If you have to go crazy, please go crazy all by yourself!” she shouted. “But don’t try to put your gypsy ideas into the heads of the children.” José Arcadio Buendía, impassive, did not let himself be frightened by the desperation of his wife, who, in a seizure of rage, mashed the astrolabe against the floor. He built another one, he gathered the men of the village in his little room, and he demonstrated to them, with theories that none of them could understand, the possibility of returning to where one had set out by consistently sailing east. The whole village was convinced that José Arcadio Buendía had lost his reason, when Melquíades returned to set things straight. He gave public praise to the intelligence of a man who from pure astronomical speculation had evolved a theory that had already been proved in practice, although unknown in Macondo until then, and as a proof of his admiration he made him a gift that was to have a profound influence on the future of the village: the laboratory of an alchemist.  By then Melquíades had aged with surprising rapidity. On his first trips he seemed to be the same age as José Arcadio Buendía. But while the latter had preserved his extraordinary strength, which permitted him to pull down a horse by grabbing its ears, the gypsy seemed to have been worn dowse by some tenacious illness. It was, in reality, the result of multiple and rare diseases contracted on his innumerable trips around the world. According to what he himself said as he spoke to José Arcadio Buendía while helping him set up the laboratory, death followed him everywhere, sniffing at the cuffs of his pants, but never deciding to give him the final clutch of its claws. He was a fugitive from all the plagues and catastrophes that had ever lashed mankind. He had survived pellagra in Persia, scurvy in the Malayan archipelago, leprosy in Alexandria, beriberi in Japan, bubonic plague in Madagascar, an earthquake in Sicily, and a disastrous shipwreck in the Strait of Magellan. That prodigious creature, said to possess the keys of Nostradamus, was a gloomy man, enveloped in a sad aura, with an Asiatic look that seemed to know what there was on the other side of things. He wore a large black hat that looked like a raven with widespread wings, and a velvet vest across which the patina of the centuries had skated. But in spite of his immense wisdom and his mysterious breadth, he had a human burden, an earthly condition that kept him involved in the small problems of daily life. He would complain of the ailments of old age, he suffered from the most insignificant economic difficulties, and he had stopped laughing a long time back because scurvy had made his teeth drop out. On that suffocating noontime when the gypsy revealed his secrets, José Arcadio Buendía had the certainty that it was the beginning of a great friendship. The children were startled by his fantastic stories. Aureliano, who could not have been more than five at the time, would remember him for the rest of his life as he saw him that afternoon, sitting against the metallic and quivering light from the window, lighting up with his deep organ voice the darkest reaches of the imagination, while down over his temples there flowed the grease that was being melted by the heat. José Arcadio, his older brother, would pass on that wonderful image as a hereditary memory to all of his descendants. Úrsula on the other hand, held a bad memory of that visit, for she had entered the room just as Melquíades had carelessly broken a flask of bichloride of mercury. “It’s the smell of the devil,” she said. “Not at all,” Melquíades corrected her. “It has been proven that the devil has sulphuric properties and this is just a little corrosive sublimate.” Always didactic, he went into a learned exposition of the diabolical properties of cinnabar, but Úrsula paid no attention to him, although she took the children off to pray. That biting odor would stay forever in her mind linked to the memory of Melquíades. The rudimentary laboratory—in addition to a profusion of pots, funnels, retorts, filters, and sieves—was made up of a primitive water pipe, a glass beaker with a long, thin neck, a reproduction of the philosopher’s egg, and a still the gypsies themselves had built in accordance with modern descriptions of the three-armed alembic of Mary the Jew. Along with those items, Melquíades left samples of the seven metals that corresponded to the seven planets, the formulas of Moses and Zosimus for doubling the quantity of gold, and a set of notes and sketches concerning the processes of the Great Teaching that would permit those who could interpret them to undertake the manufacture of the philosopher’s stone. Seduced by the simplicity of the formulas to double the quantity of gold, José Arcadio Buendía paid court to Úrsula for several weeks so that she would let him dig up her colonial coins and increase them by as many times as it was possible to subdivide mercury. Úrsula gave in, as always, to her husband’s unyielding obstinacy. Then José Arcadio Buendía threw three doubloons into a pan and fused them with copper filings, orpiment, brimstone, and lead. He put it all to boil in a pot of castor oil until he got a thick and pestilential syrup which was more like common caramel than valuable gold. In risky and desperate processes of distillation, melted with the seven planetary metals, mixed with hermetic mercury and vitriol of Cyprus, and put  back to cook in hog fat for lack of any radish oil, Úrsula’s precious inheritance was reduced to a large piece of burnt hog cracklings that was firmly stuck to the bottom of the pot. When the gypsies came back, Úrsula had turned the whole population of the village against them. But curiosity was greater than fear, for that time the gypsies went about the town making a deafening noise with all manner of musical instruments while a hawker announced the exhibition of the most fabulous discovery of the Naciancenes. So that everyone went to the tent and by paying one cent they saw a youthful Melquíades, recovered, unwrinkled, with a new and flashing set of teeth. Those who remembered his gums that had been destroyed by scurvy, his flaccid cheeks, and his withered lips trembled with fear at the final proof of the gypsy’s supernatural power. The fear turned into panic when Melquíades took out his teeth, intact, encased in their gums, and showed them to the audience for an instant—a fleeting instant in which he went back to being the same decrepit man of years past—and put them back again and smiled once more with the full control of his restored youth. Even José Arcadio Buendía himself considered that Melquíades’ knowledge had reached unbearable extremes, but he felt a healthy excitement when the gypsy explained to him atone the workings of his false teeth. It seemed so simple and so prodigious at the same time that overnight he lost all interest in his experiments in alchemy. He underwent a new crisis of bad humor. He did not go back to eating regularly, and he would spend the day walking through the house. “Incredible things are happening in the world,” he said to Úrsula. “Right there across the river there are all kinds of magical instruments while we keep on living like donkeys.” Those who had known him since the foundation of Macondo were startled at how much he had changed under Melquíades’ influence. At first José Arcadio Buendía had been a kind of youthful patriarch who would give instructions for planting and advice for the raising of children and animals, and who collaborated with everyone, even in the physical work, for the welfare of the community. Since his house from the very first had been the best in the village, the others had been built in its image and likeness. It had a small, welllighted living roost, a dining room in the shape of a terrace with gaily colored flowers, two bedrooms, a courtyard with a gigantic chestnut tree, a well kept garden, and a corral where goats, pigs, and hens lived in peaceful communion. The only animals that were prohibited, not just in his house but in the entire settlement, were fighting cocks. Úrsula’s capacity for work was the same as that of her husband. Active, small, severe, that woman of unbreakable nerves who at no moment in her life had been heard to sing seemed to be everywhere, from dawn until quite late at night, always pursued by the soft whispering of her stiff, starched petticoats. Thanks to her the floors of tamped earth, the unwhitewashed mud walls, the rustic, wooden furniture they had built themselves were always dean, and the old chests where they kept their clothes exhaled the warm smell of basil. José Arcadio Buendía, who was the most enterprising man ever to be seen in the village, had set up the placement of the houses in such a way that from all of them one could reach the river and draw water with the same effort, and he had lined up the streets with such good sense that no house got more sun than another during the hot time of day. Within a few years Macondo was a village that was more orderly and hard working than any known until then by its three hundred inhabitants. It was a truly happy village where no one was over thirty years of age and where no one had died. Since the time of its founding, José Arcadio Buendía had built traps and cages. In a short time he filled not only his own house but all of those in the village with troupials, canaries, bee eaters, and redbreasts. The concert of so many different birds became so disturbing that Úrsula would plug her ears with beeswax so as not to lose her sense of reality. The first time that Melquíades’ tribe arrived, selling glass balls for headaches, everyone was surprised that they had been able to find that village lost in the drowsiness of the swamp, and the gypsies confessed that they had found their way by the song of the birds.  That spirit of social initiative disappeared in a short time, pulled away by the fever of the magnets, the astronomical calculations, the dreams of transmutation, and the urge to discover the wonders of the world. From a clean and active man, José Arcadio Buendía changed into a man lazy in appearance, careless in his dress, with a wild beard that Úrsula managed to trim with great effort and a kitchen knife. There were many who considered him the victim of some strange spell. But even those most convinced of his madness left work and family to follow him when he brought out his tools to clear the land and asked the assembled group to open a way that would put Macondo in contact with the great inventions. José Arcadio Buendía was completely ignorant of the geography of the region. He knew that to the east there lay an impenetrable mountain chain and that on the other side of the mountains there was the ardent city of Riohacha, where in times past—according to what he had been told by the first Aureliano Buendía, his grandfather—Sir Francis Drake had gone crocodile hunting with cannons and that he repaired hem and stuffed them with straw to bring to Queen Elizabeth. In his youth, José Arcadio Buendía and his men, with wives and children, animals and all kinds of domestic implements, had crossed the mountains in search of an outlet to the sea, and after twenty-six months they gave up the expedition and founded Macondo, so they would not have to go back. It was, therefore, a route that did not interest him, for it could lead only to the past. To the south lay the swamps, covered with an eternal vegetable scum and the whole vast universe of the great swamp, which, according to what the gypsies said, had no limits. The great swamp in the west mingled with a boundless extension of water where there were soft-skinned cetaceans that had the head and torso of a woman, causing the ruination of sailors with the charm of their extraordinary breasts. The gypsies sailed along that route for six months before they reached the strip of land over which the mules that carried the mail passed. According to José Arcadio Buendía’s calculations, the only possibility of contact with civilization lay along the northern route. So he handed out clearing tools and hunting weapons to the same men who had been with him during the founding of Macondo. He threw his directional instruments and his maps into a knapsack, and he undertook the reckless adventure. During the first days they did not come across any appreciable obstacle. They went down along the stony bank of the river to the place where years before they had found the soldier’s armor, and from there they went into the woods along a path between wild orange trees. At the end of the first week they killed and roasted a deer, but they agreed to eat only half of it and salt the rest for the days that lay ahead. With that precaution they tried to postpone the necessity of having to eat macaws, whose blue flesh had a harsh and musky taste. Then, for more than ten days, they did not see the sun again. The ground became soft and damp, like volcanic ash, and the vegetation was thicker and thicker, and the cries of the birds and the uproar of the monkeys became more and more remote, and the world became eternally sad. The men on the expedition felt overwhelmed by their most ancient memories in that paradise of dampness and silence, going back to before original sin, as their boots sank into pools of steaming oil and their machetes destroyed bloody lilies and golden salamanders. For a week, almost without speaking, they went ahead like sleepwalkers through a universe of grief, lighted only by the tenuous reflection of luminous insects, and their lungs were overwhelmed by a suffocating smell of blood. They could not return because the strip that they were opening as they went along would soon close up with a new vegetation that. almost seemed to grow before their eyes. “It’s all right,” José Arcadio Buendía would say. “The main thing is not to lose our bearings.” Always following his compass, he kept on guiding his men toward the invisible north so that they would be able to get out of that enchanted region. It was a thick night, starless, but the darkness was becoming impregnated with a fresh and clear air. Exhausted by the long crossing, they hung up their hammocks and slept deeply for the first time in two weeks. When they woke up, with the sun already high in the sky, they were speechless with fascination. Before them, surrounded by  ferns and palm trees, white and powdery in the silent morning light, was an enormous Spanish galleon. Tilted slightly to the starboard, it had hanging from its intact masts the dirty rags of its sails in the midst of its rigging, which was adorned with orchids. The hull, covered with an armor of petrified barnacles and soft moss, was firmly fastened into a surface of stones. The whole structure seemed to occupy its own space, one of solitude and oblivion, protected from the vices of time and the habits of the birds. Inside, where the expeditionaries explored with careful intent, there was nothing but a thick forest of flowers. The discovery of the galleon, an indication of the proximity of the sea, broke José Arcadio Buendía’s drive. He considered it a trick of his whimsical fate to have searched for the sea without finding it, at the cost of countless sacrifices and suffering, and to have found it all of a sudden without looking for it, as if it lay across his path like an insurmountable object. Many years later Colonel Aureliano Buendía crossed the region again, when it was already a regular mail route, and the only part of the ship he found was its burned-out frame in the midst of a field of poppies. Only then, convinced that the story had not been some product of his father’s imagination, did he wonder how the galleon had been able to get inland to that spot. But José Arcadio Buendía did not concern himself with that when he found the sea after another four days’ journey from the galleon. His dreams ended as he faced that ashen, foamy, dirty sea, which had not merited the risks and sacrifices of the adventure. “God damn it!” he shouted. “Macondo is surrounded by water on all sides.” The idea of a peninsular Macondo prevailed for a long time, inspired by the arbitrary map that José Arcadio Buendía sketched on his return from the expedition. He drew it in rage, evilly, exaggerating the difficulties of communication, as if to punish himself for the absolute lack of sense with which he had chosen the place. “We’ll never get anywhere,” he lamented to Úrsula. “We’re going to rot our lives away here without receiving the benefits of science.” That certainty, mulled over for several months in the small room he used as his laboratory, brought him to the conception of the plan to move Maeondo to a better place. But that time Úrsula had anticipated his feverish designs. With the secret and implacable labor of a small ant she predisposed the women of the village against the flightiness of their husbands, who were already preparing for the move. José Arcadio Buendía did not know at what moment or because of what adverse forces his plan had become enveloped in a web of pretexts, disappointments, and evasions until it turned into nothing but an illusion. Úrsula watched him with innocent attention and even felt some pity for him on the morning when she found him in the back room muttering about his plans for moving as he placed his laboratory pieces in their original boxes. She let him finish. She let him nail up the boxes and put his initials on them with an inked brush, without reproaching him, but knowing now that he knew (because she had heard him say so in his soft monologues) that the men of the village would not back him up in his undertaking. Only when he began to take down the door of the room did Úrsula dare ask him what he was doing, and he answered with a certain bitterness. “Since no one wants to leave, we’ll leave all by ourselves.” Úrsula did not become upset. “We will not leave,” she said. “We will stay here, because we have had a son here.” “We have still not had a death,” he said. “A person does not belong to a place until there is someone dead under the ground.” Úrsula replied with a soft firmness: “If I have to die for the rest of you to stay here, I will die.” José Arcadio Buendía had not thought that his wife’s will was so firm. He tried to seduce her with the charm of his fantasy, with the promise of a prodigious world where all one had to do was sprinkle some magic liquid on the ground and the plants would bear fruit whenever a man wished, and where all manner of instruments against pain were sold at bargain prices. But Úrsula was insensible to his clairvoyance. “Instead of going around thinking about your crazy inventions, you should be worrying about your sons,” she replied. “Look at the state they’re in, running wild just like donkeys.” José Arcadio Buendía took his wife’s words literally. He looked out the window and saw the barefoot children in the sunny garden and he had the impression that only at that instant had they begun to exist, conceived by Úrsula’s spell, Something occurred inside of him then, something mysterious and definitive that uprooted him from his own time and carried him adrift through an unexplored region of his memory. While Úrsula continued sweeping the house, which was safe now from being abandoned for the rest of her life, he stood there with an absorbed look, contemplating the children until his eyes became moist and he dried them with the back of his hand, exhaling a deep sigh of resignation. “All right,” he said. “Tell them to come help me take the things out of the boxes.” José Arcadio, the older of the children, was fourteen. He had a square head, thick hair, and his father’s character. Although he had the same impulse for growth and physical strength, it was early evident that he lacked imagination. He had been conceived and born during the difficult crossing of the mountains, before the founding of Macondo, and his parents gave thanks to heaven when they saw he had no animal features. Aureliano, the first human being to be born in Macondo, would be six years old in March. He was silent and withdrawn. He had wept in his mother’s womb and had been born with his eyes open. As they were cutting the umbilical cord, he moved his head from side to side, taking in the things in the room and examining the faces of the people with a fearless curiosity. Then, indifferent to those who came close to look at him, he kept his attention concentrated on the palm roof, which looked as if it were about to collapse under the tremendous pressure of the rain. Úrsula did not remember the intensity of that look again until one day when little Aureliano, at the age of three, went into the kitchen at the moment she was taking a pot of boiling soup from the stove and putting it on the table. The child, Perplexed, said from the doorway, “It’s going to spill.” The pot was firmly placed in the center of the table, but just as soon as the child made his announcement, it began an unmistakable movement toward the edge, as if impelled by some inner dynamism, and it fell and broke on the floor. Úrsula, alarmed, told her husband about the episode, but he interpreted it as a natural phenomenon. That was the way he always was alien to the existence of his sons, partly because he considered childhood as a period of mental insufficiency, and partly because he was always too absorbed in his fantastic speculations. But since the afternoon when he called the children in to help him unpack the things in the laboratory, he gave them his best hours. In the small separate room, where the walls were gradually being covered by strange maps and fabulous drawings, he taught them to read and write and do sums, and he spoke to them about the wonders of the world, not only where his learning had extended, but forcing the limits of his imagination to extremes. It was in that way that the boys ended up learning that in the southern extremes of Africa there were men so intelligent and peaceful that their only pastime was to sit and think, and that it was possible to cross the Aegean Sea on foot by jumping from island to island all the way to the port of Salonika. Those hallucinating sessions remained printed on the memories of the boys in such a way that many years later, a second before the regular army officer gave the firing squad the command to fire, Colonel Aureliano Buendía saw once more that warm March afternoon on which his father had interrupted the lesson in physics and stood fascinated, with his hand in the air and his eyes motionless, listening to the distant pipes, drums, and jingles of the gypsies, who were coming to the village once more, announcing the latest and most startling discovery of the sages of Memphis. They were new gypsies, young men and women who knew only their own language, handsome specimens with oily skins and intelligent hands, whose dances and music sowed a panic of uproarious joy through the streets, with parrots painted all colors reciting Italian arias, and a hen who laid a hundred golden eggs to the sound of a tambourine, and a trained monkey who read minds, and the multi-use machine that could be used at the same time to sew on buttons and reduce fevers, and the apparatus to make a person forget his bad memories, and a poultice to lose time, and a thousand more inventions so ingenious and unusual that José Arcadio Buendía must have wanted to invent a memory machine so that he could remember them all. In an instant they transformed the village. The inhabitants of Macondo found themselves lost is their own streets, confused by the crowded fair. Holding a child by each hand so as not to lose them in the tumult, bumping into acrobats with gold-capped teeth and jugglers with six arms, suffocated by the mingled breath of manure and sandals that the crowd exhaled, José Arcadio Buendía went about everywhere like a madman, looking for Melquíades so that he could reveal to him the infinite secrets of that fabulous nightmare. He asked several gypsies, who did not understand his language. Finally he reached the place where Melquíades used to set up his tent and he found a taciturn Armenian who in Spanish was hawking a syrup to make oneself invisible. He had drunk down a glass of the amber substance in one gulp as José Arcadio Buendía elbowed his way through the absorbed group that was witnessing the spectacle, and was able to ask his question. The gypsy wrapped him in the frightful climate of his look before he turned into a puddle of pestilential and smoking pitch over which the echo of his reply still floated: “Melquíades is dead.” Upset by the news, José Arcadio Buendía stood motionless, trying to rise above his affliction, until the group dispersed, called away by other artifices, and the puddle of the taciturn Armenian evaporated completely. Other gypsies confirmed later on that Melquíades had in fact succumbed to the fever on the beach at Singapore and that his body had been thrown into the deepest part of the Java Sea. The children had no interest in the news. They insisted that their father take them to see the overwhelming novelty of the sages of Memphis that was being advertised at the entrance of a tent that, according to what was said, had belonged to King Solomon. They insisted so much that José Arcadio Buendía paid the thirty reales and led them into the center of the tent, where there was a giant with a hairy torso and a shaved head, with a copper ring in his nose and a heavy iron chain on his ankle, watching over a pirate chest. When it was opened by the giant, the chest gave off a glacial exhalation. Inside there was only an enormous, transparent block with infinite internal needles in which the light of the sunset was broken up into colored stars. Disconcerted, knowing that the children were waiting for an immediate explanation, José Arcadio Buendía ventured a murmur: “It’s the largest diamond in the world.” “No,” the gypsy countered. “It’s ice.” José Arcadio Buendía, without understanding, stretched out his hand toward the cake, but the giant moved it away. “Five reales more to touch it,” he said. José Arcadio Buendía paid them and put his hand on the ice and held it there for several minutes as his heart filled with fear and jubilation at the contact with mystery. Without knowing what to say, he paid ten reales more so that his sons could have that prodigious experience. Little José Arcadio refused to touch it. Aureliano, on the other hand, took a step forward and put his hand on it, withdrawing it immediately. “It’s boiling,” he exclaimed, startled. But his father paid no attention to him. Intoxicated by the evidence of the miracle, he forgot at that moment about the frustration of his delirious undertakings and Melquíades’ body, abandoned to the appetite of the squids. He paid another five reales and with his hand on the cake, as if giving testimony on the holy scriptures, he exclaimed: “This is the great invention of our time.” WHEN THE PIRATE Sir Francis Drake attacked Riohacha in the sixteenth century, Úrsula Iguarán’s great-great-grandmother became so frightened with the ringing of alarm bells and the firing of cannons that she lost control of her nerves and sat down on a lighted stove. The burns changed her into a useless wife for the rest of her days. She could only sit on one side, cushioned by pillows, and something strange must have happened to her way of walking, for she never walked again in public. She gave up all kinds of social activity, obsessed with the notion that her body gave off a singed odor. Dawn would find her in the courtyard, for she did not dare fall asleep lest she dream of the English and their ferocious attack dogs as they came through the windows of her bedroom to submit her to shameful tortures with their red-hot irons. Her husband, an Aragonese merchant by whom she had two children, spent half the value of his store on medicines and pastimes in an attempt to alleviate her terror. Finally he sold the business and took the family to live far from the sea in a settlement of peaceful Indians located in the foothills, where he built his wife a bedroom without windows so that the pirates of her dream would have no way to get in. In that hidden village there was a native-born tobacco planter who had lived there for some time, Don José Arcadio Buendía, with whom Úrsula’s great-great-grandfather established a partnership that was so lucrative that within a few years they made a fortune. Several centuries later the greatgreat-grandson of the native-born planter married the great-great-granddaughter of the Aragonese. Therefore, every time that Úrsula became exercised over her husband’s mad ideas, she would leap back over three hundred years of fate and curse the day that Sir Francis Drake had attacked Riohacha. It was simply a way. of giving herself some relief, because actually they were joined till death by a bond that was more solid that love: a common prick of conscience. They were cousins. They had grown up together in the old village that both of their ancestors, with their work and their good habits, had transformed into one of the finest towns in the province. Although their marriage was predicted from the time they had come into the world, when they expressed their desire to be married their own relatives tried to stop it. They were afraid that those two healthy products of two races that had interbred over the centuries would suffer the shame of breeding iguanas. There had already been a horrible precedent. An aunt of Úrsula’s, married to an uncle of José Arcadio Buendía, had a son who went through life wearing loose, baggy trousers and who bled to death after having lived forty-two years in the purest state of virginity, for he had been born and had grown up with a cartilaginous tail in the shape of a corkscrew and with a small tuft of hair on the tip. A pig’s tail that was never allowed to be seen by any woman and that cost him his life when a butcher friend did him the favor of chopping it off with his cleaver. José Arcadio Buendía, with the whimsy of his nineteen years, resolved the problem with a single phrase: “I don’t care if I have piglets as long as they can talk.” So they were married amidst a festival of fireworks and a brass band that went on for three days. They would have been happy from then on if Úrsula’s mother had not terrified her with all manner of sinister predictions about their offspring, even to the extreme of advising her to refuse to consummate the marriage. Fearing that her stout and willful husband would rape her while she slept, Úrsula, before going to bed, would put on a rudimentary kind of drawers that her mother had made out of sailcloth and had reinforced with a system of crisscrossed leather straps and that was closed in the front by a thick iron buckle. That was how they lived for several months. During the day he would take care of his fighting cocks and she would do frame embroidery with her mother. At night they would wrestle for several hours in an anguished violence that seemed to be a substitute for the act of love, until popular intuition got a whiff of something irregular and the rumor spread that  Úrsula was still a virgin a year after her marriage because her husband was impotent. José Arcadio Buendía was the last one to hear the rumor. “Look at what people are going around saying, Úrsula,” he told his wife very calmly. “Let them talk,” she said. “We know that it’s not true.” So the situation went on the same way for another six months until that tragic Sunday when José Arcadio Buendía won a cockfight from Prudencio Aguilar. Furious, aroused by the blood of his bird, the loser backed away from José Arcadio Buendía so that everyone in the cockpit could hear what he was going to tell him. “Congratulations!” he shouted. “Maybe that rooster of yours can do your wife a favor.” José Arcadio Buendía serenely picked up his rooster. “I’ll be right back,” he told everyone. And then to Prudencio Aguilar: “You go home and get a weapon, because I’m going to kill you.” Ten minutes later he returned with the notched spear that had belonged to his grandfather. At the door to the cockpit, where half the town had gathered, Prudencio Aguilar was waiting for him. There was no time to defend himself. José Arcadio Buendía’s spear, thrown with the strength of a bull and with the same good aim with which the first Aureliano Buendía had exterminated the jaguars in the region, pierced his throat. That night, as they held a wake over the corpse in the cockpit, José Arcadio Buendía went into the bedroom as his wife was putting on her chastity pants. Pointing the spear at her he ordered: “Take them off.” Úrsula had no doubt about her husband’s decision. “You’ll be responsible for what happens,” she murmured. José Arcadio Buendía stuck the spear into the dirt floor. “If you bear iguanas, we’ll raise iguanas,” he said. “But there’ll be no more killings in this town because of you.” It was a fine June night, cool and with a moon, and they were awake and frolicking in bed until dawn, indifferent to the breeze that passed through the bedroom, loaded with the weeping of Prudencio Aguilar’s kin. The matter was put down as a duel of honor, but both of them were left with a twinge in their conscience. One night, when she could not sleep, Úrsula went out into the courtyard to get some water and she saw Prudencio Aguilar by the water jar. He was livid, a sad expression on his face, trying to cover the hole in his throat with a plug made of esparto grass. It did not bring on fear in her, but pity. She went back to the room and told her husband what she had seen, but he did not think much of it. “This just means that we can’t stand the weight of our conscience.” Two nights later Úrsula saw Prudencio Aguilar again, in the bathroom, using the esparto plug to wash the clotted blood from his throat. On another night she saw him strolling in the rain. José Arcadio Buendía, annoyed by his wife’s hallucinations, went out into the courtyard armed with the spear. There was the dead man with his sad expression. “You go to hell,” José Arcadio Buendía shouted at him. “Just as many times as you come back, I’ll kill you again.” Prudencio Aguilar did not go away, nor did José Arcadio Buendía dare throw the spear. He never slept well after that. He was tormented by the immense desolation with which the dead man had looked at him through the rain, his deep nostalgia as he yearned for living people, the anxiety with which he searched through the house looking for some water with which to soak his esparto plug. “He must be suffering a great deal,” he said to Úrsula. “You can see that he’s so very lonely.” She was so moved that the next time she saw the dead man uncovering the pots on the stove she understood what he was looking for, and from then on she placed water jugs all about the house. One night when he found him washing his wound in his own room, José Anedio Buendía could no longer resist.  “It’s all right, Prudencio,” he told him. “We’re going to leave this town, just as far away as we can go, and we’ll never come back. Go in peace now.” That was how they undertook the crossing of the mountains. Several friends of José Arcadio Buendía, young men like him, excited, by the adventure, dismantled their houses and packed up, along with their wives and children, to head toward the land that no one had promised them. Before he left, José Arcadio Buendía buried the spear in the courtyard and, one after the other, he cut the throats of his magnificent fighting cocks, trusting that in that way he could give some measure of peace to Prudencio Aguilar. All that Úrsula took along were a trunk with her bridal clothes, a few household utensils, and the small chest with the gold pieces that she had inherited from her father. They did not lay out any definite itinerary. They simply tried to go in a direction opposite to the road to Riohacha so that they would not leave any trace or meet any people they knew. It was an absurd journey. After fourteen months, her stomach corrupted by monkey meat and snake stew, Úrsula gave birth to a son who had all of his features human. She had traveled half of the trip in a hammock that two men carried on their shoulders, because swelling had disfigured her legs and her varicose veins had puffed up like bubbles. Although it was pitiful to see them with their sunken stomachs and languid eyes, the children survived the journey better than their parents, and most of the time it was fun for them. One morning, after almost two years of crossing, they became the first mortals to see the western slopes of the mountain range. From the cloudy summit they saw the immense aquatic expanse of the great swamp as it spread out toward the other side of the world. But they never found the sea. One night, after several months of lost wandering through the swamps, far away now from the last Indians they had met on their way, they camped on the banks of a stony river whose waters were like a torrent of frozen glass. Years later, during the second civil war, Colonel Aureliano Buendía tried to follow that same route in order to take Riohacha by surprise and after six days of traveling he understood that it was madness. Nevertheless, the night on which they camped beside the river, his father’s host had the look of shipwrecked people with no escape, but their number had grown during the crossing and they were all prepared (and they succeeded) to die of old age. José Arcadio Buendía dreamed that night that right there a noisy city with houses having mirror wails rose up. He asked what city it was and they answered him with a name that he had never heard, that had no meaning at all, but that had a supernatural echo in his dream: Macondo. On the following day he convinced his men that they would never find the sea. He ordered them to cut down the trees to make a clearing beside the river, at the coolest spot on the bank, and there they founded the village. José Arcadio Buendía did not succeed in deciphering the dream of houses with mirror walls until the day he discovered ice. Then he thought he understood its deep meaning. He thought that in the near future they would be able to manufacture blocks of ice on a large scale from such a common material as water and with them build the new houses of the village. Macondo would no longer be a burning place, where the hinges and door knockers twisted with the heat, but would be changed into a wintry city. If he did not persevere in his attempts to build an ice factory, it was because at that time he was absolutely enthusiastic over the education of his sons, especially that of Aureliano, who from the first had revealed a strange intuition for alchemy. The laboratory had been dusted off. Reviewing Melquíades’ notes, serene now, without the exaltation of novelty, in prolonged and patient sessions they tried to separate Úrsula’s gold from the debris that was stuck to the bottom of the pot. Young José Arcadio scarcely took part in the process. While his father was involved body and soul with his water pipe, the willful first-born, who had always been too big for his age, had become a monumental adolescent. His voice had changed. An incipient fuzz appeared on his upper lip. One night, as Úrsula went into the room where he was undressing to go to bed, she felt a mingled sense of shame and pity: he was the first man that she had seen naked after her husband,  and he was so well-equipped for life that he seemed abnormal. Úrsula, pregnant for the third time, relived her newlywed terror. Around that time a merry, foul-mouthed, provocative woman came to the house to help with the chorea, and she knew how to read the future in cards. Úrsula spoke to her about her son. She thought that his disproportionate size was something as unnatural as her cousin’s tail of a pig. The woman let out an expansive laugh that resounded through the house like a spray of broken glass. “Just the opposite,” she said. “He’ll be very lucky.” In order to confirm her prediction she brought her cards to the house a few days later and locked herself up with José Arcadio in a granary off the kitchen. She calmly placed her cards on an old carpenter’s bench. saying anything that came into her head, while the boy waited beside her, more bored than intrigued. Suddenly she reached out her hand and touched him. “Lordy!” she said, sincerely startled, and that was all she could say. José Arcadio felt his bones filling up with foam, a languid fear, and a terrible desire to weep. The woman made no insinuations. But José Arcadio kept looking for her all night long, for the smell of smoke that she had under her armpits and that had got caught under his skin. He wanted to be with her all the time, he wanted her to be his mother, for them never to leave the granary, and for her to say “Lordy!” to him. One day he could not stand it any more and. he went looking for her at her house: He made a formal visit, sitting uncomprehendingly in the living room without saying a word. At that moment he had no desire for her. He found her different, entirely foreign to the image that her smell brought on, as if she were someone else. He drank his coffee and left the house in depression. That night, during the frightful time of lying awake, he desired her again with a brutal anxiety, but he did not want her that time as she had been in the granary but as she had been that afternoon. Days later the woman suddenly called him to her house, where she was alone with her mother, and she had him come into the bedroom with the pretext of showing him a deck of cards. Then she touched him with such freedom that he suffered a delusion after the initial shudder, and he felt more fear than pleasure. She asked him to come and see her that night. He agreed. in order to get away, knowing that he was incapable of going. But that night, in his burning bed, he understood that he had to go we her, even if he were not capable. He got dressed by feel, listening in the dark to his brother’s calm breathing, the dry cough of his father in the next room, the asthma of the hens in the courtyard, the buzz of the mosquitoes, the beating of his heart, and the inordinate bustle of a world that he had not noticed until then, and he went out into the sleeping street. With all his heart he wanted the door to be barred and not just closed as she had promised him. But it was open. He pushed it with the tips of his fingers and the hinges yielded with a mournful and articulate moan that left a frozen echo inside of him. From the moment he entered, sideways and trying not to make a noise, he caught the smell. He was still in the hallway, where the woman’s three brothers had their hammocks in positions that he could not see and that he could not determine in the darkness as he felt his way along the hall to push open the bedroom door and get his bearings there so as not to mistake the bed. He found it. He bumped against the ropes of the hammocks, which were lower than he had suspected, and a man who had been snoring until then turned in his sleep and said in a kind of delusion, “It was Wednesday.” When he pushed open the bedroom door, he could not prevent it from scraping against the uneven floor. Suddenly, in the absolute darkness, he understood with a hopeless nostalgia that he was completely disoriented. Sleeping in the narrow room were the mother, another daughter with her husband and two children, and the woman, who may not have been there. He could have guided himself by the smell if the smell had not been all over the house, so devious and at the same time so definite, as it had always been on his skin. He did not move for a long time, wondering in fright how he had ever got to that abyss of abandonment, when a hand with all its fingers extended and feeling about in the darkness touched his face. He was not surprised, for without knowing, he had been expecting it. Then he gave himself over to that hand, and in a terrible state of exhaustion he let himself be led to a shapeless place where his clothes were taken off and he  was heaved about like a sack of potatoes and thrown from one side to the other in a bottomless darkness in which his arms were useless, where it no longer smelled of woman but of ammonia, and where he tried to remember her face and found before him the face of Úrsula, confusedly aware that he was doing something that for a very long time he had wanted to do but that he had imagined could really never be done, not knowing what he was doing because he did not know where his feet were or where his head was, or whose feet or whose head, and feeling that he could no longer resist the glacial rumbling of his kidneys and the air of his intestines, and fear, and the bewildered anxiety to flee and at the same time stay forever in that exasperated silence and that fearful solitude. Her name was Pilar Ternera. She had been part of the exodus that ended with the founding of Macondo, dragged along by her family in order to separate her from the man who had raped her at fourteen and had continued to love her until she was twenty-two, but who never made up his mind to make the situation public because he was a man apart. He promised to follow her to the ends of the earth, but only later on, when he put his affairs in order, and she had become tired of waiting for him, always identifying him with the tall and short, blond and brunet men that her cards promised from land and sea within three days, three months, or three years. With her waiting she had lost the strength of her thighs, the firmness of her breasts, her habit of tenderness, but she kept the madness of her heart intact. Maddened by that prodigious plaything, José Arcadio followed her path every night through the labyrinth of the room. On a certain occasion he found the door barred, and he knocked several times, knowing that if he had the boldness to knock the first time he would have had to knock until the last, and after an interminable wait she opened the door for him. During the day, lying down to dream, he would secretly enjoy the memories of the night before. But when she came into the house, merry, indifferent, chatty, he did not have to make any effort to hide his tension, because that woman, whose explosive laugh frightened off the doves, had nothing to do with the invisible power that taught him how to breathe from within and control his heartbeats, and that had permitted him to understand why man are afraid of death. He was so wrapped up in himself that he did not even understand the joy of everyone when his father and his brother aroused the household with the news that they had succeeded in penetrating the metallic debris and had separated Úrsula’s gold. They had succeeded, as a matter of fact, after putting in complicated and persevering days at it. Úrsula was happy, and she even gave thanks to God for the invention of alchemy, while the people of the village crushed into the laboratory, and they served them guava jelly on crackers to celebrate the wonder, and José Arcadio Buendía let them see the crucible with the recovered gold, as if he had just invented it. Showing it all around, he ended up in front of his older son, who during the past few days had barely put in an appearance in the laboratory. He put the dry and yellowish mass in front of his eyes and asked him: “What does it look like to you?” José Arcadio answered sincerely: “Dog shit.” His father gave him a blow with the back of his hand that brought out blood and tears. That night Pilar Ternera put arnica compresses on the swelling, feeling about for the bottle and cotton in the dark, and she did everything she wanted with him as long as it did not bother him, making an effort to love him without hurting him. They reached such a state of intimacy that later, without realizing it, they were whispering to each other. “I want to be alone with you,” he said. “One of these days I’m going to tell everybody and we can stop all of this sneaking around.” She did not try to calm him down. “That would be fine,” she said “If we’re alone, we’ll leave the lamp lighted so that we can see each other, and I can holler as much as I want without anybody’s having to butt in, and you can whisper in my ear any crap you can think of.”  That conversation, the biting rancor that he felt against his father, and the imminent possibility of wild love inspired a serene courage in him. In a spontaneous way, without any preparation, he told everything to his brother. At first young Aureliano understood only the risk, the immense possibility of danger that his brother’s adventures implied, and he could not understand the fascination of the subject. Little by little he became contaminated with the anxiety. He wondered about the details of the dangers, he identified himself with the suffering and enjoyment of his brother, he felt frightened and happy. He would stay awake waiting for him until dawn in the solitary bed that seemed to have a bottom of live coals, and they would keep on talking until it was time to get up, so that both of them soon suffered from the same drowsiness, felt the same lack of interest in alchemy and the wisdom of their father, and they took refuge in solitude. “Those kids are out of their heads,” Úrsula said. “They must have worms.” She prepared a repugnant potion for them made out of mashed wormseed, which they both drank with unforeseen stoicism, and they sat down at the same time on their pots eleven times in a single day, expelling some rose-colored parasites that they showed to everybody with great jubilation, for it allowed them to deceive Úrsula as to the origin of their distractions and drowsiness. Aureliano not only understood by then, he also lived his brother’s experiences as something of his own, for on one occasion when the latter was explaining in great detail the mechanism of love, he interrupted him to ask: “What does it feel like?” José Arcadio gave an immediate reply: “It’s like an earthquake.” One January Thursday at two o’clock in the morning, Amaranta was born. Before anyone came into the room, Úrsula examined her carefully. She was light and watery, like a newt, but all of her parts were human: Aureliano did not notice the new thing except when the house became full of people. Protected by the confusion, he went off in search of his brother, who had not been in bed since eleven o’clock, and it was such an impulsive decision that he did not even have time to ask himself how he could get him out of Pilar Ternera’s bedroom. He circled the house for several hours, whistling private calls, until the proximity of dawn forced him to go home. In his mother’s room, playing with the newborn little sister and with a face that drooped with innocence, he found José Arcadio. Úrsula was barely over her forty days’ rest when the gypsies returned. They were the same acrobats and jugglers that had brought the ice. Unlike Melquíades’ tribe, they had shown very quickly that they were not heralds of progress but purveyors of amusement. Even when they brought the ice they did not advertise it for its usefulness in the life of man but as a simple circus curiosity. This time, along with many other artifices, they brought a flying carpet. But they did not offer it as a fundamental contribution to the development of transport, rather as an object of recreation. The people at once dug up their last gold pieces to take advantage of a quick flight over the houses of the village. Protected by the delightful cover of collective disorder, José Arcadio and Pilar passed many relaxing hours. They were two happy lovers among the crowd, and they even came to suspect that love could be a feeling that was more relaxing and deep than the happiness, wild but momentary, of their secret nights. Pilar, however, broke the spell. Stimulated by the enthusiasm that José Arcadio showed in her companionship, she confused the form and the occasion, and all of a sudden she threw the whole world on top of him. “Now you really are a man,” she told him. And since he did not understand what she meant, she spelled it out to him. “You’re going to be a father.” José Arcadio did not dare leave the house for several days. It was enough for him to hear the rocking laughter of Pilar in the kitchen to run and take refuge in the laboratory, where the artifacts of alchemy had come alive again with Úrsula’s blessing. José Arcadio Buendía received his errant son with joy and initiated him in the search for the philosopher’s stone, which he had finally undertaken. One afternoon the boys grew enthusiastic over the flying carpet that went swiftly by the laboratory at window level carrying the gypsy who was driving it and several children from the village who were merrily waving their hands, but José Arcadio Buendía did not even look at it. “Let them dream,” he said. “We’ll do better flying than they are doing, and with more scientific resources than a miserable bedspread.” In spite of his feigned interest, José Arcadio must understood the powers of the philosopher’s egg, which to him looked like a poorly blown bottle. He did not succeed in escaping from his worries. He lost his appetite and he could not sleep. He fell into an ill humor, the same as his father’s over the failure of his undertakings, and such was his upset that José Arcadio Buendía himself relieved him of his duties in the laboratory, thinking that he had taken alchemy too much to heart. Aureliano, of course, understood that his brother’s affliction did not have its source in the search for the philosopher’s stone but he could not get into his confidence. He had lost his former spontaneity. From an accomplice and a communicative person he had become withdrawn and hostile. Anxious for solitude, bitten by a virulent rancor against the world, one night he left his bed as usual, but he did not go to Pilar Ternera’s house, but to mingle is the tumult of the fair. After wandering about among all kinds of contraptions with out becoming interested in any of them, he spotted something that was not a part of it all: a very young gypsy girl, almost a child, who was weighted down by beads and was the most beautiful woman that José Arcadio had ever seen in his life. She was in the crowd that was witnessing the sad spectacle of the man who had been turned into a snake for having disobeyed his parents. José Arcadio paid no attention. While the sad interrogation of the snake-man was taking place, he made his way through the crowd up to the front row, where the gypsy girl was, and he stooped behind her. He pressed against her back. The girl tried to separate herself, but José Arcadio pressed more strongly against her back. Then she felt him. She remained motionless against him, trembling with surprise and fear, unable to believe the evidence, and finally she turned her head and looked at him with a tremulous smile. At that instant two gypsies put the snake-man into his cage and carried him into the tent. The gypsy who was conducting the show announced: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, we are going to show the terrible test of the woman who must have her head chopped off every night at this time for one hundred and fifty years as punishment for having seen what she should not have.” José Arcadio and the gypsy girl did not witness the decapitation. They went to her tent, where they kissed each other with a desperate anxiety while they took off their clothes. The gypsy girl removed the starched lace corsets she had on and there she was, changed into practically nothing. She was a languid little frog, with incipient breasts and legs so thin that they did not even match the size of José Arcadio’s arms, but she had a decision and a warmth that compensated for her fragility. Nevertheless, José Arcadio could not respond to her because they were in a kind of public tent where the gypsies passed through with their circus things and did their business, and would even tarry by the bed for a game of dice. The lamp hanging from the center pole lighted the whole place up. During a pause in the caresses, José Arcadio stretched out naked on the bed without knowing what to do, while the girl tried to inspire him. A gypsy woman with splendid flesh came in a short time after accompanied by a man who was not of the caravan but who was not from the village either, and they both began to undress in front of the bed. Without meaning to, the woman looked at José Arcadio and examined his magnificent animal in repose with a kind of pathetic fervor. “My boy,” she exclaimed, “may God preserve you just as you are.” José Arcadio’s companion asked them to leave them alone, and the couple lay down on the ground, close to the bed. The passion of the others woke up José Arcadio’s fervor. On the first contact the bones of the girl seemed to become disjointed with a disorderly crunch like the sound of a box of dominoes, and her skin broke out into a pale sweat and her eyes filled with tears as her whole body exhaled a lugubrious lament and a vague smell of mud. But she bore the impact with a firmness of character and a bravery that were admirable. José Arcadio felt himself lifted up into the  air toward a state of seraphic inspiration, where his heart burst forth with an outpouring of tender obscenities that entered the girl through her ears and came out of her mouth translated into her language. It was Thursday. On Saturday night, José Arcadio wrapped a red cloth around his head and left with the gypsies. When Úrsula discovered his absence she searched for him all through the village. In the remains of the gypsy camp there was nothing but a garbage pit among the still smoking ashes of the extinguished campfires. Someone who was there looking for beads among the trash told Úrsula that the night before he had seen her son in the tumult of the caravan pushing the snake-man’s cage on a cart. “He’s become a gypsy” she shouted to her husband, who had not shown the slightest sign of alarm over the disappearance. “I hope it’s true,” José Arcadio Buendía said, grinding in his mortar the material that had been ground a thousand times and reheated and ground again. “That way he’ll learn to be a man.” Úrsula asked where the gypsies had gone. She went along asking and following the road she had been shown, thinking that she still had time to catch up to them. She kept getting farther away from the village until she felt so far away that she did not think about returning. José Arcadio Buendía did not discover that his wife was missing until eight o’clock at night, when he left the material warming in a bed of manure and went to see what was wrong with little Amaranta, who was getting hoarse from crying. In a few hours he gathered a group of well-equipped men, put Amaranta in the hands of a woman who offered to nurse her, and was lost on invisible paths in pursuit of Úrsula. Aureliano went with them. Some Indian fishermen, whose language they could not understand, told them with signs that they had not seen anyone pass. After three days of useless searching they returned to the village. For several weeks José Arcadio Buendía let himself be overcome by consternation. He took care of little Amaranta like a mother. He bathed and dressed her, took her to be nursed four times a day, and even sang to her at night the songs that Úrsula never knew how to sing. On a certain occasion Pilar Ternera volunteered to do the household chores until Úrsula came back. Aureliano, whose mysterious intuition had become sharpened with the misfortune, felt a glow of clairvoyance when he saw her come in. Then he knew that in some inexplicable way she was to blame for his brother’s flight and the consequent disappearance of his mother, and he harassed her with a silent and implacable hostility in such a way that the woman did not return to the house. Time put things in their place. José Arcadio Buendía and his son did not know exactly when they returned to the laboratory, dusting things, lighting the water pipe, involved once more in the patient manipulation of the material that had been sleeping for several months in its bed of manure. Even Amaranta, lying in a wicker basket, observed with curiosity the absorbing work of her father and her brother in the small room where the air was rarefied by mercury vapors. On a certain occasion, months after Úrsula’s departure, strange things began to happen. An empty flask that had been forgotten in a cupboard for a long time became so heavy that it could not be moved. A pan of water on the worktable boiled without any fire under it for a half hour until it completely evaporated. José Arcadio Buendía and his son observed those phenomena with startled excitement, unable to explain them but interpreting them as predictions of the material. One day Amaranta’s basket began to move by itself and made a complete turn about the room, to the consternation of Auerliano, who hurried to stop it. But his father did not get upset. He put the basket in its place and tied it to the leg of a table, convinced that the long-awaited event was imminent. It was on that occasion that Auerliano heard him say: “If you don’t fear God, fear him through the metals. Suddenly, almost five months after her disappearance, Úrsula came back. She arrived exalted, rejuvenated, with new clothes in a style that was unknown in the village. José Arcadio Buendía could barely stand up under the impact. “That was it!” he shouted. “I knew it was going to happen.” And  he really believed it, for during his prolonged imprisonment as he manipulated the material, he begged in the depth of his heart that the longed-for miracle should not be the discovery of the philosopher’s stone, or the freeing of the breath that makes metals live, or the faculty to convert the hinges and the locks of the house into gold, but what had just happened: Úrsula’s return. But she did not share his excitement. She gave him a conventional kiss, as if she had been away only an hour, and she told him: “Look out the door.” José Arcadio Buendía took a long time to get out of his perplexity when he went out into the street and saw the crowd. They were not gypsies. They were men and women like them, with straight hair and dark skin, who spoke the same language and complained of the same pains. They had mules loaded down with things to eat, oxcarts with furniture and domestic utensils, pure and simple earthly accessories put on sale without any fuss by peddlers of everyday reality. They came from the other side of the swamp, only two days away, where there were towns that received mail every month in the year and where they were familiar with the implements of good living. Úrsula had not caught up with the gypsies, but she had found the route that her husband had been unable to discover in his frustrated search for the great inventions. PILAR TERNERA’S son was brought to his grand parents’ house two weeks after he was born. Úrsula admitted him grudgingly, conquered once more by the obstinacy of her husband, who could not tolerate the idea that an offshoot of his blood should be adrift, but he imposed the condition that the child should never know his true identity. Although he was given the name José Arcadio, they ended up calling him simply Arcadio so as to avoid confusion. At that time there was so much activity in the town and so much bustle in the house that the care of the children was relegated to a secondary level. They were put in the care of Visitación, a Guajiro Indian woman who had arrived in town with a brother in flight from a plague of insomnia that had been scourging their tribe for several years. They were both so docile and willing to help that Úrsula took them on to help her with her household chores. That was how Arcadio and Amaranta came to speak the Guajiro language before Spanish, and they learned to drink lizard broth and eat spider eggs without Úrsula’s knowing it, for she was too busy with a promising business in candy animals. Macondo had changed. The people who had come with Úrsula spread the news of the good quality of its soil and its privileged position with respect to the swamp, so that from the narrow village of past times it changed into an active town with stores and workshops and a permanent commercial route over which the first Arabs arrived with their baggy pants and rings in their ears, swapping glass beads for macaws. José Arcadio Buendía did not have a moment’s rest. Fascinated by an immediate reality that came to be more fantastic than the vast universe of his imagination, he lost all interest in the alchemist’s laboratory, put to rest the material that had become attenuated with months of manipulation, and went back to being the enterprising man of earlier days when he had decided upon the layout of the streets and the location of the new houses so that no one would enjoy privileges that everyone did not have. He acquired such authority among the new arrivals that foundations were not laid or walls built without his being consulted, and it was decided that he should be the one in charge of the distribution of the land. When the acrobat gypsies returned, with their vagabond carnival transformed now into a gigantic organization of games of luck and chance, they were received with great joy, for it was thought that José Arcadio would be coming back with them. But José Arcadio did not return, nor did they come with the snake-man, who, according to what Úrsula thought, was the only one who could tell them about their son, so the gypsies were not allowed to camp in town or set foot in it in the future, for they were considered the bearers of concupiscence and perversion. José Arcadio Buendía, however, was explicit in maintaining that the old tribe of Melquíades, who had contributed so much to the growth of the village with his age-old wisdom and his fabulous inventions, would always find the gates open. But Melquíades’ tribe, according to what the wanderers said, had been wiped off the face of the earth because they had gone beyond the limits of human knowledge. Emancipated for the moment at least from the torment of fantasy, José Arcadio Buendía in a short time set up a system of order and work which allowed for only one bit of license: the freeing of the birds, which, since the time of the founding, had made time merry with their flutes, and installing in their place musical clocks in every house. They were wondrous clocks made of carved wood, which the Arabs had traded for macaws and which José Arcadio Buendía had synchronized with such precision that every half hour the town grew merry with the progressive chords of the same song until it reached the climax of a noontime that was as exact and unanimous as a complete waltz. It was also José Arcadio Buendía who decided during those years that they should plant almond trees instead of acacias on the streets, and who discovered, without ever revealing it, a way to make them live forever. Many years later, when Macondo was a field of wooden houses with zinc  roofs, the broken and dusty almond trees still stood on the oldest streets, although no one knew who had planted them. While his father was putting the town in order and his mother was increasing their wealth with her marvelous business of candied little roosters and fish, which left the house twice a day strung along sticks of balsa wood, Aureliano spent interminable hours in the abandoned laboratory, learning the art of silverwork by his own experimentation. He had shot up so fast that in a short time the clothing left behind by his brother no longer fit him and he began to wear his father’s, but Visitación had to sew pleats in the shirt and darts in the pants, because Aureliano had not sequined the corpulence of the others. Adolescence had taken away the softness of his voice and had made him silent and definitely solitary, but, on the other hand, it had restored the intense expression that he had had in his eyes when he was born. He concentrated so much on his experiments in silverwork that he scarcely left the laboratory to eat. Worried ever his inner withdrawal, José Arcadio Buendía gave him the keys to the house and a little money, thinking that perhaps he needed a woman. But Aureliano spent the money on muriatic acid to prepare some aqua regia and he beautified the keys by plating them with gold. His excesses were hardly comparable to those of Arcadio and Amaranta, who had already begun to get their second teeth and still went about all day clutching at the Indians’ cloaks, stubborn in their decision not to speak Spanish but the Guajiro language. “You shouldn’t complain.” Úrsula told her husband. “Children inherit their parents’ madness.” And as she was lamenting her misfortune, convinced that the wild behavior of her children was something as fearful as a pig’s tail, Aureliano gave her a look that wrapped her in an atmosphere of uncertainty. “Somebody is coming,” he told her. Úrsula, as she did whenever he made a prediction, tried to break it down with her housewifely logic. It was normal for someone to be coming. Dozens of strangers came through Macondo every day without arousing suspicion or secret ideas. Nevertheless, beyond all logic, Aureliano was sure of his prediction. “I don’t know who it will be,” he insisted, “but whoever it is is already on the way.” That Sunday, in fact, Rebeca arrived. She was only eleven years old. She had made the difficult trip from Manaure with some hide dealers who had taken on the task of delivering her along with a letter to José Arcadio Buendía, but they could not explain precisely who the person was who had asked the favor. Her entire baggage consisted of a small trunk, a little rocking chair with small handpainted flowers, and a canvas sack which kept making a cloc-cloc-cloc sound, where she carried her parents’ bones. The letter addressed to José Arcadio Buendía was written is very warm terms by someone who still loved him very much in spite of time and distance, and who felt obliged by a basic humanitarian feeling to do the charitable thing and send him that poor unsheltered orphan, who was a second cousin of Úrsula’s and consequently also a relative of José Arcadio Buendía, although farther removed, because she was the daughter of that unforgettable friend Nicanor Ulloa and his very worthy wife Rebeca Montiel, may God keep them in His holy kingdom, whose remains the girl was carrying so that they might be given Christian burial. The names mentioned, as well as the signature on the letter, were perfectly legible, but neither José Arcadio, Buendía nor Úrsula remembered having any relatives with those names, nor did they know anyone by the name of the sender of the letter, much less the remote village of Manaure. It was impossible to obtain any further information from the girl. From the moment she arrived she had been sitting in the rocker, sucking her finger and observing everyone with her large, startled eyes without giving any sign of understanding what they were asking her. She wore a diagonally striped dress that had been dyed black, worn by use, and a pair of scaly patent leather boots. Her hair was held behind her ears with bows of black ribbon. She wore a scapular with the images worn away by sweat, and on her right wrist the fang of a carnivorous animal mounted on a backing of copper as an amulet against the evil eye. Her greenish skin, her stomach, round and tense as a drum. revealed poor health and hunger  that were older than she was, but when they gave her something to eat she kept the plate on her knees without tasting anything. They even began to think that she was a deaf-mute until the Indians asked her in their language if she wanted some water and she moved her eyes as if she recognized them and said yes with her head. They kept her, because there was nothing else they could do. They decided to call her Rebeca, which according to the letter was her mother’s name, because Aureliano had the patience to read to her the names of all the saints and he did not get a reaction from any one of them. Since there was no cemetery in Macondo at that time, for no one had died up till then, they kept the bag of bones to wait for a worthy place of burial, and for a long time it got in the way everywhere and would be found where least expected, always with its clucking of a broody hen. A long time passed before Rebeca became incorporated into the life of the family. She would sit in her small rocker sucking her finger in the most remote corner of the house. Nothing attracted her attention except the music of the clocks, which she would look for every half hour with her frightened eyes as if she hoped to find it someplace in the air. They could not get her to eat for several days. No one understood why she had not died of hunger until the Indians, who were aware of everything, for they went ceaselessly about the house on their stealthy feet, discovered that Rebeca only liked to eat the damp earth of the courtyard and the cake of whitewash that she picked of the walls with her nails. It was obvious that her parents, or whoever had raised her, had scolded her for that habit because she did it secretively and with a feeling of guilt, trying to put away supplies so that she could eat when no one was looking. From then on they put her under an implacable watch. They threw cow gall onto the courtyard and, rubbed hot chili on the walls, thinking they could defeat her pernicious vice with those methods, but she showed such signs of astuteness and ingenuity to find some earth that Úrsula found herself forced to use more drastic methods. She put some orange juice and rhubarb into a pan that she left in the dew all night and she gave her the dose the following day on an empty stomach. Although no one had told her that it was the specific remedy for the vice of eating earth, she thought that any bitter substance in an empty stomach would have to make the liver react. Rebeca was so rebellious and strong in spite of her frailness that they had to tie her up like a calf to make her swallow the medicine, and they could barely keep back her kicks or bear up under the strange hieroglyphics that she alternated with her bites and spitting, and that, according to what the scandalized Indians said, were the vilest obscenities that one could ever imagine in their language. When Úrsula discovered that, she added whipping to the treatment. It was never established whether it was the rhubarb or the beatings that had effect, or both of them together, but the truth was that in a few weeks Rebeca began to show signs of recovery. She took part in the games of Arcadio and Amaranta, who treated her like an older sister, and she ate heartily, using the utensils properly. It was soon revealed that she spoke Spanish with as much fluency as the Indian language, that she had a remarkable ability for manual work, and that she could sing the waltz of the clocks with some very funny words that she herself had invented. It did not take long for them to consider her another member of the family. She was more affectionate to Úrsula than any of her own children had been, and she called Arcadio, and Amaranta brother and sister, Aureliano uncle, and José Arcadio Buendía grandpa. So that she finally deserved, as much as the others, the name of Rebeca Buendía, the only one that she ever had and that she bore with dignity until her death. One night about the time that Rebeca was cured of the vice of eating earth and was brought to sleep in the other children’s room, the Indian woman, who slept with them awoke by chance and heard a strange, intermittent sound in the corner. She got up in alarm, thinking that an animal had come into the room, and then she saw Rebeca in the rocker, sucking her finger and with her eyes lighted up in the darkness like those of a cat. Terrified, exhausted by her fate, Visitación recognized in those eyes the symptoms of the sickness whose threat had obliged her and her brother to exile themselves forever from an age-old kingdom where they had been prince and princess. It was the insomnia plague. Cataure, the Indian, was gone from the house by morning. His sister stayed because her fatalistic heart told her that the lethal sickness would follow her, no matter what, to the farthest corner of the earth. No one understood Visitación’s alarm. “If we don’t ever sleep again, so much the better,” José Arcadio Buendía said in good humor. “That way we can get more out of life.” But the Indian woman explained that the most fearsome part of the sickness of insomnia was not the impossibility of sleeping, for the body did not feel any fatigue at all, but its inexorable evolution toward a more critical manifestation: a loss of memory. She meant that when the sick person became used to his state of vigil, the recollection of his childhood began to be erased from his memory, then the name and notion of things, and finally the identity of people and even the awareness of his own being, until he sank into a kind of idiocy that had no past. José Arcadio Buendía, dying with laughter, thought that it was just a question of one of the many illnesses invented by the Indians’ superstitions. But Úrsula, just to be safe, took the precaution of isolating Rebeca from the other children. After several weeks, when Visitación’s terror seemed to have died down, José Arcadio Buendía found himself rolling over in bed, unable to fall asleep. Úrsula, who had also awakened, asked him what was wrong, and he answered: “I’m thinking about Prudencio Aguilar again.” They did not sleep a minute, but the following day they felt so rested that they forgot about the bad night. Aureliano commented with surprise at lunchtime that he felt very well in spite of the fact that he had spent the whole night in the laboratory gilding a brooch that he planned to give to Úrsula for her birthday. They did not become alarmed until the third day, when no one felt sleepy at bedtime and they realized that they had gone more than fifty hours without sleeping. “The children are awake too,” the Indian said with her fatalistic conviction. “Once it gets into a house no one can escape the plague.” They had indeed contracted the illness of insomnia. Úrsula, who had learned from her mother the medicinal value of plants, prepared and made them all drink a brew of monkshood, but they could not get to sleep and spent the whole day dreaming on their feet. In that state of hallucinated lucidity, not only did they see the images of their own dreams, but some saw the images dreamed by others. It was as if the house were full of visitors. Sitting in her rocker in a corner of the kitchen, Rebeca dreamed that a man who looked very much like her, dressed in white linen and with his shirt collar closed by a gold button, was bringing her a bouquet of roses. He was accompanied by a woman with delicate hands who took out one rose and put it in the child’s hair. Úrsula understood that the man and woman were Rebeca’s parents, but even though she made a great effort to recognize them, she confirmed her certainty that she had never seen them. In the meantime, through an oversight that José Arcadio Buendía never forgave himself for, the candy animals made in the house were still being sold in the town. Children and adults sucked with delight on the delicious little green roosters of insomnia, the exquisite pink fish of insomnia, and the tender yellow ponies of insomnia, so that dawn on Monday found the whole town awake. No one was alarmed at first. On the contrary, they were happy at not sleeping because there was so much to do in Macondo in those days that there was barely enough time. They worked so hard that soon they had nothing else to do and they could be found at three o’clock in the morning with their arms crossed, counting the notes in the waltz of the clock. Those who wanted to sleep, not from fatigue but because of the nostalgia for dreams, tried all kinds of methods of exhausting themselves. They would gather together to converse endlessly, to tell over and over for hours on end the same jokes, to complicate to the limits of exasperation the story about the capon, which was an endless game in which the narrator asked if they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and when they answered yes, the narrator would say that he had not asked them to say yes, but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and when they answered no, the narrator told them that he had not asked them to say no, but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and when they remained silent the narrator told them that he had not asked them to remain silent but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and no one could leave because the narrator would say that he had not asked them to leave but whether they wanted him to tell them the story about the capon, and so on and on in a vicious circle that lasted entire nights. When José Arcadio Buendía realized that the plague had invaded the town, he gathered together the heads of families to explain to them what he knew about the sickness of insomnia, and they agreed on methods to prevent the scourge from spreading to other towns in the swamp. That was why they took the bells off the goats, bells that the Arabs had swapped them for macaws, and put them at the entrance to town at the disposal of those who would not listen to the advice and entreaties of the sentinels and insisted on visiting the town. All strangers who passed through the streets of Macondo at that time had to ring their bells so that the sick people would know that they were healthy. They were not allowed to eat or drink anything during their stay, for there was no doubt but that the illness was transmitted by mouth, and all food and drink had been contaminated by insomnia. In that way they kept the plague restricted to the perimeter of the town. So effective was the quarantine that the day came when the emergency situation was accepted as a natural thing and life was organized in such a way that work picked up its rhythm again and no one worried any more about the useless habit of sleeping. It was Aureliano who conceived the formula that was to protect them against loss of memory for several months. He discovered it by chance. An expert insomniac, having been one of the first, he had learned the art of silverwork to perfection. One day he was looking for the small anvil that he used for laminating metals and he could not remember its name. His father told him: “Stake.” Aureliano wrote the name on a piece of paper that he pasted to the base of the small anvil: stake. In that way he was sure of not forgetting it in the future. It did not occur to him that this was the first manifestation of a loss of memory, because the object had a difficult name to remember. But a few days later be, discovered that he had trouble remembering almost every object in the laboratory. Then he marked them with their respective names so that all he had to do was read the inscription in order to identify them. When his father told him about his alarm at having forgotten even the most impressive happenings of his childhood, Aureliano explained his method to him, and José Arcadio Buendía put it into practice all through the house and later on imposed it on the whole village. With an inked brush he marked everything with its name: table, chair, clock, door, wall, bed, pan. He went to the corral and marked the animals and plants: cow, goat, pig, hen, cassava, caladium, banana. Little by little, studying the infinite possibilities of a loss of memory, he realized that the day might come when things would be recognized by their inscriptions but that no one would remember their use. Then he was more explicit. The sign that he hung on the neck of the cow was an exemplary proof of the way in which the inhabitants of Macondo were prepared to fight against loss of memory: This is the cow. She must be milked every morning so that she will produce milk, and the milk must be boiled in order to be mixed with coffee to make coffee and milk. Thus they went on living in a reality that was slipping away, momentarily captured by words, but which would escape irremediably when they forgot the values of the written letters. At the beginning of the road into the swamp they put up a sign that said MACONDO and another larger one on the main street that said GOD EXISTS. In all the houses keys to memorizing objects and feelings had been written. But the system demanded so much vigilance and moral strength that many succumbed to the spell of an imaginary reality, one invented by themselves, which was less practical for them but more comforting. Pilar Ternera was the one who contributed most to popularize that mystification when she conceived the trick of reading the past in cards as she had read the future before. By means of that recourse the insomniacs began to live in a world built on the uncertain alternatives of the cards, where a father was remembered faintly as the dark man who had arrived at the beginning of April and a mother was remembered only as the dark woman who wore a gold ring on her left hand, and where a birth date was reduced to the last Tuesday on which a lark sang in the laurel tree. Defeated by those practices of consolation, José Arcadio Buendía then decided to build the memory machine that he had desired once in order to remember the marvelous inventions of the gypsies. The artifact was based on the possibility of reviewing every morning, from beginning to end, the totality of knowledge acquired during one’s life. He conceived of it as a spinning dictionary that a person placed on the axis could operate by means of a lever, so that in a very few hours there would pass before his eyes the notions most necessary for life. He had succeeded in writing almost fourteen thousand entries when along the road from the swamp a strange-looking old man with the sad sleepers’ bell appeared, carrying a bulging suitcase tied with a rope and pulling a cart covered with black cloth. He went straight to the house of José Arcadio Buendía. Visitación did not recognize him when she opened the door and she thought he had come with the idea of selling something, unaware that nothing could be sold in a town that was sinking irrevocably into the quicksand of forgetfulness. He was a decrepit man. Although his voice was also broken by uncertainty and his hands seemed to doubt the existence of things, it was evident that he came from the world where men could still sleep and remember. José Arcadio Buendía found him sitting in the living room fanning himself with a patched black hat as he read with compassionate attention the signs pasted to the walls. He greeted him with a broad show of affection, afraid that he had known him at another time and that he did not remember him now. But the visitor was aware of his falseness, He felt himself forgotten, not with the irremediable forgetfulness of the heart, but with a different kind of forgetfulness, which was more cruel and irrevocable and which he knew very well because it was the forgetfulness of death. Then he understood. He opened the suitcase crammed with indecipherable objects and from among then he took out a little case with many flasks. He gave José Arcadio Buendía a drink of a gentle color and the light went on in his memory. His eyes became moist from weeping even before he noticed himself in an absurd living room where objects were labeled and before he was ashamed of the solemn nonsense written on the walls, and even before he recognized the newcomer with a dazzling glow of joy. It was Melquíades. While Macondo was celebrating the recovery of its memory, José Arcadio Buendía and Melquíades dusted off their old friendship. The gypsy was inclined to stay in the town. He really had been through death, but he had returned because he could not bear the solitude. Repudiated by his tribe, having lost all of his supernatural faculties because of his faithfulness to life, he decided to take refuge in that corner of the world which had still not been discovered by death, dedicated to the operation of a daguerreotype laboratory. José Arcadio Buendía had never heard of that invention. But when he saw himself and his whole family fastened onto a sheet of iridescent metal for an eternity, he was mute with stupefaction. That was the date of the oxidized daguerreotype in which José Arcadio Buendía appeared with his bristly and graying hair, his card board collar attached to his shirt by a copper button, and an expression of startled solemnity, whom Úrsula described, dying with laughter, as a “frightened general.” José Arcadio Buendía was, in fact, frightened on that dear December morning when the daguerreotype was made, for he was thinking that people were slowly wearing away while his image would endure an a metallic plaque. Through a curious reversal of custom, it was Úrsula who got that idea out of his head, as it was also she who forgot her ancient bitterness and decided that Melquíades would stay on in the house, although she never permitted them to make a daguerreotype of her because (according to her very words) she did not want to survive as a laughingstock for her grandchildren. That morning she dressed the children in their best clothes, powdered their faces, and gave a spoonful of marrow syrup to each one so that they would all remain absolutely motionless during the nearly two minutes in front of Melquíades fantastic camera. In the family daguerreotype, the only one that ever existed, Aureliano appeared dressed in black velvet between Amaranta and Rebeca. He had the same languor and the same clairvoyant look that he would have years later as he faced the firing squad. But he still had not sensed the premonition of his fate. He was an expert silversmith, praised all over the swampland for the delicacy of his work. In the workshop, which he shared with Melquíades’ mad laboratory, he could barely be heard breathing. He seemed to be taking refuge in some other time, while his father and the gypsy with shouts interpreted the predictions of Nostradamus amidst a noise of flasks and trays and the disaster of spilled acids and silver bromide that was lost in the twists and turns it gave at every instant. That dedication to his work, the good judgment with which he directed his attention, had allowed Aureliano to earn in a short time more money than Úrsula had with her delicious candy fauna, but everybody thought it strange that he was now a full-grown man and had not known a woman. It was true that he had never had one. Several months later saw the return of Francisco the Man, as ancient vagabond who was almost two hundred years old and who frequently passed through Macondo distributing songs that he composed himself. In them Francisco the Man told in great detail the things that had happened in the towns along his route, from Manaure to the edge of the swamp, so that if anyone had a message to send or an event to make public, he would pay him two cents to include it in his repertory. That was how Úrsula learned of the death of her mother, as a simple consequence of listening to the songs in the hope that they would say something about her son José Arcadio. Francisco the Man, called that because he had once defeated the devil in a duel of improvisation, and whose real name no one knew, disappeared from Macondo during the insomnia plague and one night he appeared suddenly in Catarino’s store. The whole town went to listen to him to find out what had happened in the world. On that occasion there arrived with him a woman who was so fat that four Indians had to carry her in a rocking chair, and an adolescent mulatto girl with a forlorn look who protected her from the sun with an umbrella. Aureliano went to Catarino’s store that night. He found Francisco the Man, like a monolithic chameleon, sitting in the midst of a circle of bystanders. He was singing the news with his old, out-of-tune voice, accompanying himself with the same archaic accordion that Sir Walter Raleigh had given him in the Guianas and keeping time with his great walking feet that were cracked from saltpeter. In front of a door at the rear through which men were going and coming, the matron of the rocking chair was sitting and fanning herself in silence. Catarino, with a felt rose behind his ear, was selling the gathering mugs of fermented cane juice, and he took advantage of the occasion to go over to the men and put his hand on them where he should not have. Toward midnight the heat was unbearable. Aureliano listened to the news to the end without hearing anything that was of interest to his family. He was getting ready to go home when the matron signaled him with her hand. “You go in too.” she told him. “It only costs twenty cents.” Aureliano threw a coin into the hopper that the matron had in her lap and went into the room without knowing why. The adolescent mulatto girl, with her small bitch’s teats, was naked on the bed. Before Aureliano sixty-three men had passed through the room that night. From being used so much, kneaded with sweat and sighs, the air in the room had begun to turn to mud. The girl took off the soaked sheet and asked Aureliano to hold it by one side. It was as heavy as a piece of canvas. They squeezed it, twisting it at the ends until it regained its natural weight. They turned over the mat and the sweat came out of the other side. Aureliano was anxious for that operation never to end. He knew the theoretical mechanics of love, but he could not stay on his feet because of the weakness of his knees, and although he had goose pimples on his burning skin he could not resist the urgent need to expel the weight of his bowels. When the girl finished fixing up the bed and told him to get undressed, he gave her a confused explanation: “They made me come in. They told me to throw twenty cents into the hopper and hurry up.” The girl understood his confusion. “If you throw in twenty cents more when you go out, you can stay a little longer,” she said softly. Aureliano got undressed, tormented by shame, unable to get rid of the idea that-his nakedness could not stand comparison with that of his brother. In spite of the girl’s efforts he felt more and more indifferent and terribly alone. “I’ll throw in other twenty cents,” he said with a desolate voice. The girl thanked him in silence. Her back was raw. Her skin was stuck to her ribs and her breathing was forced because of an immeasurable exhaustion. Two years before, far away from there, she had fallen asleep without putting out the candle and had awakened surrounded by flames. The house where she lived with the grandmother who had raised her was reduced to ashes. Since then her grandmother carried her from town to town, putting her to bed for twenty cents in order to make up the value of the burned house. According to the girl’s calculations, she still had ten years of seventy men per night, because she also had to pay the expenses of the trip and food for both of them as well as the pay of the Indians who carried the rocking chair. When the matron knocked on the door the second time, Aureliano left the room without having done anything, troubled by a desire to weep. That night he could not sleep, thinking about the girl, with a mixture of desire and pity. He felt an irresistible need to love her and protect her. At dawn, worn out by insomnia and fever, he made the calm decision to marry her in order to free her from the despotism of her grandmother and to enjoy all the nights of satisfaction that she would give the seventy men. But at ten o’clock in the morning, when he reached Catarino’s store, the girl had left town. Time mitigated his mad proposal, but it aggravated his feelings of frustration. He took refuge in work. He resigned himself to being a womanless man for all his life in order to hide the shame of his uselessness. In the meantime, Melquíades had printed on his plates everything that was printable in Macondo, and he left the daguerreotype laboratory to the fantasies of José Arcadio Buendía who had resolved to use it to obtain scientific proof of the existence of God. Through a complicated process of superimposed exposures taken in different parts of the house, he was sure that sooner or later he would get a daguerreotype of God, if He existed, or put an end once and for all to the supposition of His existence. Melquíades got deeper into his interpretations of Nostradamus. He would stay up until very late, suffocating in his faded velvet vest, scribbling with his tiny sparrow hands, whose rings had lost the glow of former times. One night he thought he had found a prediction of the future of Macondo. It was to be a luminous city with great glass houses where there was no trace remaining of the race of the Buendía. “It’s a mistake,” José Arcadio Buendía thundered. “They won’t be houses of glass but of ice, as I dreamed, and there will always be a Buendía, per omnia secula seculorum.” Úrsula fought to preserve common sense in that extravagant house, having broadened her business of little candy animals with an oven that went all night turning out baskets and more baskets of bread and a prodigious variety of puddings, meringues, and cookies, which disappeared in a few hours on the roads winding through the swamp. She had reached an age where she had a right to rest, but she was nonetheless more and more active. So busy was she in her prosperous enterprises that one afternoon she looked distractedly toward the courtyard while the Indian woman helped her sweeten the dough and she saw two unknown and beautiful adolescent girls doing frame embroidery in the light of the sunset. They were Rebeca and Amaranta. As soon as they had taken off the mourning clothes for their grandmother, which they wore with inflexible rigor for three years, their bright clothes seemed to have given them a new place in the world. Rebeca, contrary to what might have been expected, was the more beautiful. She had a light complexion, large and peaceful eyes, and magical hands that seemed to work out the design of the embroidery with invisible threads. Amaranta, the younger, was somewhat graceless, but she had the natural distinction, the inner tightness of her dead grandmother. Next to them, although he was already revealing the physical drive of his father, Arcadio looked like a child. He set about learning the art of silverwork with Aureliano, who had also taught him how to read and write. Úrsula suddenly realized that the house had become full of people, that her children were on the point of marrying and having children, and that they would be obliged to scatter for lack of space. Then she took out the money she had accumulated over long years of hard labor, made some arrangements with her customers, and undertook the enlargement of the house. She had a formal parlor for visits built, another one that was more comfortable and cool for daily use, a dining room with a table with twelve places where the family could sit with all of their guests, nine bedrooms with windows on the courtyard and a long porch protected from the heat of noon by a rose garden with a railing on which to place pots of ferns and begonias. She had the kitchen enlarged to hold two ovens. The granary where Pilar Ternera had read José Arcadio’s future was torn down and another twice as large built so that there would never be a lack of food in the house. She had baths built is the courtyard in the shade of the chestnut tree, one for the women and another for the men, and in the rear a large stable, a fenced-in chicken yard, a shed for the milk cows, and an aviary open to the four winds so that wandering birds could roost there at their pleasure. Followed by dozens of masons and carpenters, as if she had contracted her husband’s hallucinating fever, Úrsula fixed the position of light and heat and distributed space without the least sense of its limitations. The primitive building of the founders became filled with tools and materials, of workmen exhausted by sweat, who asked everybody please not to molest them, exasperated by the sack of bones that followed them everywhere with its dull rattle. In that discomfort, breathing quicklime and tar, no one could see very well how from the bowels of the earth there was rising not only the largest house is the town, but the most hospitable and cool house that had ever existed in the region of the swamp. José Buendía, trying to surprise Divine Providence in the midst of the cataclysm, was the one who least understood it. The new house was almost finished when Úrsula drew him out of his chimerical world in order to inform him that she had an order to paint the front blue and not white as they had wanted. She showed him the official document. José Arcadio Buendía, without understanding what his wife was talking about, deciphered the signature. “Who is this fellow?” he asked: “The magistrate,” Úrsula answered disconsolately. They say he’s an authority sent by the government.” Don Apolinar Moscote, the magistrate, had arrived in Macondo very quietly. He put up at the Hotel Jacob—built by one of the first Arabs who came to swap knickknacks for macaws—and on the following day he rented a small room with a door on the street two blocks away from the Buendía house. He set up a table and a chair that he had bought from Jacob, nailed up on the wall the shield of the republic that he had brought with him, and on the door he painted the sign: Magistrate. His first order was for all the houses to be painted blue in celebration of the anniversary of national independence. José Arcadio Buendía, with the copy of the order in his hand, found him taking his nap in a hammock he had set up in the narrow office. “Did you write this paper?” he asked him. Don Apolinar Moscote, a mature man, timid, with a ruddy complexion, said yes. “By what right?” José Arcadio Buendía asked again. Don Apolinar Moscote picked up a paper from the drawer of the table and showed it to him. “I have been named magistrate of this town.” José Arcadio Buendía did not even look at the appointment. “In this town we do not give orders with pieces of paper,” he said without losing his calm. “And so that you know it once and for all, we don’t need any judge here because there’s nothing that needs judging.” Facing Don Apolinar Moscote, still without raising his voice, he gave a detailed account of how they had founded the village, of how they had distributed the land, opened the roads, and introduced the improvements that necessity required without having bothered the government and without anyone having bothered them. “We are so peaceful that none of us has died even of a natural death,” he said. “You can see that we still don’t have any cemetery.” No once was upset that the government had not helped them. On the contrary, they were happy that up until then it had let them grow in peace, and he hoped that it would continue leaving them that way, because they had not founded a town so that the first upstart who came along would tell them what to do. Don Apolinar had put on his denim jacket, white like his trousers, without losing at any moment the elegance of his gestures. “So that if you want to stay here like any other ordinary citizen, you’re quite welcome,” José Arcadio Buendía concluded. “But if you’ve come to cause disorder by making the people paint their houses blue, you can pick up your junk and go back where you came from. Because my house is going to be white, white, like a dove.” Don Apolinar Moscote turned pale. He took a step backward and tightened his jaws as he said with a certain affliction: “I must warn you that I’m armed.” José Arcadio Buendía did not know exactly when his hands regained the useful strength with which he used to pull down horses. He grabbed Don Apolinar Moscote by the lapels and lifted him up to the level of his eyes. “I’m doing this,” he said, “because I would rather carry you around alive and not have to keep carrying you around dead for the rest of my life.” In that way he carried him through the middle of the street, suspended by the lapels, until he put him down on his two feet on the swamp road. A week later he was back with six barefoot and ragged soldiers, armed with shotguns, and an oxcart in which his wife and seven daughters were traveling. Two other carts arrived later with the furniture, the baggage, and the household utensils. He settled his family in the Hotel Jacob, while he looked for a house, and he went back to open his office under the protection of the soldiers. The founders of Macondo, resolving to expel the invaders, went with their older sons to put themselves at the disposal of José Arcadio Buendía. But he was against it, as he explained, because it was not manly to make trouble for someone in front of his family, and Don Apolinar had returned with his wife and daughters. So he decided to resolve the situation in a pleasant way. Aureliano went with him. About that time he had begun to cultivate the black mustache with waxed tips and the somewhat stentorian voice that would characterize him in the war. Unarmed, without paying any attention to the guards, they went into the magistrate’s office. Don Apolinar Moscote did not lose his calm. He introduced them to two of his daughters who happened to be there: Amparo, sixteen, dark like her mother, and Remedios, only nine, a pretty little girl with lilycolored skin and green eyes. They were gracious and well-mannered. As soon as the men came in, before being introduced, they gave them chairs to sit on. But they both remained standing. “Very well, my friend,” José Arcadio Buendía said, “you may stay here, not because you have those bandits with shotguns at the door, but out of consideration for your wife and daughters.” Don Apolinar Moscote was upset, but José Arcadio Buendía did not give him time to reply. “We only make two conditions,” he went on. “The first: that everyone can paint his house the color he feels like. The second: that the soldiers leave at once. We will guarantee order for you.” The magistrate raised his right hand with all the fingers extended. “Your word of honor?” “The word of your enemy,” José Arcadio Buendía said. And he added in a bitter tone: “Because I must tell you one thing: you and I are still enemies.” The soldiers left that same afternoon. A few days later José Arcadio Buendía found a house for the magistrate’s family. Everybody was at peace except Aureliano. The image of Remedios, the magistrate’s younger daughter, who, because of her age, could have been his daughter, kept paining him in some part of his body. It was a physical sensation that almost bothered him when he walked, like a pebble in his shoe.  THE NEW HOUSE, white, like a dove, was inaugurated with a dance. Úrsula had got that idea from the afternoon when she saw Rebeca and Amaranta changed into adolescents, and it could almost have been said that the main reason behind the construction was a desire to have a proper place for the girls to receive visitors. In order that nothing would be lacking in splendor she worked like a galley slave as the repairs were under way, so that before they were finished she had ordered costly necessities for the decorations, the table service, and the marvelous invention that was to arouse the astonishment of the town and the jubilation of the young people: the pianola. They delivered it broken down, packed in several boxes that were unloaded along with the Viennese furniture, the Bohemian crystal, the table service from the Indies Company, the tablecloths from Holland, and a rich variety of lamps and candlesticks, hangings and drapes. The import house sent along at its own expense an Italian expert, Pietro Crespi, to assemble and tune the pianola, to instruct the purchasers in its functioning, and to teach them how to dance the latest music printed on its six paper rolls. Pietro Crespi was young and blond, the most handsome and well mannered man who had ever been seen in Macondo, so scrupulous in his dress that in spite of the suffocating heat he would work in his brocade vest and heavy coat of dark cloth. Soaked in sweat, keeping a reverent distance from the owners of the house, he spent several weeks shut up is the parlor with a dedication much like that of Aureliano in his silverwork. One morning, without opening the door, without calling anyone to witness the miracle, he placed the first roll in the pianola and the tormenting hammering and the constant noise of wooden lathings ceased in a silence that was startled at the order and neatness of the music. They all ran to the parlor. José Arcadio Buendía was as if struck by lightning, not because of the beauty of the melody, but because of the automatic working of the keys of the pianola, and he set up Melquíades’ camera with the hope of getting a daguerreotype of the invisible player. That day the Italian had lunch with them. Rebeca and Amaranta, serving the table, were intimidated by the way in which the angelic man with pale and ringless hands manipulated the utensils. In the living room, next to the parlor, Pietro Crespi taught them how to dance. He showed them the steps without touching them, keeping time with a metronome, under the friendly eye of Úrsula, who did not leave the room for a moment while her daughters had their lesson. Pietro Crespi wore special pants on those days, very elastic and tight, and dancing slippers, “You don’t have to worry so much,” José Arcadio Buendía told her. “The man’s a fairy.” But she did not leave off her vigilance until the apprenticeship was over and the Italian left Macondo. Then they began to organize the party. Úrsula drew up a strict guest list, in which the only ones invited were the descendants of the founders, except for the family of Pilar Ternera, who by then had had two more children by unknown fathers. It was truly a high-class list, except that it was determined by feelings of friendship, for those favored were not only the oldest friends of José Arcadio Buendía’s house since before they undertook the exodus and the founding of Macondo, but also their sons and grandsons, who were the constant companions of Aureliano and Arcadio since infancy, and their daughters, who were the only ones who visited the house to embroider with Rebeca and Amaranta. Don Apolinar Moscote, the benevolent ruler whose activity had been reduced to the maintenance from his scanty resources of two policemen armed with wooden clubs, was a figurehead. In older to support the household expenses his daughters had opened a sewing shop, where they made felt flowers as well as guava delicacies, and wrote love notes to order. But in spite of being modest and hard-working, the most beautiful girls in Iowa, and the most skilled at the new dances, they did not manage to be considered for the party.  While Úrsula and the girls unpacked furniture, polished silverware, and hung pictures of maidens in boats full of roses, which gave a breath of new life to the naked areas that the masons had built, José Arcadio Buendía stopped his pursuit of the image of God, convinced of His nonexistence, and he took the pianola apart in order to decipher its magical secret. Two days before the party, swamped in a shower of leftover keys and hammers, bungling in the midst of a mix-up of strings that would unroll in one direction and roll up again in the other, he succeeded in a fashion in putting the instrument back together. There had never been as many surprises and as much dashing about as in those days, but the new pitch lamps were lighted on the designated day and hour. The house was opened, still smelling of resin and damp whitewash, and the children and grandchildren of the founders saw the porch with ferns and begonias, the quiet rooms, the garden saturated with the fragrance of the roses, and they gathered together in the parlor, facing the unknown invention that had been covered with a white sheet. Those who were familiar with the piano, popular in other towns in the swamp, felt a little disheartened, but more bitter was Úrsula’s disappointment when she put in the first roll so that Amaranta and Rebeca could begin the dancing and the mechanism did not work. Melquíades, almost blind by then, crumbling with decrepitude, used the arts of his timeless wisdom in an attempt to fix it. Finally José Arcadio Buendía managed, by mistake, to move a device that was stuck and the music came out, first in a burst and then in a flow of mixed-up notes. Beating against the strings that had been put in without order or concert and had been tuned with temerity, the hammers let go. But the stubborn descendants of the twenty-one intrepid people who plowed through the mountains in search of the sea to the west avoided the reefs of the melodic mix-up and the dancing went on until dawn. Pietro Crespi came back to repair the pianola. Rebeca and Amaranta helped him put the strings in order and helped him with their laughter at the mix-up of the melodies. It was extremely pleasant and so chaste in its way that Úrsula ceased her vigilance. On the eve of his departure a farewell dance for him was improvised with the pianola and with Rebeca he put on a skillful demonstration of modern dance, Arcadio and Amaranta matched them in grace and skill. But the exhibition was interrupted because Pilar Ternera, who was at the door with the onlookers, had a fight, biting and hair pulling, with a woman who had dared to comment that Arcadio had a woman’s behind. Toward midnight Pietro Crespi took his leave with a sentimental little speech, and he promised to return very soon. Rebeca accompanied him to the door, and having closed up the house and put out the lamps, she went to her room to weep. It was an inconsolable weeping that lasted for several days, the cause of which was not known even by Amaranta. Her hermetism was not odd. Although she seemed expansive and cordial, she had a solitary character and an impenetrable heart. She was a splendid adolescent with long and firm bones, but she still insisted on using the small wooden rocking chair with which she had arrived at the house, reinforced many times and with the arms gone. No one had discovered that even at that age she still had the habit of sucking her finger. That was why she would not lose an opportunity to lock herself in the bathroom and had acquired the habit of sleeping with her face to the wall. On rainy afternoons, embroidering with a group of friends on the begonia porch, she would lose the thread of the conversation and a tear of nostalgia would salt her palate when she saw the strips of damp earth and the piles of mud that the earthworms had pushed up in the garden. Those secret tastes, defeated in the past by oranges and rhubarb, broke out into an irrepressible urge when she began to weep. She went back to eating earth. The first time she did it almost out of curiosity, sure that the bad taste would be the best cure for the temptation. And, in fact, she could not bear the earth in her mouth. But she persevered, overcome by the growing anxiety, and little by little she was getting back her ancestral appetite, the taste of primary minerals, the unbridled satisfaction of what was the original food. She would put handfuls of earth in her pockets, and ate them in small bits without being seen, with a confused feeling of pleasure and rage, as she instructed her girl friends in the most difficult needlepoint and spoke about other men, who did not deserve the sacrifice of having one eat the whitewash on the walls because of them. The handfuls of earth made the only man who deserved that show of degradation less remote and more certain, as if the ground that he walked on with his fine patent leather boots in another part of the world were transmitting to her the weight and the temperature of his blood in a mineral savor that left a harsh aftertaste in her mouth and a sediment of peace in her heart. One afternoon, for no reason, Amparo Moscote asked permission to see the house. Amaranta and Rebeca, disconcerted by the unexpected visit, attended her with a stiff formality. They showed her the remodeled mansion, they had her listen to the rolls on the pianola, and they offered her orange marmalade and crackers. Amparo gave a lesson in dignity, personal charm, and good manners that impressed Úrsula in the few moments that she was present during the visit. After two hours, when the conversation was beginning to wane, Amparo took advantage of Amaranta’s distraction and gave Rebeca a letter. She was able to see the name of the Estimable Señorita Rebeca Buendía, written in the same methodical hand, with the same green ink, and the same delicacy of words with which the instructions for the operation of the pianola were written, and she folded the letter with the tips of her fingers and hid it in her bosom, looking at Amparo Moscote with an expression of endless and unconditional gratitude and a silent promise of complicity unto death. The sudden friendship between Amparo Moscote and Rebeca Buendía awakened the hopes of Aureliano. The memory of little Remedios had not stopped tormenting him, but he had not found a chance to see her. When he would stroll through town with his closest friends, Magnífico Visbal and Gerineldo Márquez—the sons of the founders of the same names—he would look for her in the sewing shop with an anxious glance, but he saw only the older sisters. The presence of Amparo Moscote in the house was like a premonition. “She has to come with her,” Aureliano would say to himself in a low voice. “She has to come.” He repeated it so many times and with such conviction that one afternoon when he was putting together a little gold fish in the work shop, he had the certainty that she had answered his call. Indeed, a short time later he heard the childish voice, and when he looked up his heart froze with terror as he saw the girl at the door, dressed in pink organdy and wearing white boots. “You can’t go in there, Remedios, Amparo Moscote said from the hall. They’re working.” But Aureliano did not give her time to respond. He picked up the little fish by the chain that came through its mouth and said to her. “Come in.” Remedios went over and asked some questions about the fish that Aureliano could not answer because he was seized with a sudden attack of asthma. He wanted to stay beside that lily skin forever, beside those emerald eyes, close to that voice that called him “sir” with every question. showing the same respect that she gave her father. Melquíades was in the corner seated at the desk scribbling indecipherable signs. Aureliano hated him. All he could do was tell Remedios that he was going to give her the little fish and the girl was so startled by the offer that she left the workshop as fast as she could. That afternoon Aureliano lost the hidden patience with which he had waited for a chance to see her. He neglected his work. In several desperate efforts of concentration he willed her to appear but Remedios did not respond. He looked for her in her sisters’ shop, behind the window shades in her house, in her father’s office, but he found her only in the image that saturated his private and terrible solitude. He would spend whole hours with Rebeca in the parlor listening to the music on the pianola. She was listening to it because it was the music with which Pietro Crespi had taught them how to dance. Aureliano listened to it simply because everything, even music, reminded him of Remedios. The house became full of loves Aureliano expressed it in poetry that had no beginning or end. He would write it on the harsh pieces of parchment that Melquíades gave him, on the bathroom walls, on the skin of his arms, and in all of it Remedios would appear transfigured: Remedios in the  soporific air of two in the afternoon, Remedios in the soft breath of the roses, Remedios in the water-clock secrets of the moths, Remedios in the steaming morning bread, Remedios everywhere and Remedios forever. Rebeca waited for her love at four in the afternoon, embroidering by the window. She knew that the mailman’s mule arrived only every two weeks, but she always waited for him, convinced that he was going to arrive on some other day by mistake. It happened quite the opposite: once the mule did not come on the usual day. Mad with desperation, Rebeca got up in the middle of the night and ate handfuls of earth in the garden with a suicidal drive, weeping with pain and fury, chewing tender earthworms and chipping her teeth on snail shells. She vomited until dawn. She fell into a state of feverish prostration, lost consciousness, and her heart went into a shameless delirium. Úrsula, scandalized, forced the lock on her trunk and found at the bottom, tied together with pink ribbons, the sixteen perfumed letters and the skeletons of leaves and petals preserved in old books and the dried butterflies that turned to powder at the touch. Aureliano was the only one capable of understanding such desolation. That afternoon, while Úrsula was trying to rescue Rebeca from the slough of delirium, he went with Magnífico Visbal and Gerineldo Márquez to Catarino’s store. The establishment had been expanded with a gallery of wooden rooms where single women who smelled of dead flowers lived. A group made up of an accordion and drums played the songs of Francisco the Man, who had not been seen in Macondo for several years. The three friends drank fermented cane juice. Magnífico and Gerineldo, contemporaries of Aureliano but more skilled in the ways of the world, drank methodically with the women seated on their laps. One of the women, withered and with goldwork on her teeth, gave Aureliano a caress that made him shudder. He rejected her. He had discovered that the more he drank the more he thought about Remedios, but he could bear the torture of his recollections better. He did not know exactly when he began to float. He saw his friends and the women sailing in a radiant glow, without weight or mass, saying words that did not come out of their mouths and making mysterious signals that did not correspond to their expressions. Catarino put a hand on his shoulder and said to him: “It’s going on eleven.” Aureliano turned his head, saw the enormous disfigured face with a felt flower behind the ear, and then he lost his memory, as during the times of forgetfulness, and he recovered it on a strange dawn and in a room that was completely foreign, where Pilar Ternera stood in her slip, barefoot, her hair down, holding a lamp over him, startled with disbelief. “Aureliano!” Aureliano checked his feet and raised his head. He did not know how he had come there, but he knew what his aim was, because he had carried it hidden since infancy in an inviolable backwater of his heart. “I’ve come to sleep with you,” he said. His clothes were smeared with mud and vomit. Pilar Ternera, who lived alone at that time with her two younger children, did not ask him any questions. She took him to the bed. She cleaned his face with a damp cloth, took of his clothes, and then got completely undressed and lowered the mosquito netting so that her children would not see them if they woke up. She had become tired of waiting for the man who would stay, of the men who left, of the countless men who missed the road to her house, confused by the uncertainty of the cards. During the wait her skin had become wrinkled, her breasts had withered, the coals of her heart had gone out. She felt for Aureliano in the darkness, put her hand on his stomach and kissed him on the neck with a maternal tenderness. “My poor child,” she murmured. Aureliano shuddered. With a calm skill, without the slightest misstep, he left his accumulated grief behind and found Remedios changed into a swamp without horizons, smelling of a raw animal and recently ironed clothes. When he came to the surface he was weeping. First they were involuntary and broken sobs. Then he emptied himself out in an unleashed flow, feeling that something swollen and painful had burst inside of him. She waited, snatching his head  with the tips of her fingers, until his body got rid of the dark material that would not let him live. They Pilar Ternera asked him: “Who is it?” And Aureliano told her. She let out a laugh that in other times frightened the doves and that now did not even wake up the children. “You’ll have to raise her first,” she mocked, but underneath the mockery Aureliano found a reservoir of understanding. When he went out of the room, leaving behind not only his doubts about his virility but also the bitter weight that his heart had borne for so many months, Pilar Ternera made him a spontaneous promise. “I’m going to talk to the girl,” she told him, “and you’ll see what I’ll serve her on the tray.” She kept her promise. But it was a bad moment, because the house had lost its peace of former days. When she discovered Rebeca’s passion, which was impossible to keep secret because of her shouts, Amaranta suffered an attack of fever. She also suffered from the barb of a lonely love. Shut up in the bathroom, she would release herself from the torment of a hopeless passion by writing feverish letters, which she finally hid in the bottom of her trunk. Úrsula barely had the strength to take care of the two sick girls. She was unable, after prolonged and insidious interrogations, to ascertain the causes of Amaranta’s prostration. Finally, in another moment of inspiration, she forced the lock on the trunk and found the letters tied with a pink ribbon, swollen with fresh lilies and still wet with tears, addressed and never sent to Pietro Crespi. Weeping with rage, she cursed the day that it had occurred to her to buy the pianola, and she forbade the embroidery lessons and decreed a kind of mourning with no one dead which was to be prolonged until the daughters got over their hopes. Useless was the intervention of José Arcadio Buendía, who had modified his first impression of Pietro Crespi and admired his ability in the manipulation of musical machines. So that when Pilar Ternera told Aureliano that Remedios had decided on marriage, he could see that the news would only give his parents more trouble. Invited to the parlor for a formal interview, José Arcadio Buendía and Úrsula listened stonily to their son’s declaration. When he learned the name of the fiancée, however, José Arcadio Buendía grew red with indignation. “Love is a disease,” he thundered. “With so many pretty and decent girls around, the only thing that occurs to you is to get married to the daughter of our enemy.” But Úrsula agreed with the choice. She confessed her affection for the seven Moscote sisters. for their beauty, their ability for work, their modesty, and their good manners, and she celebrated her son’s prudence. Conquered by his wife’s enthusiasm, José Arcadio Buendía then laid down one condition: Rebeca, who was the one he wanted, would marry Pietro Crespi. Úrsula would take Amaranta on a trip to the capital of the province when she had time, so that contact with different people would alleviate her disappointment. Rebeca got her health back just as soon as she heard of the agreement, and she wrote her fiancé a jubilant letter that she submitted to her parents’ approval and put into the mail without the use of any intermediaries. Amaranta pretended to accept the decision and little by little she recovered from her fevers, but she promised herself that Rebeca would marry only over her dead body. The following Saturday José Arcadio Buendía put on his dark suit, his celluloid collar, and the deerskin boots that he had worn for the first time the night of the party, and went to ask for the hand of Remedios Moscote. The magistrate and his wife received him, pleased and worried at the same time, for they did not know the reason for the unexpected visit, and then they thought that he was confused about the name of the intended bride. In order to remove the mistake, the mother woke Remedios up and carried her into the living room, still drowsy from sleep. They asked her if it was true that she had decided to get married, and she answered, whimpering, that she only wanted them to let her sleep. José Arcadio Buendía, understanding the distress of the Moscotes, went to clear things up with Aureliano. When he returned, the Moscotes had put on formal clothing, had rearranged the furniture and put fresh flowers in the vases, and were waiting in the company of their older daughters. Overwhelmed by the unpleasantness of the occasion and the bothersome hard collar, José Arcadio Buendía confirmed the fact that Remedios, indeed, was the chosen one. “It  doesn’t make sense,” Don Apolinar Moscote said with consternation. “We have six other daughters, all unmarried, and at an age where they deserve it, who would be delighted to be the honorable wife of a gentleman as serious and hard-working as your son, and Aurelito lays his eyes precisely on the one who still wets her bed.” His wife, a well-preserved woman with afflicted eyelids and expression, scolded his mistake. When they finished the fruit punch, they willingly accepted Aureliano’s decision. Except that Señora Moscote begged the favor of speaking to Úrsula alone. Intrigued, protesting that they were involving her in men’s affairs, but really feeling deep emotion, Úrsula went to visit her the next day. A half hour later she returned with the news that Remedios had not reached puberty. Aureliano did not consider that a serious barrier. He had waited so long that he could wait as long as was necessary until his bride reached the age of conception. The newfound harmony was interrupted by the death of Melquíades. Although it was a foreseeable event, the circumstances were not. A few months after his return, a process of aging had taken place in him that was so rapid and critical that soon he was treated as one of those useless great-grandfathers who wander about the bedrooms like shades, dragging their feet, remembering better times aloud, and whom no one bothers about or remembers really until the morning they find them dead in their bed. At first José Arcadio Buendía helped him in his work, enthusiastic over the novelty of the daguerreotypes and the predictions of Nostradamus. But little by little he began abandoning him to his solitude, for communication was becoming Increasingly difficult. He was losing his sight and his hearing, he seemed to confuse the people he was speaking to with others he had known in remote epochs of mankind, and he would answer questions with a complex hodgepodge of languages. He would walk along groping in the air, although he passed between objects with an inexplicable fluidity, as if be were endowed with some instinct of direction based on an immediate prescience. One day he forgot to put in his false teeth, which at night he left in a glass of water beside his bed, and he never put them in again. When Úrsula undertook the enlargement of the house, she had them build him a special room next to Aureliano’s workshop, far from the noise and bustle of the house, with a window flooded with light and a bookcase where she herself put in order the books that were almost destroyed by dust and moths, the flaky stacks of paper covered with indecipherable signs, and the glass with his false teeth, where some aquatic plants with tiny yellow flowers had taken root. The new place seemed to please Melquíades, because he was never seen any more, not even in the dining room, He only went to Aureliano’s workshop, where he would spend hours on end scribbling his enigmatic literature on the parchments that he had brought with him and that seemed to have been made out of some dry material that crumpled like puff paste. There he ate the meals that Visitación brought him twice a day, although in the last days he lost his appetite and fed only on vegetables. He soon acquired the forlorn look that one sees in vegetarians. His skin became covered with a thin moss, similar to that which flourished on the antique vest that he never took off, and his breath exhaled the odor of a sleeping animal. Aureliano ended up forgetting about him, absorbed in the composition of his poems, but on one occasion he thought he understood something of what Melquíades was saying in his groping monologues, and he paid attention. In reality, the only thing that could be isolated in the rocky paragraphs was the insistent hammering on the word equinox, equinox, equinox, and the name of Alexander von Humboldt. Arcadio got a little closer to him when he began to help Aureliano in his silverwork. Melquíades answered that effort at communication at times by giving forth with phrases in Spanish that had very little to do with reality. One afternoon, however, he seemed to be illuminated by a sudden emotion. Years later, facing the firing squad, Arcadio would remember the trembling with which Melquíades made him listen to several pages of his impenetrable writing, which of course he did not understand, but which when read aloud were like encyclicals being chanted. Then he smiled for the first time in a long while and said in Spanish: “When I die, burn mercury in my room for three days.” Arcadio told that to José Arcadio Buendía and the latter tried to get more explicit information, but he received  only one answer: “I have found immortality.” When Melquíades’ breathing began to smell, Arcadio took him to bathe in the river on Thursday mornings. He seemed to get better. He would undress and get into the water with the boys, and his mysterious sense of orientation would allow him to avoid the deep and dangerous spots. “We come from the water,” he said on a certain occasion. Much time passed in that way without anyone’s seeing him in the house except on the night when he made a pathetic effort to fix the pianola, and when he would go to the river with Arcadio, carrying under his arm a gourd and a bar of palm oil soap wrapped in a towel. One Thursday before they called him to go to the river, Aureliano heard him say: “I have died of fever on the dunes of Singapore.” That day he went into the water at a bad spot and they did not find him until the following day, a few miles downstream, washed up on a bright bend in the river and with a solitary vulture sitting on his stomach. Over the scandalized protests of Úrsula, who wept with more grief than she had had for her own father, José Arcadio Buendía was opposed to their burying him. “He is immortal,” he said, “and he himself revealed the formula of his resurrection.” He brought out the forgotten water pipe and put a kettle of mercury to boil next to the body, which little by little was filling with blue bubbles. Don Apolinar Moscote ventured to remind him that an unburied drowned man was a danger to public health. “None of that, because he’s alive,” was the answer of José Arcadio Buendía, who finished the seventy-two hours with the mercurial incense as the body was already beginning to burst with a livid fluorescence, the soft whistles of which impregnated the house with a pestilential vapor. Only then did he permit them to bury him, not in any ordinary way, but with the honors reserved for Macondo’s greatest benefactor. It was the first burial and the bestattended one that was ever seen in the town, only surpassed, a century later, by Big Mama’s funeral carnival. They buried him in a grave dug in the center of the plot destined for the cemetery, with a stone on which they wrote the only thing they knew about him: MELQUÍADES. They gave him his nine nights of wake. In the tumult that gathered in the courtyard to drink coffee, tell jokes, and play cards. Amaranta found a chance to confess her love to Pietro Crespi, who a few weeks before had formalized his promise to Rebeca and had set up a store for musical instruments and mechanical toys in the same section where the Arabs had lingered in other times swapping knickknacks for macaws, and which the people called the Street of the Turks. The Italian, whose head covered with patent leather curls aroused in women an irrepressible need to sigh, dealt with Amaranta as with a capricious little girl who was not worth taking seriously. “I have a younger brother,” he told her. “He’s coming to help me in the store.” Amaranta felt humiliated and told Pietro Crespi with a virulent anger that she was prepared to stop her sister’s wedding even if her own dead body had to lie across the door. The Italian was so impressed by the dramatics of the threat that he could not resist the temptation to mention it to Rebeca. That was how Amaranta’s trip, always put off by Úrsula’s work, was arranged in less than a week. Amaranta put up no resistance, but when she kissed Rebeca good-bye she whispered in her ear: “Don’t get your hopes up. Even if they send me to the ends of the earth I’ll find some way of stopping you from getting married, even if I have to kill you.” With the absence of Úrsula, with the invisible presence of Melquíades, who continued his stealthy shuffling through the rooms, the house seemed enormous and empty. Rebeca took charge of domestic order, while the Indian woman took care of the bakery. At dusk, when Pietro Crespi would arrive, preceded by a cool breath of lavender and always bringing a toy as a gift, his fiancée would receive the visitor in the main parlor with doors and windows open to be safe from any suspicion. It was an unnecessary precaution, for the Italian had shown himself to be so respectful that he did not even touch the hand of the woman who was going to be his wife within the year. Those visits were filling the house with remarkable toys. Mechanical ballerinas, music boxes, acrobatic monkeys, trotting horses, clowns who played the tambourine: the rich and startling mechanical fauna that  Pietro Crespi brought dissipated José Arcadio Buendía’s affliction over the death of Melquíades and carried him back to his old days as an alchemist. He lived at that time in a paradise of disemboweled animals, of mechanisms that had been taken apart in an attempt to perfect them with a system of perpetual motion based upon the principles of the pendulum. Aureliano, for his part, had neglected the workshop in order to teach little Remedios to read and write. At first the child preferred her dolls to the man who would come every afternoon and who was responsible for her being separated from her toys in order to be bathed and dressed and seated in the parlor to receive the visitor. But Aureliano’s patience and devotion finally won her over, up to the point where she would spend many hours with him studying the meaning of the letters and sketching in a notebook with colored pencils little houses with cows in the corral and round suns with yellow rays that hid behind the hills. Only Rebeca was unhappy, because of Amaranta’s threat. She knew her sister’s character, the haughtiness of her spirit, and she was frightened by the virulence of her anger. She would spend whole hours sucking her finger in the bathroom, holding herself back with an exhausting iron will so as not to eat earth. In search of some relief for her uncertainty, she called Pilar Ternera to read her future. After a string of conventional vagaries, Pilar Ternera predicted: “You will not be happy as long as your parents remain unburied.” Rebeca shuddered. As in the memory of a dream she saw herself entering the house as a very small girl, with the trunk and the little rocker, and a bag whose contents she had never known. She remembered a bald gentleman dressed in linen and with his collar closed by a gold button, who had nothing to do with the king of hearts. She remembered a very young and beautiful woman with warm and perfumed hands, who had nothing in common with the jack of diamonds and his rheumatic hands, and who used to put flowers in her hair and take her out walking in the afternoon through a town with green streets. “I don’t understand,” she said. Pilar Ternera seemed disconcerted: “I don’t either, but that’s what the cards say.” Rebeca was so preoccupied with the enigma that she told it to José Arcadio Buendía, and he scolded her for believing in the predictions of the cards, but he undertook the silent task of searching closets and trunks, moving furniture and turning over beds and floorboards looking for the bag of bones. He remembered that he had not seen it since the time of the rebuilding. He secretly summoned the masons and one of them revealed that he had walled up the bag in some bedroom because it bothered him in his work. After several days of listening, with their ears against the walls, they perceived the deep cloc-cloc. They penetrated the wall and there were the bones in the intact bag. They buried it the same day in a grave without a stone next to that of Melquíades, and José Arcadio Buendía returned home free of a burden that for a moment had weighed on his conscience as much as the memory of Prudencio Aguilar. When he went through the kitchen he kissed Rebeca on the forehead. “Get those bad thoughts out of your head,” he told her. “You’re going to be happy.” The friendship with Rebeca opened up to Pilar Ternera the doors of the house, closed by Úrsula since the birth of Arcadio. She would arrive at any hour of the day, like a flock of goats, and would unleash her feverish energy in the hardest tasks. Sometimes she would go into the workshop and help Arcadio sensitize the daguerreotype plates with an efficiency and a tenderness that ended up by confusing him. That woman bothered him. The tan of her skin, her smell of smoke, the disorder of her laughter in the darkroom distracted his attention and made him bump into things. On a certain occasion Aureliano was there working on his silver, and Pilar Ternera leaned over the table to admire his laborious patience. Suddenly it happened. Aureliano made sure that Arcadio was in the darkroom before raising his eyes and meeting those of Pilar Ternera, whose thought was perfectly visible, as if exposed to the light of noon.  “Well,” Aureliano said. “Tell me what it is.” Pilar Ternera bit her lips with a sad smile. “That you’d be good in a war,” she said. “Where you put your eye, you put your bullet.” Aureliano relaxed with the proof of the omen. He went back to concentrate on his work as if nothing had happened, and his voice took on a restful strength. “I will recognize him,” he said. “He’ll bear my name.” José Arcadio Buendía finally got what he was looking for: he connected the mechanism of the clock to a mechanical ballerina, and the toy danced uninterruptedly to the rhythm of her own music for three days. That discovery excited him much more than any of his other harebrained undertakings. He stopped eating. He stopped sleeping. Only the vigilance and care of Rebeca kept him from being dragged off by his imagination into a state of perpetual delirium from which he would not recover. He would spend the nights walking around the room thinking aloud, searching for a way to apply the principles of the pendulum to oxcarts, to harrows, to everything that was useful when put into motion. The fever of insomnia fatigued him so much that one dawn he could not recognize the old man with white hair and uncertain gestures who came into his bedroom. It was Prudencio Aguilar. When he finally identified him, startled that the dead also aged, José Arcadio Buendía felt himself shaken by nostalgia. “Prudencio,” he exclaimed. “You’ve come from a long way off!” After many years of death the yearning for the living was so intense, the need for company so pressing, so terrifying the neatness of that other death which exists within death, that Prudencio Aguilar had ended up loving his worst enemy. He had spent a great deal of time looking for him. He asked the dead from Riohacha about him, the dead who came from the Upar Valley, those who came from the swamp, and no one could tell him because Macondo was a town that was unknown to the dead until Melquíades arrived and marked it with a small black dot on the motley maps of death. José Arcadio Buendía conversed with Prudencio Aguilar until dawn. A few hours later, worn out by the vigil, he went into Aureliano’s workshop and asked him: “What day is today?” Aureliano told him that it was Tuesday. “I was thinking the same thing,” José Arcadio Buendía said, “but suddenly I realized that it’s still Monday, like yesterday. Look at the sky, look at the walls, look at the begonias. Today is Monday too.” Used to his manias, Aureliano paid no attention to him. On the next day, Wednesday, José Arcadio Buendía went back to the workshop. “This is a disaster,” he said. “Look at the air, listen to the buzzing of the sun, the same as yesterday and the day before. Today is Monday too.” That night Pietro Crespi found him on the porch, weeping for Prudencio Aguilar, for Melquíades, for Rebeca’s parents, for his mother and father, for all of those he could remember and who were now alone in death. He gave him a mechanical bear that walked on its hind legs on a tightrope, but he could not distract him from his obsession. He asked him what had happened to the project he had explained to him a few days before about the possibility of building a pendulum machine that would help men to fly and he answered that it was impossible because a pendulum could lift anything into the air but it could not lift itself. On Thursday he appeared in the workshop again with the painful look of plowed ground. “The time machine has broken,” he almost sobbed, “and Úrsula and Amaranta so far away!” Aureliano scolded him like a child and he adopted a contrite air. He spent six hours examining things, trying to find a difference from their appearance on the previous day in the hope of discovering in them some change that would reveal the passage of time. He spent the whole night in bed with his eyes open, calling to Prudencio Aguilar, to Melquíades, to all the dead, so that they would share his distress. But no one came. On Friday. before anyone arose, he watched the appearance of nature again until he did not have the slightest doubt but that it was Monday. Then he grabbed the bar from a door and with the savage violence of his uncommon strength he smashed to dust the equipment in the alchemy laboratory, the daguerreotype room, the silver workshop, shouting like a man possessed in some high-sounding and fluent but completely incomprehensible language. He was about to finish off the rest of the house  when Aureliano asked the neighbors for help. Ten men were needed to get him down, fourteen to tie him up, twenty to drag him to the chestnut tree in the courtyard, where they left him tied up, barking in the strange language and giving off a green froth at the mouth. When Úrsula and Amaranta returned he was still tied to the trunk of the chestnut tree by his hands and feet, soaked with rain and in a state of total innocence. They spoke to him and he looked at them without recognizing them, saying things they did not understand. Úrsula untied his wrists and ankles, lacerated by the pressure of the rope, and left him tied only by the waist. Later on they built him a shelter of palm brandies to protect him from the sun and the rain. 
"""



from typing import AsyncGenerator, List, Tuple
from transformers import PreTrainedTokenizerBase
from vllm.transformers_utils.tokenizer import get_tokenizer
def sample_requests(
    dataset_path: str,
    num_requests: int,
    model_path: str,
    seed=42
) -> List[Tuple[str, int, int]]:
    # Load the dataset.
    random.seed(seed)
    np.random.seed(seed)
    tokenizer = get_tokenizer(model_path, trust_remote_code=True)
    with open(dataset_path) as f:
        dataset = json.load(f)
    # Filter out the conversations with less than 2 turns.
    dataset = [
        data for data in dataset
        if len(data["conversations"]) >= 2
    ]
    # Only keep the first two turns of each conversation.
    dataset = [
        (data["conversations"][0]["value"], data["conversations"][1]["value"])
        for data in dataset
    ]

    # Tokenize the prompts and completions.
    prompts = [prompt for prompt, _ in dataset]
    prompt_token_ids = tokenizer(prompts).input_ids
    completions = [completion for _, completion in dataset]
    completion_token_ids = tokenizer(completions).input_ids
    tokenized_dataset = []
    for i in range(len(dataset)):
        output_len = len(completion_token_ids[i])
        tokenized_dataset.append((prompts[i], prompt_token_ids[i], output_len))

    # Filter out too long sequences.
    filtered_dataset: List[Tuple[str, int, int]] = []
    for prompt, prompt_token_ids, output_len in tokenized_dataset:
        prompt_len = len(prompt_token_ids)
        if prompt_len < 4 or output_len < 4:
            # Prune too short sequences.
            # This is because TGI causes errors when the input or output length
            # is too short.
            continue
        if prompt_len > 1024 or prompt_len + output_len > 2048:
            # Prune too long sequences.
            continue
        filtered_dataset.append((prompt, prompt_len, output_len))

    # Sample the requests.
    sampled_requests = random.sample(filtered_dataset, num_requests)
    return sampled_requests

# 定义一个函数来执行单个请求
def perform_request(session, url, payload, headers):
    start_time = time.perf_counter()
    with session.post(url, json=payload, headers=headers, stream=True) as response:
        # 确保响应成功
        response.raise_for_status()

        # 开始接收streaming响应
        first_token_time = None
        last_token_time = 0
        first_token_inference_time = None
        next_token_inference_time = None
        next_token_time = []
        i = 0
        for line in response.iter_lines():

            token_time = time.perf_counter() - start_time
            if line:  # 忽略心跳
                data = line.decode('utf-8').strip()
                if data.startswith('data: '):
                    data = data[len('data: '):]
                    i = i + 1
                    # print(i, " ", data)
                    try:
                        json_data = json.loads(data)
                        if 'choices' in json_data and len(json_data['choices']) > 0:
                            choice = json_data['choices'][0]
                            if 'text' in choice:
                                if first_token_time is None:
                                    first_token_time = token_time
                                else:
                                    # 记录后续token的时间
                                    next_token_time.append(token_time - last_token_time)
                                last_token_time = token_time
                    except json.JSONDecodeError:
                        pass  # 如果不是JSON数据，忽略错误

        # 返回第一个token和后续token的latency
        end_time = time.perf_counter()
        # print("length: ", len(next_token_time))

        return first_token_time, np.mean(next_token_time), end_time - start_time, first_token_inference_time, next_token_inference_time

def extend_list_to_length(lst, target_length):
    if target_length <= len(lst):
        return lst[:]

    # 计算每个元素需要复制的次数
    times = target_length // len(lst)
    # 计算不能整除的剩余部分
    remainder = target_length % len(lst)

    # 生成新列表：重复整个列表times次，再加上前remainder个元素
    extended_list = lst * times + lst[:remainder]

    return extended_list

# 定义一个函数来执行benchmark
def benchmark(llm_urls, model, prompt, num_requests, max_concurrent_requests, max_tokens, is_warmup=False, dataset=None):
    # 定义请求的payload和headers

    headers = {"Content-Type": "application/json"}

    first_token_latencies = []
    next_token_latencies = []
    total_responce_times = []
    first_token_inference_times = []
    next_token_inference_times = []
    cur_url_index = 0
    sampled_requests = []
    prompt_token_lens = []
    output_tokens_lens = []


    if not dataset is None:
        sampled_requests = sample_requests(dataset, num_requests, model)

    # 使用Session对象以便复用连接
    with requests.Session() as session:
        # 创建一个线程池
        with ThreadPoolExecutor(max_workers=max_concurrent_requests) as executor:
            # 开始计时
            # time.sleep(1)
            llm_url = llm_urls[cur_url_index]
            cur_url_index = (cur_url_index + 1) % len(llm_urls)

            cur_llm_urls = extend_list_to_length(llm_urls, max_concurrent_requests)
            cur_len = len(cur_llm_urls)
            if dataset is None:
                payload = {
                    "model": model_name,
                    "prompt": prompt,
                    "n": 1,
                    "best_of": 1,
                    "use_beam_search": False,
                    "temperature": 0.0,
                    "top_p": 1.0,
                    "max_tokens": max_tokens,
                    "ignore_eos": True,
                    "stream": True  # 开启streaming模式
                }
                futures = [executor.submit(perform_request, session, cur_llm_urls[index % cur_len], payload, headers) for index in range(num_requests)]
            else:
                payloads = []
                for index in range(num_requests):
                    prompt, prompt_len, output_len = sampled_requests[index]
                    payload = {
                        "model": model_name,
                        "prompt": prompt,
                        "n": 1,
                        "best_of": 1,
                        "use_beam_search": False,
                        "temperature": 0.0,
                        "top_p": 1.0,
                        "max_tokens": output_len,
                        "ignore_eos": True,
                        "stream": True  # 开启streaming模式
                    }
                    prompt_token_lens.append(prompt_len)
                    output_tokens_lens.append(output_len)
                    payloads.append(payload)
                futures = [executor.submit(perform_request, session, cur_llm_urls[index % cur_len], payloads[index], headers) for index in range(num_requests)]


            start_time = time.perf_counter()

            if is_warmup:
                phase = "Warm Up"
            else:
                phase = "Benchmarking"
            with tqdm(total=num_requests, desc=phase, unit="req", ncols=100) as pbar:
                # 等待所有请求完成
                for future in concurrent.futures.as_completed(futures):
                    try:
                        first_token_latency, next_token_latency, total_responce_time, first_token_inference_time, next_token_inference_time = future.result()
                        first_token_latencies.append(first_token_latency)
                        next_token_latencies.append(next_token_latency)
                        total_responce_times.append(total_responce_time)
                        if first_token_inference_time:
                            first_token_inference_times.append(first_token_inference_time)
                        if next_token_inference_time:
                            next_token_inference_times.append(next_token_inference_time)
                    except Exception as e:
                        print(f"Request failed: {e}")
                    pbar.update(1)

            # 计算总用时
            if is_warmup:
                return
            total_time = time.perf_counter() - start_time
            print(f"Total time for {num_requests} requests with {max_concurrent_requests} concurrent requests: {total_time} seconds.")
            print(f"Average responce time: {np.mean(total_responce_times)}")
            if dataset is None:
                print(f"Token throughput: {num_requests * max_tokens / total_time}")
            else:
                print(f"Output token throughput: {sum(output_tokens_lens) / total_time}")
                print(f"Total token throughput: {(sum(prompt_token_lens) + sum(output_tokens_lens)) / total_time}")
            print()
            if first_token_latencies:
                average_first_token_latency = sum(first_token_latencies) / len(first_token_latencies)
                p90_first_token_latency = np.percentile(first_token_latencies, 90)
                p95_first_token_latency = np.percentile(first_token_latencies, 95)
                average_first_token_inference_latency = np.mean(first_token_inference_times)
                print(f"Average first token latency: {average_first_token_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                print(f"P90 first token latency: {p90_first_token_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                print(f"P95 first token latency: {p95_first_token_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                #print(f"Average first token inference latency: {average_first_token_inference_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                print()
            if next_token_latencies:
                average_next_token_latency = sum(next_token_latencies) / len(next_token_latencies)
                p90_next_token_latency = np.percentile(next_token_latencies, 90)
                p95_next_token_latency = np.percentile(next_token_latencies, 95)
                average_next_token_inference_latency = np.mean(next_token_inference_times)
                print(f"Average next token latency: {average_next_token_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                print(f"P90 next token latency: {p90_next_token_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                print(f"P95 next token latency: {p95_next_token_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                #print(f"Average next token inference latency: {average_next_token_inference_latency * 1000} milliseconds.")
                print()


# 设置benchmark参数
LLM_URLS = [f"http://localhost:{PORT}/v1/completions" for PORT in [8000]]

MODEL = "/llm/models/" + model_name
MAX_TOKENS = output_length  # 修改 MAX_TOKENS 为 output_length

# if "Qwen" not in MODEL and "chatglm" not in MODEL:
#     print("using Llama PROMPT")
#     PROMPT = ENGLISH_PROMPT
# else:
#     print("using Qwen/chatglm PROMPT")
#     PROMPT = CHINESE_PROMPT

PROMPT = ENGLISH_PROMPT

# 加载模型的 tokenizer
from transformers import AutoTokenizer
tokenizer = AutoTokenizer.from_pretrained(MODEL, trust_remote_code=True)
input_ids = tokenizer.encode(PROMPT, return_tensors="pt")
# print("old input_ids.shape:"+ str(input_ids.shape))

# 限制输入长度为 input_length
input_ids = input_ids[:, :input_length]
# print("latest input_ids.shape:"+ str(input_ids.shape))

# 将截断后的 prompt 解码回来
true_str = tokenizer.batch_decode(input_ids)[0]
PROMPT = true_str

max_batch=int(max_seq)

for MAX_CONCURRENT_REQUESTS in [max_batch]:
    NUM_WARMUP = 2 * MAX_CONCURRENT_REQUESTS
    NUM_REQUESTS = 4 * MAX_CONCURRENT_REQUESTS  # 总请求次数

    # to avoid warm_up time out
    benchmark(LLM_URLS, MODEL, PROMPT_1024, 2, 1, 32, is_warmup = True)
    benchmark(LLM_URLS, MODEL, PROMPT, NUM_WARMUP, MAX_CONCURRENT_REQUESTS, MAX_TOKENS, is_warmup = True)

    # 运行benchmark
    benchmark(LLM_URLS, MODEL, PROMPT, NUM_REQUESTS, MAX_CONCURRENT_REQUESTS, MAX_TOKENS)