世紀文學經典:《百年孤獨》第9章Part 9

The Tuesday of the armistice dawned warm and rainy. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía appeared in the kitchen before five o'clock and had his usual black coffee without sugar. "You came into the world on a day like this," úrsula told him. "Everybody was amazed at your open eyes." He did not pay any attention because he was listening to the forming of the troops, the sound of the comets, and the voices of command that were shattering the dawn. Even though after so many years of war they should have sounded familiar to him this time he felt the same weakness in his knees and the same tingling in his skin that he had felt in his youth in the presence of a naked woman. He thought confusedly, finally captive in a trap of nostalgia, that perhaps if he had married her he would have been a man without war and without glory, a nameless artisan, a happy animal. That tardy shudder which had not figured in his forethought made his breakfast bitter. At seven in the morning, when Colonel Geri-neldo Márquez came to fetch him, in the company of a group of rebel officers, he found him more taciturn than ever, more pensive and solitary. úrsula tried to throw a new wrap over his shoulders. "What will the government think," she told him. "They'll figure that you've surrendered because you didn't have anything left to buy a cloak with." But he would not accept it. When he was at the door, he let her put an old felt hat of José Arcadio Buendía's on his head.
"Aureli-ano," úrsula said to him then, "Promise me that if you find that it's a bad hour for you there that you'll think of your mother."
He gave her a distant smile, raising his hand with all his fingers extended, and without saying a word he left the house and faced the shouts, insults, and blasphemies that would follow him until he left the town. úrsula put the bar on the door, having decided not to take it down for the rest of her life. "We'll rot in here," she thought. "We'll turn to ashes in this house without men, but we won't give this miserable town the pleasure of seeing us weep." She spent the whole morning looking for a memory of her son in the most hidden corners, but she could find none.
The ceremony took place fifteen miles from Macon-do in the shade of a gigantic ceiba tree around which the town of Neerlandia would be founded later. The delegates from the government and the party and the commission of the rebels who were laying down their arms were served by a noisy group of novices in white habits who looked like a flock of doves that had been frightened by the rain. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía arrived on a muddy mule. He had not shaved, more tormented by the pain of the sores than by the great failure of his dreams, for he had reached the end of all hope, beyond glory and the nostalgia of glory. In accordance with his arrangements there was no music, no fireworks, no pealing bells, no shouts of victory, or any other manifestation that might alter the mournful character of the armistice. An itinerant photographer who took the only picture of him that could have been preserved was forced to smash his plates without developing them.
The ceremony lasted only the time necessary to sign the documents. Around the rustic table placed in the center of a patched circus tent where the delegates sat were the last officers who were faithful to Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía. Before taking the signatures, the personal delegate of the president of the republic tried to read the act of surrender aloud, but Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía was against it. "Let's not waste time on formalities," he said and prepared to sign the papers without reading them. One of his officers then broke the soporific silence of the tent.
"Colonel," he said, "please do us the favor of not being the first to sign."
Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía acceded. When the documents went all around the table, in the midst of a silence that was so pure that one could have deciphered the signatures from the scratching of the pen on the paper, the first line was still blank. Colonel Aureli-ano Buendía prepared to fill it.
"Colonel," another of his officers said, "there's still time for everything to come out right."

星期二——停戰協定簽訂的日子，天氣寒冷，下着雨。奧雷連諾上校五點以前來到廚房，照常喝了一杯無糖的咖啡。“你就是在今天這樣的日子出生的，”烏蘇娜向他說。“你張開的眼睛把大家都嚇了一跳。”他沒理會她，因爲他正在傾聽士兵們的腳步聲、號聲、斷續的命令聲，這些聲音震動了清晨岑寂的空氣。經過多年的戰爭，奧雷連諾上校雖然應當習慣於這樣的聲音了，可是此刻他卻象青年時代第一次看見裸體女人那樣感到膝頭髮軟、身體打顫，他終於掉進了懷舊的圈套，心裏朦朧地想，如果當時他跟這個女人結了婚，他就會是個既不知道戰爭、又不知道光榮的人，而是一個無名的手藝人，一個幸運的人了。這種爲時已晚的、突然的痛悔敗壞了他早餐的胃口。早晨七點，格林列爾多·馬克斯上校帶着一羣起義軍官來到他這兒的時候，他顯得比平常更沉默、更恨鬱、更孤獨。烏蘇娜試圖把一件新斗篷披在他肩上。“政府會咋個想呢，”她說。“他們會以爲你連買件斗篷的錢都沒有，所以投降嘛。”他沒接受斗篷，已經到了門口的時候，看見從天而降的雨水，他才讓她把霍·阿卡蒂奧的舊氈戴在他的頭上。
“奧雷連諾，”烏蘇娜向他說。“如果你在那兒發現情形不妙，你就想着自己的母親吧，答應我啊！”
他向她茫然一笑，發誓似的舉起手來，一句話沒說就跨出了門檻，去迎接他經過全鎮時將要遭到的恐嚇、譴責和辱罵。烏蘇娜閂上房門，決定至死也不再打開它了。“我們就關在這女修道院裏爛掉吧，”她想，“我們寧肯變成灰，也不讓那些卑鄙的傢伙看見我們的眼淚高興。”整個早上，她都在房子裏——甚至在最祕密的角落裏——尋找什麼東西，使她能夠想到兒子，可是什麼也沒找到。
簽字儀式是在距離馬孔多十五公里的一棵碩大的絲棉樹下舉行的（後來在這棵大樹周圍建立了尼蘭德鎮）。政府和兩黨代表以及放下武器的起義軍官代表團，是由一羣嘁嘁喳喳的白衣修女伺候的，她們很象一羣雨水驚起的鴿子。奧雷連諾上校是騎着一匹骯髒、脫毛的騾子來的。他沒刮臉。他更感到痛苦的是腋下的膿瘡，而不是幻想的徹底破滅，因爲他已失去了一切希望，放棄了榮譽以及對榮譽的懷念。根據他的願望，沒有朗朗的音樂，沒有僻啪的鞭炮，沒有隆隆的鐘聲，沒有勝利的歡呼，沒有任何能夠改變停戰的悲涼性質的高興表現。一位巡口攝影師爲奧雷連諾上校拍了一張可能留給後代的照片，底版還沒顯影就被打碎了。
儀式延續的時間，正好是簽署文件所需的時間。在一個破舊的馬戲團帳篷裏，當中擺了一張普通的木桌，代表們坐在桌子旁邊，周圍站着忠於奧雷連諾上校的最後幾名軍官。在讓大家簽字之前，共和國總統的私人代表打算宣讀投降書，可是奧雷連諾上校反對這樣做。“咱們別把時間浪費在形式上了，”說着，他看都不看就準備在文件上簽字。這時，他的一名軍官打破了帳篷中令人發睏的沉寂。
“上校，”他說，“請你不要第一個簽字。”
奧雷連諾上校表示同意。文件在桌上繞了一圈，在一片沉寂中，從鋼筆在紙上划動的聲音，甚至可以猜出每個人籤的字兒；在這之後，第一行還是空着的。奧雷連諾上校準備填上它。
“上校，”他的另一個軍官說，“你還有免除恥辱的可能嘛。”