Сто лет одиночества

           DonApolinarMoscote,themagistrate,hadarrivedinMacondoveryquietly.HeputupattheHotelJacob—builtbyoneofthefirstArabswhocametoswapknickknacksformacaws-andonthefollowingdayherentedasmallroomwithadooronthestreettwoblocksawayfromtheBuendíahouse.HesetupatableandachairthathehadboughtfromJacob,naileduponthewalltheshieldoftherepublicthathehadbroughtwithhim,andonthedoorhepaintedthesign:Magistrate.Hisfirstorderwasforallthehousestobepaintedblueincelebrationoftheanniversaryofnationalindependence.JoséArcadioBuendía,withthecopyoftheorderinhishand,foundhimtakinghisnapinahammockhehadsetupinthenarrowoffice."Didyouwritethispaper?"heaskedhim.DonApolinarMoscote,amatureman,timid,witharuddycomplexion,saidyes."Bywhatright?"JoséArcadioBuendíaaskedagain.DonApolinarMoscotepickedupapaperfromthedrawerofthetableshowedittohim."Ihavebeennamedmagistrateofthistown."JoséArcadioBuendíadidnotevenlookattheappointment.

           "Inthistownwedonotgiveorderswithpiecesofpaper,"hesaidwithoutlosinghiscalm."Andsothatyouknowitonceandforall,wedon’tneedanyjudgeherebecausethere’snothingthatneedsjudging."