Сто лет одиночества

           "Wouldyoubelieveitthatgoodluckisstillpouringdownonus?"shetoldhim."AmarantaandthepianolaItalianaregoingtogetmarried."

           AmarantaandPietroCrespihad,infact,deepenedtheirfriendship,protectedbyúrsula,whothistimedidnotthinkitnecessarytowatchoverthevisits.Itwasatwilightengagement.TheItalianwouldarriveatdusk,withagardeniainhisbuttonhole,andhewouldtranslatePetrarch’ssonnetsforAmaranta.Theywouldsitontheporch,suffocatedbytheoreganoandtheroses,hereadingandshesewinglacecuffs,indifferenttotheshocksandbadnewsthewar,untilthemosquitoesmadethemtakerefugeintheparlor.Amaranta’ssensibility,herdiscreetbutenvelopingtendernesshadbeenwearinganinvisiblewebaboutherfiancé,whichhehadtopushasidemateriallyhispaleandringlessfingersinordertoleavethehouseateighto’clock.TheyhadputtogetheradelightfulalbumwiththepostcardsthatPietroCrespireceivedfromItaly.Theywerepicturesofloversinlonelyparks,vignettesofheartspiercedwitharrowsandgoldenribbonsheldbydoves."I’vebeentothisparkinFlorence,"PietroCrespiwouldsay,goingthroughthecards."Apersoncanputouthishandandthebirdswillcometofeed."Sometimes,overawatercolorofVenice,nostalgiawouldtransformthesmellofmudandputrefyingshellfishofthecanalsintothewarmaromaofflowers.