em。 In the room devoured by rubble； whose unchecked proliferation had finally defeated it； he thought about the best way to frame the request； but when he found Fernanda taking her meal from the embers； which was his only chance to speak to her； the laboriously formulated request stuck in his throat and he lost his voice。 That was the only time that he watched her。 He listened to her steps in the bedroom。 He heard her on her way to the door to await the letters from her children and to give hers to the mailman； and he listened until late at night to the harsh； impassioned scratching of her pen on the paper before hearing the sound of the light switch and the murmur of her prayers in the darkness。 Only then did he go to sleep； trusting that on the following day the awaited opportunity would e。 He became so inspired with the idea that permission would be granted that one morning he cut his hair； which at that time reached down to his shoulders； shaved off his tangled beard； put on some tight…fitting pants and a shirt with an artificial collar that he had inherited from he did not know whom； and waited in the kitchen for Fernanda to get her breakfast。 The woman of every day； the one with her head held high and with a stony gait； did not arrive； but an old woman of supernatural beauty with a yellowed ermine cape； a crown of gilded cardboard； and the languid look of a person who wept in secret。 Actually； ever since she had found it in Aureliano Segundo’s trunks； Fernanda had put on the moth…eaten queen’s dress many times。 Anyone who could have seen her in front of the mirror； in ecstasy over her own regal gestures； would have had reason to think that she was mad。 But she was not。 She had simply turned the royal regalia into a device for her memory。 The first time that she put it on she could not help a knot from forming in her heart and her eyes filling with tears because at that moment she smelled once more the odor of shoe polish on the boots of the officer who came to get her at her house to make her a queen； and her soul brightened with the nostalgia of her lost dreams。 She felt so old； so worn out； so far away from the best moments of her life that she even yearned for those that she remembered as the worst； and only then did she discover how much she missed the whiff of oregano on the porch and the smell of the roses at dusk； and even the bestial nature of the parvenus。 Her heart of pressed ash； which had resisted the most telling blows of daily reality without strain； fell apart with the first waves of nostalgia。 The need to feel sad was being a vice as the years eroded her。 She became human in her solitude。 Nevertheless； the morning on which she entered the kitchen and found a cup of coffee offered her by a pale and bony adolescent with a hallucinated glow in his eyes； the claws of ridicule tore at her。 Not only did she refuse him permission； but from then on she carried the keys to the house in the pocket where she kept the unused pessaries。 It was a useless precaution because if he had wanted to； Aureliano could have escaped and even returned to the house without being seen。 But the prolonged captivity； the uncertainty of the world； the habit of obedience had dried up the seeds of rebellion in his heart。 So that he went back to his enclosure； reading and rereading the parchments and listening until very late at night to Fernanda sobbing in her bedroom。 One morning he went to light the fire as usual and on the extinguished ashes he found the food that he had left for her the day before。 Then he looked into her bedroom and saw her lying on the bed covered with the ermine cape； more beautiful than ever and with her skin turned into an ivory casing。 Four months later； when Jos？Arcadio arrived； he found her intact。
It was impossible to conceive of a man more like his mother。 He was wearing a somber taffeta suit； a shirt with a round and hard collar； and a thin silk ribbon tied in a bow in place of a necktie。 He was ruddy and languid with a startled look and weak lips。 His black hair； shiny and smooth； parted in the middle of his head by a straight and tired line； had the same artificial appearance as the hair on the saints。 The shadow of a well…uprooted beard on his paraffin face looked like a question of conscience。 His hands were pale； with green veins and fingers that were like parasites； and he wore a solid gold ring with a round sunflower opal on his left index finger。 When he opened the street door Aureliano did not have to be told who he was to realize that he came from far away。 With his steps the house filled up with the fragrance of the toilet water that ？rsula used to splash on him when he was a child in order to find him in the shadows； in some way impossible to ascertain； after so many years of absence。 Jos？Arcadio was still an autumnal child； terribly sad and solitary。 He went directly to his mother’s bedroom； where Aureliano had boiled mercury for four months in his grandfather’s grandfather’s water pipe to conserve the body according to Melquíades？formula。 Jos？Arcadio did not ask him any questions。 He kissed the corpse on the forehead and withdrew from under her skirt the pocket of casing which contained three as yet unused pessaries and the key to her cabinet。 He did everything with direct and decisive movements； in contrast to his languid look。 From the cabinet he took a small damascene chest with the family crest and found on the inside； which was perfumed with sandalwood； the long letter in which Fernanda unburdened her heart of the numerous truths that she had hidden from him。 He read it standing up； avidly but without anxiety； and at the third page he stopped and examined Aureliano with a look of second recognition。
“So；？he said with a voice with a touch of razor in it； “You’re the bastard。？
“I’m Aureliano Buendía。？
“Go to your room；？Jos？Arcadio said。
Aureliano went and did not e out again even from curiosity when he heard the sound of the solitary funeral ceremonies。 Sometimes； from the kitchen； he would see Jos？Arcadio strolling through the house； smothered by his anxious breathing； and he continued hearing his steps in the ruined bedrooms after midnight。 He did not hear his voice for many months； not only because Jos？Arcadio never addressed him； but also because he had no desire for it to happen or time to think about anything else but the parchments。 On Fernanda’s death he had taken out the next…to…the…last little fish and gone to the wise Catalonian’s bookstore in search of the books he needed。 Nothing he saw along the way interested him； perhaps because he lacked any memories for parison and the deserted streets and desolate houses were the same as he had imagined them at a time when he would have given his soul to know them。 He had given himself the permission denied by Fernanda and only once and for the minimum time necessary； so without pausing he went along the eleven blocks that separated the house from the narrow street where dreams had been interpreted in other days and he went panting into the confused and gloomy place where there was barely room to move。 More than a bookstore； it looked like a dump for used books； which were placed in disorder on the shelves c