Gabriel García Márquez
CHRONICLE OF A DEATH FORETOLD
Translated from the Spanish by Gregory Rabassa
Contents
Chronicle of a Death Foretold
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gabriel García Márquez was born in Aracataca, Colombia, in 1927. He studied at the University of Bogotá and later worked as a reporter for the Colombian newspaper El Espectador and as a foreign correspondent in Rome, Paris, Barcelona, Caracas and New York. He is the author of several novels and collections of stories, including Eyes of a Blue Dog (1947), Leaf Storm (1955), No One Writes to the Colonel (1958), In Evil Hour (1962), Big Mama’s Funeral (1962), One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967), Innocent Eréndira and Other Stories (1972), The Autumn of the Patriarch (1975), Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1981), Love in the Time of Cholera (1985), The General in His Labyrinth (1989), Strange Pilgrims (1992), Of Love and Other Demons (1994) and Memories of My Melancholy Whores (2005). Many of his books are published by Penguin. Gabriel García Márquez was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982. He lives in Mexico City.
the hunt for love
is haughty falconry
GIL VICENTE
PENGUIN BOOKS
CHRONICLE OF A DEATH FORETOLD
‘My favourite book by one of the world’s greatest authors. You’re in the hands of a master’ Mariella Frostrup
‘A masterpiece’ Evening Standard
‘A work of high explosiveness – the proper stuff of Nobel prizes. An exceptional novel’ The Times
‘Brilliant writer, brilliant book’ Guardian
‘Márquez writes in this lyrical, magical language that no one else can do’ Salman Rushdie
‘Mesmerizing. An unusual and original work: a simple narrative so charged with irony that it has the authority of a political fable’ The Times Literary Supplement
‘A tour de force. In prose that is spare yet heavy with meaning, Márquez gives us not merely a chronicle but a portrait of the town and its collective psyche’ Washington Post
‘As haunting, as lovely and true as anything Márquez has written before’ London Review of Books
‘One of this century’s most evocative writers’ Anne Tyler
‘The most important writer of fiction in any language’ Bill Clinton
‘Márquez has insights and sympathies which he can project with the intensity of a reflecting mirror in a bright sun. He dazzles us with powerful effect’ New Statesman
‘The vigour and coherence of Márquez’s vision, the brilliance and beauty of his imagery, the narrative tension … coursing through his pages … makes it difficult to put down’ Daily Telegraph
‘Sentence for sentence, there is hardly another writer in the world so generous with incidental pleasures’ Independent
‘Márquez is the master weaver of the real and the conjectured. His descriptive power astounds’ New Statesman
‘Underlying the marvellous wit, the inimitable humour and the superbly paced dialogue, there is the author’s own anger, always controlled’ The Times
‘Every word and incident counts, everything hangs together, the work is a neatly perfect organism’ Financial Times
ON THE DAY they were going to kill him, Santiago Nasar got up at five-thirty in the morning to wait for the boat the bishop was coming on. He’d dreamed he was going through a grove of timber trees where a gentle drizzle was falling, and for an instant he was happy in his dream, but when he awoke he felt completely spattered with bird shit. “He was always dreaming about trees,” Plácida Linero, his mother, told me twenty-seven years later, recalling the details of that unpleasant Monday. “The week before, he’d dreamed that he was alone in a tinfoil airplane and flying through the almond trees without bumping into anything,” she told me. She had a well-earned reputation as an accurate interpreter of other people’s dreams, provided they were told her before eating, but she hadn’t noticed any ominous augury in those two dreams of her son’s, or in the other dreams of trees he’d told her about on the mornings preceding his death.
Nor did Santiago Nasar recognize the omen. He had slept little and poorly, without getting undressed, and he woke up with a headache and a sediment of copper stirrup on his palate, and he interpreted them as the natural havoc of the wedding revels that had gone on until after midnight. Furthermore: all the many people he ran into after leaving his house at five minutes past six until he was carved up like a pig an hour later remembered him as being a little sleepy but in a good mood, and he remarked to all of them in a casual way that it was a very beautiful day. No one was certain if he was referring to the state of the weather. Many people coincided in recalling that it was a radiant morning with a sea breeze coming in through the banana groves, as was to be expected in a fine February of that period. But most agreed that the weather was funereal, with a cloudy, low sky and the thick smell of still waters, and that at the moment of the misfortune a thin drizzle like the one Santiago Nasar had seen in his dream grove was falling. I was recovering from the wedding revels in the apostolic lap of María Alejandrina Cervantes, and I only awakened with the clamor of the alarm bells, thinking they had turned them loose in honor of the bishop.
Santiago Nasar put on shirt and pants of white linen, both items unstarched, just like the ones he’d put on the day before for the wedding. It was his attire for special occasions. If it hadn’t been for the bishop’s arrival, he would have put on his khaki outfit and the riding boots he wore on Mondays to go to The Divine Face, the cattle ranch he’d inherited from his father and which he administered with very good judgment but without much luck. In the country he wore a magnum .357 on his belt and its armored bullets, according to what he said, could cut a horse in two through the middle. During the partridge season he would also carry his falconry equipment. In the closet he also kept a Malincher Schonauer 30.06 rifle, a Holland magnum 300 rifle, a Hornet .22 with a double-strength telescopic sight, and a Winchester repeater. He always slept the way his father had slept, with the weapon hidden in the pillowcase, but before leaving the house that day he took out the bullets and put them in the drawer of the night table. “He never left it loaded,” his mother told me. I knew that, and I also knew that he kept the guns in one place and hid the ammunition in another far removed so that nobody, not even casually, would yield to the temptation of loading them inside the house. It was a wise custom established by his father ever since one morning when a servant girl had shaken the case to get the pillow out and the pistol went off as it hit the floor and the bullet wrecked the cupboard in the room, went through the living room wall, passed through the dining room of the house next door with the thunder of war, and turned a life-size saint on the main altar of the church on the opposite side of the square to plaster dust. Santiago Nasar, who was a young child at the time, never forgot the lesson of that accident.
The last image his mother had of him was that of his fleeting passage through the bedroom. He’d awakened her while he was feeling around trying to find an aspirin in the bathroom medicine chest, and she turned on the light and saw him appear in the doorway with a glass of water in his hand, as she would remember him forever. Santiago Nasar told her then about the dream, but she didn’t pay any great attention to the trees.
“Any dream about birds means good health,” she said.
She saw him from the same hammock and in the same position in which I found her prostrated by the last lights of old age when I returned to this forgotten village, trying to put the broken mirror of memory back together from so many scattered shards. She could barely make out shapes in full light and had some medicinal leaves on her temples for the eterna
l headache that her son had left her the last time he went through the bedroom. She was on her side, clutching the cords at the head of the hammock trying to get up, and in the half shadows there was the baptistry smell that had startled me on the morning of the crime.
No sooner had I appeared on the threshold than she confused me with the memory of Santiago Nasar. “There he was,” she told me. “He was dressed in white linen that had been washed in plain water, because his skin was so delicate that it couldn’t stand the noise of starch.” She sat in the hammock for a long time, chewing pepper cress seeds, until the illusion that her son had returned left her. Then she sighed: “He was the man in my life.”
I saw him in her memory. He had turned twenty-one the last week in January, and he was slim and pale and had his father’s Arab eyelids and curly hair. He was the only child of a marriage of convenience that hadn’t had a single instant of happiness, but he seemed happy with his father until the latter died suddenly, three years before, and he continued seeming to be so with his solitary mother until the Monday of his death. From her he had inherited his instinct. From his father he learned at a very early age the manipulation of firearms, his love for horses, and the mastery of high-flying birds of prey, but from him he also learned the good arts of valor and prudence. They spoke Arabic between themselves, but not in front of Plácida Linero, so that she wouldn’t feel excluded. They were never seen armed in town, and the only time they brought their trained birds in was for a demonstration of falconry at a charity bazaar. The death of his father had forced him to abandon his studies at the end of secondary school in order to take charge of the family ranch. By his own merits, Santiago Nasar was merry and peaceful, and openhearted.
On the day they were going to kill him, his mother thought he’d got his days mixed up when she saw him dressed in white. “I reminded him that it was Monday,” she told me. But he explained to her that he’d got dressed up pontifical style in case he had a chance to kiss the bishop’s ring. She showed no sign of interest. “He won’t even get off the boat,” she told him. “He’ll give an obligatory blessing, as always, and go back the way he came. He hates this town.”
Santiago Nasar knew it was true, but church pomp had an irresistible fascination for him. “It’s like the movies,” he’d told me once. The only thing that interested his mother about the bishop’s arrival, on the other hand, was for her son not to get soaked in the rain, since she’d heard him sneeze while he was sleeping. She advised him to take along an umbrella, but he waved good-bye and left the room. It was the last time she saw him.
Victoria Guzmán, the cook, was sure that it hadn’t rained that day, or during the whole month of February. “On the contrary,” she told me when I came to see her, a short time before her death. “The sun warms things up earlier than in August.” She had been quartering three rabbits for lunch, surrounded by panting dogs, when Santiago Nasar entered the kitchen. “He always got up with the face of a bad night,” Victoria Guzmán recalled without affection. Divina Flor, her daughter, who was just coming into bloom, served Santiago Nasar a mug of mountain coffee with a shot of cane liquor, as on every Monday, to help him bear the burden of the night before. The enormous kitchen, with the whispers from the fire and the hens sleeping on their perches, had a stealthy breathing. Santiago Nasar swallowed another aspirin and sat down to drink the mug of coffee with slow sips, thinking slowly, without taking his eyes off the two women who were disemboweling the rabbits on the stove. In spite of her age, Victoria Guzmán was still in good shape. The girl, as yet a bit untamed, seemed over-whelmed by the drive of her glands. Santiago Nasar grabbed her by the wrist when she came to take the empty mug from him.
“The time has come for you to be tamed,” he told her.
Victoria Guzmán showed him the bloody knife.
“Let go of her, whitey,” she ordered him seriously. “You won’t have a drink of that water as long as I’m alive.”
She’d been seduced by Ibrahim Nasar in the fullness of her adolescence. She’d made love to him in secret for several years in the stables of the ranch, and he brought her to be a house servant when the affection was over. Divina Flor, who was the daughter of a more recent mate, knew that she was destined for Santiago Nasar’s furtive bed, and that idea brought out a premature anxiety in her. “Another man like that hasn’t ever been born again,” she told me, fat and faded and surrounded by the children of other loves. “He was just like his father,” Victoria Guzmán answered her. “A shit.” But she couldn’t avoid a wave of fright as she remembered Santiago Nasar’s horror when she pulled out the insides of a rabbit by the roots and threw the steaming guts to the dogs.
“Don’t be a savage,” he told her. “Make believe it was a human being.”
Victoria Guzmán needed almost twenty years to understand that a man accustomed to killing defenseless animals could suddenly express such horror. “Good heavens,” she explained with surprise. “All that was such a revelation.” Nevertheless, she had so many postponed rages the morning of the crime that she went on feeding the dogs with the insides of the other rabbits, just to embitter Santiago Nasar’s breakfast. That’s what they were up to when the whole town awoke with the earth-shaking bellow of the steamboat the bishop was arriving on.
The house was a former warehouse, with two stories, walls of rough planks, and a peaked tin roof where the buzzards kept watch over the garbage on the docks. It had been built in the days when the river was so usable that many seagoing barges and even a few tall ships made their way up there through the marshes of the estuary. When Ibrahim Nasar came with the last Arabs at the end of the civil wars, seagoing ships no longer arrived because of shifts in the river, and the warehouse was in disuse. Ibrahim Nasar bought it at a cheap price in order to set up an import store that he never set up, and only when he was going to be married did he convert it into a house to live in. On the ground floor he opened up a parlor that served for everything, and in back he built a stable for four animals, the servants’ quarters, and a country kitchen with windows opening on the dock, through which the pestilence of the water came in at all hours. The only thing he left intact in the parlor was the spiral staircase rescued from some shipwreck. On the upper floor, where the customs offices had been before, he built two large bedrooms and five cubbyholes for the many children he intended having, and he built a wooden balcony that overlooked the almond trees on the square, where Plácida Linero would sit on March afternoons to console herself for her solitude. In the front he kept the main door and built two full-length windows with lathe-turned bars. He also kept the rear door, except a bit higher so that a horse could enter through it, and he kept a part of the old pier in use. That was always the door most used, not only because it was the natural entry to the mangers and the kitchen, but because it opened onto the street to the new docks without passing the square. The front door, except for festive occasions, remained closed and barred. Nevertheless, it was there, and not at the rear door, that the men who were going to kill him waited for Santiago Nasar and it was through there that he went out to receive the bishop, in spite of the fact that he would have to walk completely around the house in order to reach the docks.
No one could understand such fatal coincidences. The investigating judge who came from Riohacha must have sensed them without daring to admit it, for his interest in giving them a rational explanation was obvious in the report. The door to the square was cited several times with a dime-novel title: “The Fatal Door.” In reality, the only valid explanation seemed to be that of Plácida Linero, who answered the question with her mother wisdom: “My son never went out the back door when he was dressed up.” It seemed to be such an easy truth that the investigator wrote it down as a marginal note, but he didn’t include it in the report.
Victoria Guzmán, for her part, was categorical with her answer that neither she nor her daughter knew that they were waiting for Santiago Nasar to kill him. But in the course of her years she admitted that both knew it when he came
into the kitchen to have his coffee. They had been told it by a woman who had passed by after five o’clock to beg a bit of milk, and in addition she revealed the motives and the place where they were waiting. “I didn’t warn him because I thought it was drunkards’ talk,” she told me. Nevertheless, Divina Flor confessed to me on a later visit, after her mother had since died, that the latter hadn’t said anything to Santiago Nasar because in the depths of her heart she wanted them to kill him. She, on the other hand, didn’t warn him because she was nothing but a frightened child at the time, incapable of a decision of her own, and she’d been all the more frightened when he grabbed her by the wrist with a hand that felt frozen and stony, like the hand of a dead man.
Santiago Nasar went through the shadowy house with long strides, pursued by roars of jubilation from the bishop’s boat. Divina Flor went ahead of him to open the door, trying not to have him get ahead of her among the cages of sleeping birds in the dining room, among the wicker furniture and the pots of ferns hanging down in the living room, but when she took the bar down, she couldn’t avoid the butcher hawk hand again. “He grabbed my whole pussy,” Divina Flor told me. “It was what he always did when he caught me alone in some corner of the house, but that day I didn’t feel the usual surprise but an awful urge to cry.” She drew away to let him go out, and through the half-open door she saw the almond trees on the square, snowy in the light of dawn, but she didn’t have the courage to look at anything else. “Then the boat stopped tooting and the cocks began to crow,” she told me. “It was such a great uproar that I couldn’t believe there were so many roosters in town, and I thought they were coming on the bishop’s boat.” The only thing she could do for the man who had never been hers was leave the door unbarred, against Plácida Linero’s orders, so that he could get back in in case of emergency. Someone who was never identified had shoved an envelope under the door with a piece of paper warning Santiago Nasar that they were waiting for him to kill him, and, in addition, the note revealed the place, the motive, and other quite precise details of the plot. The message was on the floor when Santiago Nasar left home but he didn’t see it, nor did Divina Flor or anyone else until long after the crime had been consummated.
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