Read Online No One Writes to the Colonel by Gabriel García Márquez, J. S. Bernstein - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Gabriel García Márquez, J. S. Bernstein
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rooster. Only then did he remember that this was the day set for the trials.
He passed the post office. A moment later he had sunk into the turbulent atmosphere of the pit. He saw his rooster in the middle of thepit, alone, defenseless, his spurs wrapped in rags, with something like fearvisible in the trembling of his feet. His adversary was a sad ashen rooster.
The colonel felt no emotion. There was a succession of identical attacks. A momentary engagement of feathers and feet and necks in the middle of an enthusiastic ovation. Knocked against the planks of the barrier, the adversary did a somersaultand returned to the attack. His rooster didn’t attack. He rebuffed every attack, and landed again in exactly the same spot. But now his feet weren’t trembling.
Hernán jumped the barrier, picked him up with both hands, and showed him to the crowd in the stands. There was a frenetic explosion of applause and shouting. The colonel noticed the disproportion between the enthusiasm of the applauseand the intensity of the fight. It seemed to him a farce to which – voluntarily and consciously – the roosters had also lent themselves.
Impelled by a slightly disdainful curiosity, he examined the circular pit. An excited crowd was hurtling down the stands toward the pit. The colonel observed the confusion of hot, anxious, terribly alive faces. They were new people. All the new people in town.He relived – with foreboding – an instant which had been erased on the edge of his memory. Then he leaped the barrier, made his way through the packed crowd in the pit, and confronted Hernán’s calm eyes. They looked at each other without blinking.
‘Good afternoon, colonel.’
The colonel took the rooster away from him. ‘Good afternoon,’ he muttered. And he said nothing more because the warm deepthrobbing of the animal made himshudder. He thought that he had never had such an alive thing in his hands before.
‘You weren’t at home,’ Hernán said, confused.
A new ovation interrupted him. The colonel felt intimidated. He made his way again, without looking at anybody, stunned by the applause and the shouts, and went into the street with his rooster under his arm.
The whole town – the lower-classpeople – came out to watch him go by followed by the school children. A gigantic negro standing on a table with a snake wrapped around his neck was selling medicine without a license at a corner of the plaza. A large group returning from the harbor had stopped to listen to his spiel. But when the colonel passed with the rooster, their attention shifted to him. The way home had never beenso long.
He had no regrets. For a long time the town had lain in a sort of stupor, ravaged by ten years of history. That afternoon – another Friday without a letter – the people had awakened. The colonel remembered another era. He saw himself with his wife and his son watching under an umbrella a show which was not interrupted despite the rain. He remembered the party’s leaders, scrupulouslygroomed, fanning themselves to the beat of the music in the patio of his house. He almost relived the painful resonance of the bass drum in his intestines.
He walked along the street parallel to the harbor and there, too, found the tumultuous Election Sunday crowd of long ago. They were watching the circus unloading. From inside a tent, a woman shoutedsomething about the rooster. He continuedhome, self-absorbed, still hearing scattered voices, as if the remnants of the ovation in the pit were pursuing him.
At the door he addressed the children: ‘Everyone go home,’ he said. ‘Anyone who comes in will leave with a hiding.’
He barred the door and went straight into the kitchen. His wife came out of the bedroom choking.
‘They took it by force,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I told them that therooster would not leave this house while I was alive.’ The colonel tied the rooster to the leg of the stove. He changed the water in the can, pursued by his
He passed the post office. A moment later he had sunk into the turbulent atmosphere of the pit. He saw his rooster in the middle of thepit, alone, defenseless, his spurs wrapped in rags, with something like fearvisible in the trembling of his feet. His adversary was a sad ashen rooster.
The colonel felt no emotion. There was a succession of identical attacks. A momentary engagement of feathers and feet and necks in the middle of an enthusiastic ovation. Knocked against the planks of the barrier, the adversary did a somersaultand returned to the attack. His rooster didn’t attack. He rebuffed every attack, and landed again in exactly the same spot. But now his feet weren’t trembling.
Hernán jumped the barrier, picked him up with both hands, and showed him to the crowd in the stands. There was a frenetic explosion of applause and shouting. The colonel noticed the disproportion between the enthusiasm of the applauseand the intensity of the fight. It seemed to him a farce to which – voluntarily and consciously – the roosters had also lent themselves.
Impelled by a slightly disdainful curiosity, he examined the circular pit. An excited crowd was hurtling down the stands toward the pit. The colonel observed the confusion of hot, anxious, terribly alive faces. They were new people. All the new people in town.He relived – with foreboding – an instant which had been erased on the edge of his memory. Then he leaped the barrier, made his way through the packed crowd in the pit, and confronted Hernán’s calm eyes. They looked at each other without blinking.
‘Good afternoon, colonel.’
The colonel took the rooster away from him. ‘Good afternoon,’ he muttered. And he said nothing more because the warm deepthrobbing of the animal made himshudder. He thought that he had never had such an alive thing in his hands before.
‘You weren’t at home,’ Hernán said, confused.
A new ovation interrupted him. The colonel felt intimidated. He made his way again, without looking at anybody, stunned by the applause and the shouts, and went into the street with his rooster under his arm.
The whole town – the lower-classpeople – came out to watch him go by followed by the school children. A gigantic negro standing on a table with a snake wrapped around his neck was selling medicine without a license at a corner of the plaza. A large group returning from the harbor had stopped to listen to his spiel. But when the colonel passed with the rooster, their attention shifted to him. The way home had never beenso long.
He had no regrets. For a long time the town had lain in a sort of stupor, ravaged by ten years of history. That afternoon – another Friday without a letter – the people had awakened. The colonel remembered another era. He saw himself with his wife and his son watching under an umbrella a show which was not interrupted despite the rain. He remembered the party’s leaders, scrupulouslygroomed, fanning themselves to the beat of the music in the patio of his house. He almost relived the painful resonance of the bass drum in his intestines.
He walked along the street parallel to the harbor and there, too, found the tumultuous Election Sunday crowd of long ago. They were watching the circus unloading. From inside a tent, a woman shoutedsomething about the rooster. He continuedhome, self-absorbed, still hearing scattered voices, as if the remnants of the ovation in the pit were pursuing him.
At the door he addressed the children: ‘Everyone go home,’ he said. ‘Anyone who comes in will leave with a hiding.’
He barred the door and went straight into the kitchen. His wife came out of the bedroom choking.
‘They took it by force,’ she said, sobbing. ‘I told them that therooster would not leave this house while I was alive.’ The colonel tied the rooster to the leg of the stove. He changed the water in the can, pursued by his
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