世紀文學經典:《百年孤獨》第6章Part 3

Amaranta and Pietro Crespi had, in fact, deepened their friendship, protected by úrsula, who this time did not think it necessary to watch over the visits. It was a twilight engagement. The Italian would arrive at dusk, with a gardenia in his buttonhole, and he would translate Petrarch's sonnets for Amaranta. They would sit on the porch, suffocated by the oregano and the roses, he reading and she sewing lace cuffs, indifferent to the shocks and bad news of the war, until the mosquitoes made them take refuge in the parlor. Amaranta's sensibility, her discreet but enveloping tenderness had been wearing an invisible web about her fiancé, which he had to push aside materially with his pale and ringless fingers in order to leave the house at eight o'clock. They had put together a delightful album with the postcards that Pietro Crespi received from Italy. They were pictures of lovers in lonely parks, with vignettes of hearts pierced with arrows and golden ribbons held by doves. "I've been to this park in Florence," Pietro Crespi would say, going through the cards. "A person can put out his hand and the birds will come to feed." Sometimes, over a watercolor of Venice, nostalgia would transform the smell of mud and putrefying shellfish of the canals into the warm aroma of flowers. Amaranta would sigh, laugh, and dream of a second homeland of handsome men and beautiful women who spoke a childlike language with ancient cities of whose past grandeur only the cats among the rubble remained.
After crossing the ocean in search of it, after having confused passion with the vehement stroking of Rebeca, Pietro Crespi had found love. Happiness was accompanied by prosperity. His warehouse at that time occupied almost a whole block and it was a hothouse of fantasy, with reproductions of the bell tower of Florence that told time with a concert of carillons, and music boxes from Sorrento and compacts from China that sang five-note melodies when they were opened, and all the musical instruments imaginable and all the mechanical toys that could be conceived. Bruno Crespi, his younger brother, was in charge of the store because Pietro Crespi barely had enough time to take care of the music school. Thanks to him the Street of the Turks, with its dazzling display of knickknacks, became a melodic oasis where one could forget Arcadio's arbitrary acts and the distant nightmare of the war. When úrsula ordered the revival of Sunday mass, Pietro Crespi donated a German harmonium to the church, organized a children's chorus, and prepared a Gregorian repertory that added a note of splendor to Father Nicanor's quiet rite. No one doubted that he would make Amaranta a fortunate mate. Not pushing their feelings, letting themselves be borne along by the natural flow of their hearth they reached a point where all that was left to do was set a wedding date. They did not encounter any obstacles. úrsula accused herself inwardly of having twisted Rebecca's destiny with repeated postponements and she was not about to add more remorse. The rigor of the mourning for Remedios had been relegated to the background by the mortifications of the war, Aureliano's absence, Arcadio's brutality, and the expulsion of José Arcadio and Rebeca. With the imminence of the wedding, Pietro Crespi had hinted that Aureliano José, in whom he had stirred up a love that was almost filial, would be considered their oldest child. Everything made Amaranta think that she was heading toward a smooth happiness. But unlike Rebeca, she did not reveal the slightest anxiety. With the same patience with which she dyed tablecloths, sewed lace masterpieces, and embroidered needlepoint peacocks, she waited for Pietro Crespi to be unable to bear the urges of his heart and more. Her day came with the illfated October rains. Pietro Crespi took the sewing basket from her lap and he told her, "We'll get married next month." Amaranta did not tremble at the contact with his icy hands. She withdrew hers like a timid little animal and went back to her work.
"Don't be simple, Crespi." She smiled. "I wouldn't marry you even if I were dead."
Pietro Crespi lost control of himself. He wept shamelessly, almost breaking his fingers with desperation, but he could not break her down. "Don't waste your time," was all that Amaranta said. "If you really love me so much, don't set foot in this house again." úrsula thought she would go mad with shame. Pietro Crespi exhausted all manner of pleas. He went through incredible extremes of humiliation. He wept one whole afternoon in úrsula's lap and she would have sold her soul in order to comfort him. On rainy nights he could be seen prowling about the house with an umbrella, waiting for a light in Amaranta's bedroom. He was never better dressed than at that time. His august head of a tormented emperor had acquired a strange air of grandeur. He begged Amaranta's friends, the ones who sewed with her on the porch, to try to persuade her. He neglected his business. He would spend the day in the rear of the store writing wild notes, which he would send to Amaranta with flower petals and dried butterflies, and which she would return unopened. He would shut himself up for hours on end to play the zither. One night he sang. Macondo woke up in a kind of angelic stupor that was caused by a zither that deserved more than this world and a voice that led one to believe that no other person on earth could feel such love. Pietro Crespi then saw the lights go on in every window in town except that of Amaranta. On November second, All Souls' Day, his brother opened the store and found all the lamps lighted, all the music boxes opened, and all the docks striking an interminable hour, and in the midst of that mad concert he found Pietro Crespi at the desk in the rear with his wrists cut by a razor and his hands thrust into a basin of benzoin.

在烏蘇娜的信任下，阿瑪蘭塔和皮埃特羅·克列斯比的友好關係確實發展很快；現在，意大利人來訪時，烏蘇娜認爲沒有心要在場監視了。這是一種黃昏的幽會。皮埃特羅·克列斯比總是傍晚纔來，鈕釦孔眼裏插一朵梔子花，把佩特拉克的十四行詩翻譯給阿瑪蘭塔聽。他倆坐在充滿了玫瑰花和牛至花馨香的長廊上：他念詩，她就繡制花邊袖口，兩人都把戰爭的驚擾和變化拋到腦後；她的敏感、審慎和掩藏的溫情，彷彿蛛網一樣把未婚夫纏繞起來，每當晚上八時他起身離開的時候，他都不得不用沒戴戒指的蒼白手指撥開這些看不見的蛛網，他跟阿瑪蘭塔·起做了一個精美的明信畫片冊，這些明信畫片都是他從意大利帶來的。在每張明信片上，都有一對情人呆在公園綠樹叢中的僻靜角落裏，還有一些小花飾——箭穿的紅心或者兩隻鴿子用嘴銜着的一條金色絲帶。“我去過佛羅倫薩的這個公園，”皮埃特羅·克列斯比翻閱着畫片說。“只要伸出下去，鳥兒就會飛來啄食。”有時，看到一幅威尼斯水彩畫，他的懷鄉之情會把水溝裏的淤泥氣味和海中貝殼的腐臭昧兒變成鮮花的香氣。阿瑪蘭塔一面嘆息一面笑，並且憧憬着那個國家，那裏的男男女女都挺漂亮，說起話來象孩子，那裏有古老的城市，它們往日的宏偉建築只剩下了在瓦礫堆裏亂刨的幾隻小貓。
皮埃特羅·克列斯比漂洋過海追求愛情，並且把雷貝卡的感情衝動跟愛情混爲一談，但他總算得到了愛情，慌忙熱情地吻她。幸福的愛情帶來了生意的興隆。皮埃特羅·克列斯比的店鋪已經佔了幾乎整整一條街道，變成了幻想的溫室——這裏可以看到精確複製的佛羅倫薩鐘樓上的自鳴鐘，它用樂曲報告時刻；索倫託的八音盒和中國的撲粉盒，此種撲粉盒一開蓋子，就會奏出五個音符的曲子；此外還有各種難以想象的樂器和自動玩具。他把商店交給弟弟布獸諾·克列斯比經管，因爲他需要有充分的時間照顧音樂學校。由於他的經營，各種玩物令人目眩的上耳其人街變成了一個仙境，人們一到這裏就忘掉了阿卡蒂奧的專橫暴戾，忘掉了戰爭的噩夢。根據烏蘇娜的囑咐，星期日的彌撒恢復以後，皮埃特羅·克列斯比送給教堂一架德國風琴，組織了一個兒童合唱隊，並且教他們練會格里戈裏的聖歌——這給尼康諾神父簡單的禮拜儀式增添了一些光彩。大家相信，阿瑪蘭塔跟這意大利人結婚是會幸福的。他倆並不催促自己的感情，而讓感情平穩、自然地發展，終於到了只待確定婚期的地步。他倆沒有遇到任何阻礙。烏蘇娜心中譴責自己的是，一再拖延婚期曾把雷貝卡的生活搞得很不象樣，所以她就不想再增加良心的不安了。由於戰爭的災難、奧雷連諾的出走、阿卡蒂奧的暴虐、霍·阿卡蒂奧和雷貝卡的被逐，雷麥黛絲的喪事就給放到了次要地位。皮埃特羅·克列斯比相信婚禮非舉行不可，甚至暗示要把奧雷連諾·霍塞認做自己的大兒子，因爲他對這個孩子充滿了父愛。一切都使人想到，阿瑪蘭塔已經遊近了寧靜的海灣，就要過美滿幸福的生活了。但她跟雷貝卡相反，沒有表現一點急躁。猶如繡制桌布的圖案、縫製精美的金銀花邊、刺繡孔雀那樣，她平靜地等待皮埃特羅·克列斯比再也無法忍受的內心煎熬。這種時刻跟十月的暴雨一塊兒來臨了。皮埃特羅·克列斯比從阿瑪蘭塔膝上拿開刺繡籃於，雙手握住她的一隻手。“我不能再等了，”他說。“咱們下個月結婚吧。”接觸他那冰涼的手，她甚至沒有顫慄一下。她象一隻不馴服的小野獸，縮回手來，重新干活。
“別天真了，克列斯比，”阿瑪蘭塔微笑着說。“我死也不會嫁給你。”
皮埃特羅·克列斯比失去了自制。他毫不害臊地哭了起來，在絕望中差點兒扭斷了手指，可是無法動搖她的決心。“別白費時間了，”阿瑪蘭塔回答他。“如果你真的那麼愛我，你就不要再跨過這座房子的門坎。”烏蘇娜羞愧得無地自容。皮埃特羅·克列斯比說盡了哀求的話。他卑屈到了不可思議的地步。整個下午，他都在烏蘇娜懷裏痛哭流涕，烏蘇娜寧願掏出心來安慰他。雨天的晚上，他總撐着一把綢傘在房子周圍徘徊，觀望阿瑪蘭塔窗子裏有沒有燈光。皮埃特羅·克列斯比從來不象這幾天穿得那麼講究。他雖象個落難的皇帝，但頭飾還是挺有氣派的。見到阿瑪蘭塔的女友——常在長廊上繡花的那些女人，他就懇求她們設法讓她回心轉意。他拋棄了自己的一切事情，整天整天地呆在商店後面的房間裏，寫出一封封發狂的信，夾進一些花瓣和蝴蝶標本，寄給阿瑪蘭塔；她根本沒有拆閱就把一封封信原壁退回。他把自己關在屋子裏彈齊特拉琴，一彈就是幾個小時。有一天夜裏，他唱起歌來，馬孔多的人聞聲驚醒，被齊特拉琴神奇的樂曲聲迷住了，因爲這種樂曲聲不可能是這個世界上的；他們也給充滿愛情的歌聲迷住了，因爲比這更強烈的愛情在人世間是不可能想象的。然而，皮埃特羅·克列斯比看見了全鎮各個窗戶的燈光，只是沒有看兄阿瑪蘭塔窗子裏的燈光。十一月二日，萬靈節那一夭，他的弟弟打開店門，發現所有的燈都是亮着的，所有的八音盒都奏着樂曲，所有的鐘都在沒完沒了地報告時刻；在這亂七八槽的交響樂中，他發現皮埃特羅·克列斯比伏在爪屋的寫字檯上——他手腕上的靜脈已給刀子割斷，兩隻手都放在盛滿安息香樹膠的盟洗盆中。