Chronicle of a Death Foretold 1 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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Chronicle of a Death Foretold
Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The pursuit of love is like falconry
GIL VICENTE
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 2 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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CHAPTER 1
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," Placida Linero, his mother, told me twenty-seven years later,
recalling the details of that distressing 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 said to 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
described to her on the mornings preceding his death.
 Nor did Santiago Nasar recognise 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 and 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 was falling like
the one Santiago Nasar had seen in his dream grove. I was recovering from the wedding
revels in the apostolic lap of Maria Alejandrina Cervantes, and I only awakened with the
clamour of the alarm bells, thinking they had turned them loose in honour of the bishop.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 3 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 Santiago Nasar put on a 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 dressed in 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 goodjudgment but without
much luck. In the country he wore a .357 Magnum on his belt, and its armoured 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 kept a Mannlicher
Schoenauer .30-06 rifle, a .300 Holland & Holland Magnum rifle, a .22 Hornet with a
double-powered 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 of his fleeting passage through the
bedroom. He'd wakened 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. So 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.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 4 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 She had watched mm 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 eternal 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 as she tried
to get up, and there in the half shadows 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 without a single moment 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 a
sixth sense. 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 valour and prudence. They spoke Arabic between themselves, but not in
front of Placida Linero, so that she wouldn't feel excluded. They were never seen armed in
town, and the only time they brought in their trained birds 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 nature,
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.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 5 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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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 Guzman, 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 Guzman
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, was breathing stealthily.
Santiago Nasar swallowed another aspirin and sat down to drink the mug of coffee in slow
sips, thinking just as slowly, without taking his eyes off the two women who were
disembowelling the rabbits on the stove. In spite of her age, Victoria Guzman was still in
good shape. The girl, as yet a bit untamed, seemed overwhelmed 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 Guzman showed him the bloody knife.
 "Let go of her, white man," she ordered him seriously. "You won't have a drink of
that water as long as I'm alive."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 6 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 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 Guzman 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 Guzman needed almost twenty years to understand that a man accustomed
to killing defenceless animals could suddenly express such horror. "Good heavens," she
explained with surprise. "All that was such a revelation." Nevertheless, she had so much
repressed rage 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 earthshaking bellow of the bishop's steamboat.
 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. By the time Ibrahim
Nasar arrived with the last Arabs at the end of the civil wars, seagoing ships no longer came
there 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 did establish, 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 parlour that served for everything, and in back he built a stable for
four animals, the servants' quarters, and a country kitchen with windows opening onto the
dock, through which the stench of the water came in at all hours. The only thing he left
intact in the parlour was the spiral staircase rescued from some shipwreck. On the upper
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 7 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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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 constructed a wooden balcony
that overlooked the almond trees on the square, where Placida 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
taller 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 that led to the new docks without going
through 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, despite 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 impulse to
give them a rational explanation was obvious in his 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 Plلcida 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 Guzman, for her part, had been categorical with her answer that neither
she nor her daughter knew that the men 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 who in addition had 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 died, that
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 8 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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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 Plلcida
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.
 It had struck six and the street lights were still on. In the branches of the almond
trees and on some balconies the coloured wedding decorations were still hanging and one
might have thought they'd just been hung in honour of the bishop. But the square, covered
with paving stones up to the front steps of the church, where the bandstand was, looked like
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 9 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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a trash heap, with empty bottles and all manner of debris from the public festivities. When
Santiago Nasar left his house, several people were running toward the docks, hastened
along by the bellowing of the boat.
 The only place open on the square was a milk shop on one side of the church,
where the two men were who were waiting for Santiago Nasar in order to kill him. Clotilde
Armenta, the proprietress of the establishment, was the first to see him in the glow of dawn,
and she had the impression that he was dressed in aluminium. "He already looked like a
ghost," she told me. The men who were going to kill him had slept on the benches,
clutching the knives wrapped in newspapers to their chests, and Clotilde Armenta held her
breath so as not to awaken them. They were twins: Pedro and Pablo Vicario. They were
twenty-four years old, and they looked so much alike that it was difficult to tell them apart.
"They were hard-looking, but of a good sort," the report said. I, who had known them since
grammar school, would have written the same thing. That morning they were still wearing
their dark wedding suits, too heavy and formal for the Caribbean, and they looked
devastated by so many hours of bad living, but they'd done their duty and shaved. Although
they hadn't stopped drinking since the eve of the wedding, they weren't drunk at the end of
three days, but they looked, rather, like insomniac sleepwalkers. They'd fallen asleep with
the first breezes of dawn, after almost three hours of waiting in Clotilde Armenta's store,
and it was the first sleep they had had since Friday. They had barely awakened with the first
bellow of the boat, but instinct awoke them completely when Santiago Nasar came out of
his house. Then they both grabbed the rolled-up newspapers and Pedro Vicario started to
get up.
 "For the love of God," murmured Clotilde Armenta. "Leave him for later, if only
out of respect for his grace the bishop."
 "It was a breath of the Holy Spirit," she often repeated. Indeed, it had been a
providential happening, but of momentary value only. When they heard her, the Vicario
twins reflected, and the one who had stood up sat down again. Both followed Santiago
Nasar with their eyes as he began to cross the square. "They looked at him more with pity,"
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 10 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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Clotilde Armenta said. At that moment the girls from the nuns' school crossed the square,
trotting in disorder inside their orphans' uniforms.
 Plلcida Linero was right: the bishop didn't get off his boat. There were a lot of
people at the dock in addition to the authorities and the schoolchildren, and everywhere one
could see the crates of well-fattened roosters they were bearing as a gift for the bishop,
because cockscomb soup was his favourite dish. At the pier there was so much firewood
piled up that it would have taken at least two hours to load. But the boat didn't stop. It
appeared at the bend in the river, snorting like a dragon, and then the band of musicians
started to play the bishop's anthem, and the cocks began to crow in their baskets and
aroused all the other roosters in town.
 In those days the legendary paddle-wheelers that burned wood were on the point of
disappearing, and the few that remained in service no longer had player pianos or bridal
staterooms and were barely able to navigate against the current. But this one was new, and
it had two smokestacks instead of one, with the flag painted on them like armbands, and the
wheel made of planks at the stern gave it the drive of a seagoing ship. On the upper deck,
beside the captain's cabin, was the bishop in his white cassock and with his retinue of
Spaniards. "It was Christmas weather," my sister Margot said. What happened, according to
her, was that the boat whistle let off a shower of compressed steam as it passed by the
docks, and it soaked those who were closest to the edge. It was a fleeting illusion: the
bishop began to make the sign of the cross in the air opposite the crowd on the pier, and he
kept on doing it mechanically afterwards, without malice or inspiration, until the boat was
lost from view and all that remained was the uproar of the roosters.
 Santiago Nasar had reason to feel cheated. He had contributed several loads of
wood to the public solicitudes of Father Carmen Amador, and in addition, he himself had
chosen the capons with the most appetising combs. But it was a passing annoyance. My
sister Margot, who was with him on the pier, found him in a good mood and with an urge to
go on with the festivities in spite of the fact that the aspirins had given him no relief. "He
didn't seem to be chilly and was only thinking about what the wedding must have cost," she
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 11 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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told me. Cristo Bedoya, who was with them, revealed figures that added to his surprise.
He'd been carousing with Santiago Nasar and me until a little before four; he hadn't gone to
sleep at his parents', but stayed chatting at his grandparents' house. There he obtained the
bunch of figures that he needed to calculate what the party had cost. He recounted that they
had sacrificed forty turkeys and eleven hogs for the guests, and four calves which the
bridegroom had set up to be roasted for the people on the public square. He recounted that
205 cases of contraband alcohol had been consumed and almost two thousand bottles of
cane liquor, which had been distributed among the crowd. There wasn't a single person, rich
or poor, who hadn't participated in some way in the wildest party the town had ever seen.
Santiago Nasar was dreaming aloud.
 "That's what my wedding's going to be like," he said. "Life will be too short for
people to tell about it."
 My sister felt the angel pass by. She thought once more about the good fortune of
Flora Miguel, who had so many things in life and was going to have Santiago Nasar as well
on Christmas of that year. "I suddenly realised that there couldn't have been a better catch
than him," she told me. "Just imagine: handsome, a man of his word, and with a fortune of
his own at the age of twenty-one." She used to invite him to have breakfast at our house
when there were manioc fritters, and my mother was making some that morning. Santiago
Nasar accepted with enthusiasm.
 "I'll change my clothes and catch up with you," he said, and he realised that he'd
left his watch behind on the night table. "What time is it?"
 It was six twenty-five. Santiago Nasar took Cristo Bedoya by the arm and led him
toward the square.
 "I'll be at your house inside of fifteen minutes," he told my sister.
 She insisted that they go together right away because breakfast was already made.
"It was a strange insistence," Cristo Bedoya told me. "So much so that sometimes I've
thought that Margot already knew that they were going to kill him and wanted to hide him
in your house." Santiago Nasar persuaded her to go on ahead while he put on his riding
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 12 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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clothes, because he had to be at The Divine Face early in order to geld some calves. He
took leave of her with the same wave with which he'd said good-bye to his mother and went
off toward the square on the arm of Cristo Bedoya. It was the last time she saw him.
 Many of those who were on the docks knew that they were going to kill Santiago
Nasar. Don Lلzaro Aponte, a colonel from the academy making use of his good retirement,
and town mayor for eleven years, waved to him with his fingers. "I had my own very real
reasons for believing he wasn't in any danger anymore," he told me. Father Carmen
Amador wasn't worried either. "When I saw him safe and sound I thought it had all been a
fib," he told me. No one even wondered whether Santiago Nasar had been warned, because
it seemed impossible to all that he hadn't.
 In reality, my sister Margot was one of the few people who still didn't know that
they were going to kill him. "If I'd known, I would have taken him home with me even if I
had to hog-tie him," she declared to the investigator. It was strange that she hadn't known,
but it was even stranger that my mother didn't know either, because she knew about
everything before anyone else in the house, in spite of the fact that she hadn't gone out into
the street in years, not even to attend mass. I had become aware of that quality of hers ever
since I began to get up early for school. I would find her the way she was in those days,
pale and stealthy, sweeping the courtyard with a homemade broom in the ashen glow of
dawn, and between sips of coffee she would proceed to tell me what had happened in the
world while we'd been asleep. She seemed to have secret threads of communication with
the other people in town, especially those her age, and sometimes she would surprise us
with news so ahead of its time that she could only have known it through powers of
divination. That morning, however, she didn't feel the throb of the tragedy that had been
gestating since three o'clock. She'd finished sweeping the courtyard, and when my sister
Margot went out to meet the bishop she found her grinding manioc for the fritters. "Cocks
could be heard," my mother is accustomed to saying, remembering that day. She never
associated the distant uproar with the arrival of the bishop, however, but with the last
leftovers from the wedding.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 13 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 Our house was a good distance from the main square, in a mango grove on the
river. My sister Margot had gone to the docks by walking along the shore, and the people
were too excited with the bishop's visit to worry about any other news. They'd placed the
sick people in the archways to receive God's medicine, and women came running out of
their yards with turkeys and suckling pigs and all manner of things to eat, and from the
opposite shore came canoes bedecked with flowers. But after the bishop passed without
setting foot on land, the other repressed news assumed its scandalous dimensions. Then it
was that my sister Margot learned about it in a thorough and brutal way: Angela Vicario,
the beautiful girl who'd gotten married the day before, had been returned to the house of her
parents, because her husband had discovered that she wasn't a virgin. "I felt that I was the
one who was going to die," my sister said. "But no matter how much they tossed the story
back and forth, no one could explain to me how poor Santiago Nasar ended up being
involved in such a mix-up." The only thing they knew for sure was that Angela Vicario's
brothers were waiting for him to kill him.
 My sister returned home gnawing at herself inside to keep from crying. She found
my mother in the dining room, wearing a Sunday dress with blue flowers that she had put
on in case the bishop came by to pay us a call, and she was singing the fado about invisible
love as she set the table. My sister noted that there was one more place than usual.
 "It's for Santiago Nasar," my mother said. "They told me you'd invited him for
breakfast."
 "Take it away," my sister said.
 Then she told her. "But it was as if she already knew," she said to me. "It was the
same as always: you begin telling her something and before the story is half over she
already knows how it came out." That bad news represented a knotty problem for my
mother. Santiago Nasar had been named for her and she was his godmother when he was
christened, but she was also a blood relative of Pura Vicario, the mother of the returned
bride. Nevertheless, no sooner had she heard the news than she put on her high-heeled
shoes and the church shawl she only wore for visits of condolence. My father, who had
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 14 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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heard everything from his bed, appeared in the dining room in his pyjamas and asked in
alarm where she was going.
 "To warn my dear friend Plلcida," she answered. "It isn't right that everybody
should know that they're going to kill her son and she the only one who doesn't."
 "We've got the same ties to the Vicarios that we do with her," my father said.
 "You always have to take the side of the dead," she said.
 My younger brothers began to come out of the other bedrooms. The smallest,
touched by the breath of tragedy, began to weep. My mother paid no attention to them; for
once in her life she didn't even pay any attention to her husband.
 "Wait a minute and I'll get dressed," he told her.
 She was already in the street. My brother Jaime, who wasn't more than seven at the
time, was the only one who was dressed for school.
 "You go with her," my father ordered.
 Jaime ran after her without knowing what was happening or where they were
going, and grabbed her hand. "She was going along talking to herself," Jaime told me.
"Lowlifes," she was saying under her breath, "shitty animals that can't do anything that isn't
something awful." She didn't even realise that she was holding the child by the hand. "They
must have thought I'd gone crazy," she told me. "The only thing I can remember is that in
the distance you could hear the noise of a lot of people, as if the wedding party had started
up again, and everybody was running toward the square." She quickened her step, with the
determination she was capable of when there was a life at stake, until somebody who was
running in the opposite direction took pity on her madness.
 "Don't bother yourself, Luisa Santiaga," he shouted as he went by. "They've
already killed him."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 15 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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CHAPTER 2
BAYARDO SAN ROMAN, THE MAN WHO had given back his bride, had turned up for
the first time in August of the year before: six months before the wedding. He arrived on
the weekly boat with some saddlebags decorated with silver that matched the buckle of his
belt and the rings on his boots. He was around thirty years old, but they were wellconcealed,
because he had the waist of P a novice bullfighter, golden eyes, and a skin
slowly roasted by saltpetre. He arrived wearing a short jacket and very tight trousers, both
of natural calfskin, and kid gloves of the same colour. Magdalena Oliver had been with him
on the boat and couldn't take her eyes off him during the whole trip. "He looked like a
fairy," she told me. "And it was a pity, because I could have buttered him and eaten him
alive." She wasn't the only one who thought so, nor was she the last to realise that Bayardo
San Roman was not a man to be known at first sight.
 My mother wrote to me at school toward the end of August and said in a casual
postscript: "A very strange man has come." In the following letter she told me: "The strange
man is called Bayardo San Roman, and everybody says he's enchanting, but I haven't seen
him." Nobody knew what he'd come for. Someone who couldn't resist the temptation of
asking him, a little before the wedding, received the answer: "I've been going from town to
town looking for someone to marry." It might have been true, but he would have answered
anything else in the same way, because he had a way of speaking that served to conceal
rather than to reveal.
 The night he arrived he gave them to understand at the movies that he was a track
engineer, and spoke of the urgency for building a railroad into the interior so that we could
keep ahead of the river's fickle ways. On the following day he had to send a telegram and
he transmitted it on the key himself, and in addition, he taught the telegrapher a formula of
his so that he could keep on using the worn-out batteries. With the same assurance he talked
about frontier illnesses with a military doctor who had come through during those months
of conscription. He liked noisy and long-lasting festivities, but he was a good drinker, a
mediator of fights, and an enemy of cardsharps. One Sunday after mass he challenged the
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 16 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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most skillful swimmers, who were many, and left the best behind by twenty strokes in
crossing the river and back. My mother told me about it in a letter, and at the end she made
a comment that was very much like her: "It also seems that he's swimming in gold." That
was in reply to the premature legend that Bayardo San Roman not only was capable of
doing everything, and doing it quite well, but also had access to endless resources.
 My mother gave him the final blessing in a letter in October: "People like him a
lot," she told me, "because he's honest and has a good heart, and last Sunday he received
communion on his knees and helped with the mass in Latin." In those days it wasn't
permitted to receive communion standing and everything was in Latin, but my mother is
accustomed to noting that kind of superfluous detail when she wants to get to the heart of
the matter. Nevertheless, after that consecrated verdict she wrote me two letters in which
she didn't say anything about Bayardo San Roman, not even when it was known very well
that he wanted to marry Angela Vicario. Only a long time after the unfortunate wedding did
she confess to me that she actually knew him when it was already too late to correct the
October letter, and that his golden eyes had caused the shudder of a fear in her.
 "He reminded me of the devil," she told me, "but you yourself had told me that
things like that shouldn't be put into writing."
 I met him a short while after she did, when I came home for Christmas vacation,
and I found him just as strange as they had said. He seemed attractive, certainly, but far
from Magdalena Oliver's idyllic vision. He seemed more serious to me than his antics
would have led one to believe, and with a hidden tension that was barely concealed by his
excessive good manners. But above all, he seemed to me like a very sad man. At that time
he had already formalised his contract of love with Angela Vicario.
 It had never been too well established how they had met. The landlady of the
bachelors' boardinghouse where Bayardo San Roman lived told of how he'd been napping
in a rocking chair in the parlour toward the end of September, when Angela Vicario and her
mother crossed the square carrying two baskets of artificial flowers. Bayardo San Roman
half-awoke, saw the two women dressed in the unforgiving black worn by the only living
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 17 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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creatures in the morass of two o'clock in the afternoon, and asked who the young one was.
The landlady answered him that she was the youngest daughter of the woman with her and
that her name was Angela Vicario. Bayardo San Roman followed them with his look to the
other side of the square.
 "She's well-named," he said.
 Then he rested his head on the back of the rocker and closed his eyes again.
 "When I wake up," he said, "remind me that I'm going to marry her."
 Angela Vicario told me that the landlady of the boardinghouse had spoken to her
about that occurrence before Bayardo San Roman began courting her. "I was quite startled,"
she told me. Three people who had been in the boarding-house confirmed that it had taken
place, but four others weren't sure. On the other hand, all the versions agreed that Angela
Vicario and Bayardo San Roman had seen each other for the first time on the national
holiday in October during a charity bazaar at which she was in charge of singing out the
raffle numbers. Bayardo San Roman came to the bazaar and went straight to the booth run
by the languid raffler, who was in mourning, and he asked her the price of the music box
inlaid with mother-of-pearl that must have been the major attraction of the fair. She
answered him that it was not for sale but was to be raffled off.
 "So much the better," he said. "That makes it easier and cheaper besides."
 She confessed to me that he'd managed to impress her, but for reasons opposite
those of love. "I detested conceited men, and I'd never seen one so stuck-up," she told me,
recalling that day. "Besides, I thought he was a Jew." Her annoyance was greater when she
sang out the raffle number for the music box, to the anxiety of all, and indeed, it had been
won by Bayardo San Roman. She couldn't imagine that he, just to impress her, had bought
all the tickets in the raffle.
 That night, when she returned home, Angela Vicario found the music box there,
gift-wrapped and tied with an organdy bow. "I never did find out how he knew that it was
my birthday," she told me. It was hard for her to convince her parents that she hadn't given
Bayardo San Roman any reason to send her a gift like that, and even worse, in such a
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 18 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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visible way that it hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone. So her older brothers, Pedro and Pablo,
took the music box to the hotel to give back to its owner, and they did it with such a rush
that there was no one to witness them come and then not leave. Since the only thing the
family hadn't counted upon was Bayardo San Roman's irresistible charm, the twins didn't
reappear until dawn of the next day, foggy with drink, bearing once more the music box,
and bringing along, besides, Bayardo San Roman to continue the revels at home.
 Angela Vicario was the youngest daughter of a family of scant resources. Her
father, Poncio Vicario, was a poor man's goldsmith, and he'd lost his sight from doing so
much fine work in gold in order to maintain the honour of the house. Pure sima del Carmen,
her mother, had been a schoolteacher until she married for ever. Her meek and somewhat
afflicted look hid the strength of her character quite well. "She looked like a nun," my wife
Mercedes recalls. She devoted herself with such spirit of sacrifice to the care of her husband
and the rearing of her children that at times one forgot she still existed. The two oldest
daughters had married very late. In addition to the twins, there was a middle daughter who
had died of nighttime fevers, and two years later they were still observing a mourning that
was relaxed inside the house but rigorous on the street. The brothers were brought up to be
men. The girls had been reared to get married. They knew how to do screen embroidery,
sew by machine, weave bone lace, wash and iron, make artificial flowers and fancy candy,
and write engagement announcements. Unlike other girls of the time, who had neglected
the cult of death, the four were past mistresses in the ancient science of sitting up with the
ill, comforting the dying, and enshrouding the dead. The only thing that my mother
reproached them for was the custom of combing their hair before sleeping. "Girls," she
would tell them, "don't comb your hair at night; you'll slow down seafarers." Except for
that, she thought there were no better-reared daughters. "They're perfect," she was
frequently heard to say. "Any man will be happy with them because they've been raised to
suffer." Yet it was difficult for the men who married the two eldest to break the circle,
because they always went together everywhere, and they organised dances for women only
and were predisposed to find hidden intentions in the designs of men.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 19 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 Angela Vicario was the prettiest of the four, and my mother said that she had been
born like the great queens of history, with the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. But
she had a helpless air and a poverty of spirit that augured an uncertain future for her. I
would see her again year after year during my Christmas vacations, and every time she
seemed more destitute in the window of her house, where she would sit in the afternoon
making cloth flowers and singing songs about single women with her neighbours. "She's all
set to be hooked," Santiago Nasar would tell me, "your cousin the ninny is." Suddenly, a
little before the mourning for her sister, I passed her on the street for the first time dressed
as a grown •woman and with her hair curled, and I could scarcely believe it was the same
person. But it was a momentary vision: her penury of spirit had been aggravated with the
years. So much so that when it was discovered that Bayardo San Roman wanted to marry
her, many people thought it was an outsider's scheming.
 The family took it not only seriously but with great excitement. Except Pura
Vicario, who laid down the condition that Bayardo San Roman should identify himself
properly. Up till then nobody knew who he was. His past didn't go beyond that afternoon
when he disembarked in his actor's getup, and he was so reserved about his origins that
even the most demented invention could have been true. It came to be said that he had
wiped out villages and sown terror in Casanare as troop commander, that he had escaped
from Devil's Island, that he'd been seen in Pernambuco trying to make a living with a pair
of trained bears, and that he'd salvaged the remains of a Spanish galleon loaded with gold in
the Windward Passage. Bayardo San Roman put an end to all those conjectures by a simple
recourse: he produced his entire family.
 There were four of them: the father, the mother, and two provocative sisters. They
arrived in a Model T Ford with official plates, whose duck-quack horn aroused the streets at
eleven o'clock in the morning. His mother, Alberta Simonds, a big mulatto woman from
Curacao, who spoke Spanish with a mixture of Papiamento, in her youth had been
proclaimed the most beautiful of the two hundred most beautiful women in the Antilles.
The sisters, newly come into bloom, were like two restless fillies. But the main attraction
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 20 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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was the father: General Petronio San Roman, hero of the civil wars of the past century, and
one of the major glories of the Conservative regime for having put Colonel Aureliano
Buenda to flight in the disaster of Tucurinca. My mother was the only one who wouldn't go
to greet him when she found out who he was. "It seems all right to me that they should get
married," she told me. "But that's one thing and it's something altogether different to shake
hands with the man who gave the orders for Gerineldo Mلrquez to be shot in the back." As
soon as he appeared in the window of the automobile waving his white hat, everybody
recognised him because of the fame of his pictures. He was wearing a wheat-coloured linen
suit, high-laced cordovan shoes, and gold-rimmed glasses held by a clasp on the bridge of
his nose and connected by a chain to a buttonhole in his vest. He wore the Medal of Valour
on his lapel and carried a cane with the national shield carved on the pommel. He was the
first to get out of the automobile, completely covered with the burning dust of our bad
roads, and all he had to do was appear on the running board for everyone to realise that
Bayardo San Roman was going to marry whomever he chose.
 It was Angela Vicario who didn't want to marry him. "He seemed too much of a
man for me," she told me. Besides, Bayardo San Roman hadn't even tried to court her, but
had bewitched the family with his charm. Angela Vicario never forgot the horror of the
night on which her parents and her older sisters with their husbands, gathered together in
the parlour, imposed on her the obligation to marry a man whom she had barely seen. The
twins stayed out of it. "It looked to us like woman problems," Pablo Vicario told me. The
parents' decisive argument was that a family dignified by modest means had no right to
disdain that prize of destiny. Angela Vicario only dared hint at the inconvenience of a lack
of love, but her mother demolished it with a single phrase: "Love can be learned too."
 Unlike engagements of the time, which were long and supervised, theirs lasted
only four months due to Bayardo San Roman's urgings. It wasn't any shorter because Pura
Vicario demanded that they wait until the family mourning was over. But the time passed
without anxiety because of the irresistible way in which Bayardo San Roman arranged
things. "One night he asked me what house I liked best," Angela Vicario told me. "And I
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 21 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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answered, without knowing why, that the prettiest house in town was the farmhouse
belonging to the widower Xius." I would have said the same. It was on a windswept hill,
and from the terrace you could see the limitless paradise of the marshes covered with purple
anemones, and on clear summer days you could make out the neat horizon of the Caribbean
and the tourist ships from Cartagena de Indias. That very night Bayardo San Roman went to
the social club and sat down at the widower Xius's table to play a game of dominoes.
 "Widower," he told him, "I'll buy your house."
 "It's not for sale," the widower said.
 "I'll buy it along with everything inside."
 The widower Xius explained to him with the good breeding of olden days that the
objects in the house had been bought by his wife over a whole lifetime of sacrifice and that
for him they were still a part of her. "He was speaking with his heart in his hand," I was told
by Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn, who was playing with them. "I was sure he would have died
before he'd sell a house where he'd been happy for over thirty years." Bayardo San Roman
also understood his reasons.
 "Agreed," he said. "So sell me the house empty."
 But the widower defended himself until the end of the game. Three nights later,
better prepared, Bayardo San Roman returned to the domino table.
 "Widower," he began again, "what's the price of the house?"
 "It hasn't got a price."
 "Name any one you want."
 "I'm sorry, Bayardo," the widower said, "but you young people don't understand
the motives of the heart."
 Bayardo San Roman didn't pause to think.
 "Let's say five thousand pesos," he said.
 "You don't beat around the bush," the widower answered him, his dignity aroused.
"The house isn't worth all that."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 22 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 "Ten thousand," said Bayardo San Roman. "Right now and with one bill on top of
another."
 The widower looked at him, his eyes full of tears. "He was weeping with rage," I
was told by Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn, who, in addition to being a physician, was a man of
letters. "Just imagine: an amount like that within reach and having to say no from a simple
weakness of the spirit." The widower Xius's voice didn't come out, but without hesitation he
said no with his head.
 "Then do me one last favour," said Baynardo San Roman. Wait for me here for
five minutes.
 Five minutes later, indeed, he returned to the social club with his silver-trimmed
saddlebags, and on the table he laid ten bundles of thousand-peso notes with the printed
bands of the State Bank still on them. The widower Xius died two months later. "He died
because of that," Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn said. "He was healthier than the rest of us, but when
you listened with the stethoscope you could hear the tears bubbling inside his heart." But
not only had he sold the house with everything in it; he asked Bayard San Roman to pay
him little by little because he didn't even have an old trunk where he could keep so much
consolation money.
 No one would have thought, nor did anyone say, that Angela Vicario wasn't a
virgin. She hadn't known any previous fiance and she'd grown up along with her sisters
under the rigour of a mother of iron. Even when it was less than two months before she
would be married, Pura Vicario wouldn't let her go out alone with Bayardo San Roman to
see the house where they were going to live, but she and the blind father accompanied her
to watch over her honour. "The only thing I prayed to God for was to give me the courage
to kill myself," Angela Vicario told me. "But he didn't give it to me." She was so distressed
that she had resolved to tell her mother the truth so as to free herself from that martyrdom,
when her only two confidantes, who worked with her making cloth flowers, dissuaded her
from her good intentions. "I obeyed them blindly," she told me, "because they made me
believe that they were experts in men's tricks." They assured her that almost all women lost
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 23 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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their virginity in childhood accidents. They insisted that even the most difficult of husbands
resigned themselves to anything as long as nobody knew about it. They convinced her,
finally, that most men came to their wedding night so frightened that they were incapable of
doing anything without the woman's help, and at the moment of truth they couldn't answer
for their own acts. "The only thing they believe is what they see on the sheet," they told her.
And they taught her old wives' tricks to feign her lost possession, so that on her first
morning as a newlywed she could display open under the sun in the courtyard of her house
the linen sheet with the stain of honour.
 She got married with that illusion. Bayardo San Roman, for his part, must have got
married with the illusion of buying happiness with the huge weight of his power and
fortune, for the more the plans for the festival grew, the more delirious ideas occurred to
him to make it even larger. He tried to hold off the wedding for a day when the bishop's
visit was announced so that he could marry them, but Angela Vicario was against it.
"Actually," she told me, "the fact is I didn't want to be blessed by a man who cut off only
the combs for soup and threw the rest of the rooster into the garbage." Yet, even without the
bishop's blessing, the festival took on a force of its own so difficult to control that it got out
of the hands of Bayardo San Roman and ended up being a public event.
 General Petronio San Roman and his family arrived that time on the National
Congress's ceremonial boat, which remained moored to the dock until the end of the
festivities, and with them came many illustrious people who, even so, passed unnoticed in
the tumult of new faces. So many gifts were brought that it was necessary to restore the
forgotten site of the first electrical power plant in order to display the most valuable among
them, and the rest were immediately taken to the former home of the widower Xius, which
had already been prepared to receive the newly weds. The groom received a convertible
with his name engraved in Gothic letters under the manufacturer's seal. The bride was given
a chest with table settings in pure gold for twenty-four guests. They also brought in a ballet
company and two waltz orchestras that played out of tune with the local bands and all the
groups of brass and accordion players who came, animated by the uproar of the revelry.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 24 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 The Vicario family lived in a modest house with brick walls and a palm roof,
topped by two attics where in January swallows got in to breed. In front it had a terrace
almost completely covered with flowerpots, and a large yard with hens running loose and
with fruit trees. In the rear of the yard the twins had a pigsty, with its sacrificial stone and
its disembowelling table, which had been a good source of domestic income ever since
Poncio Vicario had lost his sight. Pedro Vicario had started the business, but when he went
into military service, his twin brother also learned the slaughterer's trade.
 The inside of the house barely had enough room in -which to live, and so the older
sisters tried to borrow a house when they realised the size of the festival. "Just imagine,"
Angela Vicario told me, "they'd thought about Plلcida Linero's house, but luckily my
parents stubbornly held to the old song that our daughters would be married in our pigpen
or they wouldn't be married at all." So they painted the house its original yellow colour,
fixed up the doors, repaired the floors, and left it as worthy as was possible for such a
clamorous wedding. The twins took the pigs off elsewhere and sanitised the pigsty with
quicklime, but even so it was obvious that there wasn't enough room. Finally, through the
efforts of Bayardo San Roman, they knocked down the fences in the yard, borrowed the
neighbouring house for dancing, and set up carpenters' benches to sit and eat on under the
leaves of the tamarind trees.
 The only unforeseen surprise was caused by the groom on the morning of the
wedding, for he was two hours late in coming for Angela Vicario and she had refused to get
dressed as a bride until she saw him in the house. "Just imagine," she told me. "I would
have been happy even if he hadn't come, but never if he abandoned me dressed up." Her
caution seemed natural, because there was no public misfortune more shameful than for a
woman to be jilted in her bridal gown. On the other hand, the fact that Angela Vicario dared
put on the veil and the orange blossoms without being a virgin would be interpreted
afterwards as a profanation of the symbols of purity. My mother was the only one who
appreciated as an act of courage the fact that she had played out her marked cards to the
final consequences. "In those days," she explained to me, "God understood such things."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 25 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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But no one yet knew what cards Bayardo San Roman was playing. From the moment he
finally appeared in frock coat and top hat until he fled the dance with the creature of his
torment, he was the perfect image of a happy bridegroom.
 Nor was it known what cards Santiago Nasar was playing. I was with him all the
time, in the church and at the festival, along with Cristo Bedoya and my brother Luis
Enrique, and none of us caught a glimpse of any change in his manner. I've had to repeat
this many times, because the four of us had grown up together in school and later on in the
same gang at vacation time, and nobody could have believed that one of us could have a
secret without its being shared, particularly such a big secret.
 Santiago Nasar was a man for parties, and he had his best time on the eve of his
death calculating the expense of the wedding. He estimated that they'd set up floral
decorations in the church equal in cost to those for fourteen first-class funerals. That
precision would haunt me for many years, because Santiago Nasar had often told me that
the smell of closed-in flowers had an immediate relation to death for him, and that day he
repeated it to me as we went into the church. "I don't want any flowers at my funeral," he
told me, hardly thinking that I would see to it that there weren't any the next day. En route
from the church to the Vicarios' house he drew up the figures for the coloured wreaths that
decorated the streets, calculated the cost of the music and the rockets, and even the hail of
raw rice with which they received us at the party. In the drowsiness of noon, the newly
weds made their rounds in the yard. Bayardo San Roman had become our very good friend,
a friend of a few drinks, as they said in those days, and he seemed very much at ease at our
table. Angela Vicario, without her veil and bridal bouquet and in her sweat-stained satin
dress, had suddenly taken on the face of a married woman. Santiago Nasar calculated, and
told Bayardo San Roman, that up to then the wedding was costing some nine thousand
pesos. It was obvious that Angela took this as an impertinence. "My mother taught me
never to talk about money in front of other people, " she told me. Bayardo San Roman, on
the other hand, took it very graciously and even with a certain pride.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 26 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
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 "Almost," he said, "but we're only beginning. When it's all over it will be twice
that, more or less."
 Santiago Nasar proposed proving it down to the last penny, and his life lasted just
long enough. In fact, with the final figures that Cristo Bedoya gave him the next day on the
docks, forty-five minutes before he died, he ascertained that Bayardo San Roman's
prediction had been exact.
 I had a very confused memory of the festival before I decided to rescue it piece by
piece from the memory of others. For years they went on talking in my house about the fact
that my father had gone back to playing his boyhood violin in honour of the newly weds,
that my sister the nun had danced a merengue in her doorkeeper's habit, and that Dr.
Dionisio Iguarلn, who was my mother's cousin, had arranged for them to take him off on
the official boat so he wouldn't be here the next day when the bishop arrived. In the course
of the investigations for this chronicle I recovered numerous marginal experiences, among
them the free recollections of Bayardo San Roman's sisters, whose velvet dresses with great
butterfly wings pinned to their backs with gold brooches drew more attention than the
plumed hat and row of war medals worn by their father. Many knew that in the confusion of
the bash I had proposed marriage to Mercedes Barcha as soon as she finished primary
school, just as she herself would remind me fourteen years later when we got married.
Really, the most intense image that I have always held of that unwelcome Sunday was that
of old Poncio Vicario sitting alone on a stool in the centre of the yard. They had placed him
there thinking perhaps that it was the seat of honour, and the guests stumbled over him,
confused him with someone else, moved him so he wouldn't be in the way, and he nodded
his snow-white head in all directions with the erratic expression of someone too recently
blind, answering questions that weren't directed at him and responding to fleeting waves of
the hand that no one was making to him, happy in his circle of oblivion, his shirt cardboardstiff
with starch and holding the lignum vitae cane they had bought him for the party.
 The formal activities ended at six in the afternoon, when the guests of honour took
their leave. The boat departed with all its lights burning, and with a wake of waltzes from
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 27 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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the player piano, and for an instant we were cast adrift over an abyss of uncertainty, until
we recognised each other again and plunged into the confusion of the bash. The newlyweds
appeared a short time later in the open car, making their way with difficulty through the
tumult. Bayardo San Roman shot off rockets, drank cane liquor from the bottles the crowd
held out to him, and got out of the car with Angela Vicario to join the whirl of the
cumbiamba dance. Finally, he ordered us to keep on dancing at his expense for as long as
our lives would reach, and he carried his terrified wife off to his dream house, where the
widower Xius had been happy.
 The public spree broke up into fragments at around midnight, and all that remained
was Clotilde Armenta's establishment on one side of the square. Santiago Nasar and I, with
my brother Luis Enrique and Cristo Bedoya, went to Maria Alejandrina Cervantes's house
of mercies. Among so many others, the Vicario brothers were there and they were drinking
with us and singing with Santiago Nasar five hours before killing him. A few scattered
embers from the original party must still have remained, because from all sides waves of
music and distant fights reached us, sadder and sadder, until a short while before the
bishop's boat bellowed.
 Pura Vicario told my mother that she had gone to bed at eleven o'clock at night
after her older daughters had helped her clean up a bit from the devastation of the wedding.
Around ten o'clock, when there were still a few drunkards singing in the square, Angela
Vicario had sent for a little suitcase of personal things that were in the dresser in her
bedroom, and she asked them also to send a suitcase with everyday clothes; the messenger
was in a hurry. Pura Vicario had fallen into a deep sleep, when there was knocking on the
door. "They were three very slow knocks," she told my mother, "but they had that strange
touch of bad news about them." She told her that she'd opened the door without turning on
the light so as not to awaken anybody and saw Bayardo San Roman in the glow of the street
light, his silk shirt unbuttoned and his fancy pants held up by elastic suspenders. "He had
that green colour of dreams," Pura Vicario told my mother. Angela Vicario was in the
shadows, so she saw only her when Bayardo San Roman grabbed her by the arm and
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 28 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
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have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
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brought her into the light. Her satin dress was in shreds and she was wrapped in a towel up
to the waist. Pura Vicario thought they'd gone off the road in the car and were lying dead at
the bottom of the ravine.
 "Holy Mother of God," she said in terror. "Answer me if you're still of this world."
 Bayardo San Roman didn't enter, but softly pushed his wife into the house without
speaking a word. Then he kissed Pura Vicario on the cheek and spoke to her in a very deep,
dejected voice, but with great tenderness. "Thank you for everything, Mother," he told her.
"You're a saint.
 Only Pura Vicario knew what she did during the next two hours, and she went to
her grave with her secret. "The only thing I can remember is that she was holding me by the
hair with one hand and beating me with the other with such rage that I thought she was
going to kill me," Angela Vicario told me. But even that she did with such stealth that her
husband and her older daughters, asleep in the other rooms, didn't find out about anything
until dawn, when the disaster had already been consummated.
 The twins returned home a short time before three, urgently summoned by their
mother. They found Angela Vicario lying face down on the dining room couch, her face all
bruised, but she'd stopped crying. "I was no longer frightened," she told me. "On the
contrary: I felt as if the drowsiness of death had finally been lifted from me, and the only
thing I wanted was for it all to be over quickly so I could flop down and go to sleep." Pedro
Vicario, the more forceful of the brothers, picked her up by the waist and sat her on the
dining room table.
 "All right, girl," he said to her, trembling with rage, "tell us who it was."
 She only took the time necessary to say the name. She looked for it in the
shadows, she found it at first sight among the many, many easily confused names from this
world and the other, and she nailed it to the wall with her well-aimed dart, like a butterfly
with no will whose sentence has always been written.
 "Santiago Nasar," she said.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 29 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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CHAPTER 3
THE LAWYER STOOD BY THE THESIS OF homicide in legitimate defence of honour,
which was upheld by the court in good faith, and the twins declared at the end of the trial
that they would have done it again a thousand times over for the same reason. It was they
who gave a hint of the direction the defence would take as soon as they surrendered to their
church a few minutes after the crime. They burst panting into the parish house, closely
pursued by a group of roused-up Arabs, and they laid the knives, with clean blades, on
Father Amador's desk. Both were exhausted from the barbarous work of death, and their
clothes and arms were soaked and their faces smeared with sweat and still living blood, but
the priest recalled the surrender as an act of great dignity.
 "We killed him openly," Pedro Vicario said, "but we're innocent."
 "Perhaps before God," said Father Amador.
 "Before God and before men," Pablo Vicario said. "It was a matter of honour."
 Furthermore, with the reconstruction of the facts, they had feigned a much more
unforgiving bloodthirstiness than really was true, to such an extreme that it was necessary
to use public funds to repair the main door of Placida Linero's house, which was all chipped
with knife thrusts. In the panopticon of Riohacha, where they spent three years awaiting
trial because they couldn't afford bail, the older prisoners remembered them for their good
character and sociability, but they never noticed any indication of remorse in them. Still, in
reality it seemed that the Vicario brothers had done nothing right with a view to killing
Santiago Nasar immediately and without any public spectacle, but had done much more
than could be imagined to have someone to stop them from killing him, and they had failed.
 According to what they told me years later, they had begun by looking for him at
Maria Alejandrina Cervantes's place, where they had been with him until two o'clock. That
fact, like many others, was not reported in the brief. Actually, Santiago Nasar was no longer
there at the time the twins said they went looking for him, because we'd left on a round of
serenades, but in any case, it wasn't certain that they'd gone. "They never would have left
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 30 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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here," Maria Alejandrina Cervantes told me, and knowing her so well, I never doubted it.
On the other hand, they did go to wait for him at Clotilde Armenta's place, where they knew
that almost everybody would turn up except Santiago Nasar. "It was the only place open,"
they declared to the investigator. "Sooner or later he would have to come out," they told me,
after they had been absolved. Still, everybody knew that the main door of Plلcida Linero's
house was always barred on the inside, even during the daytime, and that Santiago Nasar
always carried the keys to the back door with him. That was where he went in when he got
home, in fact, while the Vicario twins had been waiting for him for more than an hour on
the other side, and if he later left by the door on the square when he went to receive the
bishop, it was for such an unforeseen reason that the investigator who drew up the brief
never did understand it.
 There had never been a death more foretold. After their sister revealed the name to
them, the Vicario twins went to the bin in the pigsty where they kept their sacrificial tools
and picked out the two best knives: one for quartering, ten inches long by two and a half
inches wide, and the other for trimming, seven inches long by one and a half inches wide.
They wrapped them in a rag and went to sharpen them at the meat market, where only a few
stalls had begun to open. There weren't very many customers that early, but twenty-two
people declared they had heard everything said, and they all coincided in the impression
that the only reason the brothers had said it was so that someone would come over to hear
them. Faustino Santos, a butcher friend, saw them enter at three-twenty, when he had just
opened up his innards table, and he couldn't understand why they were coming on a
Monday and so early, and still in their dark wedding suits. He was accustomed to seeing
them on Fridays, but a little later, and wearing the leather aprons they put on for
slaughtering. "I thought they were so drunk," Faustino Santos told me, "that not only had
they forgotten what time it was, but what day it was too." He reminded them that it was
Monday.
 "Everybody knows that, you dope," Pablo Vicario answered him good-naturedly.
"We just came to sharpen our knives."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 31 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 They sharpened them on the grindstone, and the way they always did: Pedro
holding the knives and turning them over on the stone, and Pablo working the crank. At the
same time, they talked with the other butchers about the splendour of the wedding. Some of
them complained about not having gotten their share of cake, in spite of their being working
companions, and they promised them to have some sent over later. Finally, they made the
knives sing on the stone, and Pablo laid his beside the lamp so that the steel sparkled.
 "We're going to kill Santiago Nasar," he said.
 Their reputation as good people was so well-founded that no one paid any
attention to them. "We thought it was drunkards' baloney," several butchers declared, just as
Victoria Guzman and so many others did who saw them later. I was to ask the butchers
sometime later whether or not the trade of slaughterer didn't reveal a soul predisposed to
killing a human being. They protested: "When you sacrifice a steer you don't dare look into
its eyes." One of them told me that he couldn't eat the flesh of an animal he had butchered.
Another said that he wouldn't be capable of sacrificing a cow if he'd known it before, much
less if he'd drunk its milk. I reminded them that the Vicario brothers sacrificed the same
hogs they raised, which were so familiar to them that they called them by their names.
"That's true," one of them replied, "but remember that they didn't give them people's names
but the names of flowers." Faustino Santos was the only one who perceived a glimmer of
truth in Pablo Vicario's threat, and he asked him jokingly why they had to kill Santiago
Nasar since there were so many other rich people who deserved dying first.
 "Santiago Nasar knows why," Pedro Vicario answered him.
 Faustino Santos told me that he'd still been doubtful, and that he reported it to a
policeman who came by a little later to buy a pound of liver for the mayor's breakfast. The
policeman, according to the brief, was named Leandro Pornoy, and he died the following
year, gored in the jugular vein by a bull during the national holidays, so I was never able to
talk to him. But Clotilde Armenta confirmed for me that he was the first person in her store
when the Vicario twins were sitting and waiting there.
 Clotilde Armenta had just replaced her husband behind the counter. It was their
usual system. The shop sold milk at dawn and provisions during the day and became a bar
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 32 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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after six o'clock in the evening. Clotilde Armenta would open at three-thirty in the morning.
Her husband, the good Don Rogelio de la Flor, would take charge of the bar until closing
time. But that night there had been so many stray customers from the wedding that he went
to bed after three o'clock without closing, and Clotilde Armenta was already up earlier than
usual because she wanted to finish before the bishop arrived.
 The Vicario brothers came in at four-ten. At that time only things to eat were sold,
but Clotilde Armenta sold them a bottle of cane liquor, not only because of the high regard
she had for them but also because she was very grateful for the piece of wedding cake they
had sent her. They drank down the whole bottle in two long swigs, but they remained stolid.
"They were stunned," Clotilde Armenta told me, "and they couldn't have got their blood
pressure up even with lamp oil." Then they took off their cloth jackets, hung them carefully
on the chair backs, and asked her for another bottle. Their shirts were dirty with dried sweat
and a one-day beard gave them a backwoods look. They drank the second bottle more
slowly, sitting down, looking insistently toward Plلcida Linero's house on the sidewalk
across the way, where the windows were dark. The largest one, on the balcony, belonged to
Santiago Nasar's bedroom. Pedro Vicario asked Clotilde Armenta if she had seen any light
in that window, and she answered him no, but it seemed like a strange thing to be interested
in.
 "Did something happen to him?" she asked.
 "No," Pedro Vicario replied. "Just that we're looking for him to kill him."
 It was such a spontaneous answer that she couldn't believe she'd heard right. But
she noticed that the twins were carrying two butcher knives wrapped in kitchen rags.
 "And might a person know why you want to kill him so early in the morning? she
asked.
 "He knows why," Pedro Vicario answered.
 Clotilde Armenta examined them seriously: she knew them so well that she could
tell them apart, especially ever since Pedro Vicario had come back from the army. "They
looked like two children," she told me. And that thought frightened her, because she'd
always felt that only children are capable of everything. So she finished getting the jug of
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 33 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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milk ready and went to wake her husband to tell him what was going on in the shop. Don
Rogelio de la Flor listened to her half-awake.
 "Don't be silly," he said to her. "Those two aren't about to kill anybody, much less
someone rich."
 When Clotilde Armenta returned to the store, the twins were chatting with Officer
Leandro Pornoy, who was coming for the mayor's milk. She didn't hear what they were
talking about, but she supposed that they had told him something about their plans from the
way he looked at the knives when he left.
 Colonel Lلzaro Aponte had just got up a little before four. He'd finished shaving
when Officer Leandro Pornoy revealed the Vicario brothers' intentions to him. He'd settled
so many fights between friends the night before that he was in no hurry for another one. He
got dressed calmly, tied his bow tie several times until he had it perfect, and around his
neck he hung the scapular of the Congregation of Mary, to receive the bishop. While he
breakfasted on fried liver smothered with onion rings, his wife told him with great
excitement that Bayardo San Roman had brought Angela Vicario back home, but he didn't
take it dramatically.
 "Good Lord!" he mocked. "What will the bishop think!"
 Nevertheless, before finishing breakfast he remembered what the orderly had just
told him, put the two bits of news together, and discovered immediately that they fit like
pieces of a puzzle. Then he went to the square, going along the street to the new dock,
where the houses were beginning to liven up for the bishop's arrival. "I can remember with
certainty that it was almost five o'clock and it was beginning to rain," Colonel Lلzaro
Aponte told me. Along the way three people stopped him to inform him in secret that the
Vicario brothers were waiting for Santiago Nasar to kill him, but only one person could tell
him where.
 He found them in Clotilde Armenta s store. "When I saw them I thought they were
nothing but a pair of big bluffers," he told me with his personal logic, "because they weren't
as drunk as I thought." Nor did he interrogate them concerning their intentions, but took
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 34 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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away their knives and sent them off to sleep. He treated them with the same self-assurance
with which he had passed off his wife's alarm.
 "Just imagine!" he told them. "What will the bishop say if he finds you in that
state!"
 They left. Clotilde Armenta suffered another disappointment with the mayor's
casual attitude, because she thought he should have detained the twins until the truth came
out. Colonel Aponte showed her the knives as a final argument.
 "Now they haven't got anything to kill anybody with," he said.
 "That's not why," said Clotilde Armenta. "It's to spare those poor boys from the
horrible duty that's fallen on them."
 Because she'd sensed it. She was certain that the Vicario brothers were not as
eager to carry out the sentence as to find someone who would do them the favour of
stopping them. But Colonel Aponte was at peace with his soul.
 "No one is arrested just on suspicion," he said. "Now it's a matter of warning
Santiago Nasar, and happy new year."
 Clotilde Armenta would always remember that Colonel Aponte's chubby
appearance evoked a certain pity in her, but on the other hand I remembered him as a happy
man, although a little bit off due to the solitary spiritualist practises he had learned through
the mails. His behaviour that Monday was the final proof of his silliness. The truth is that
he didn't think of Santiago Nasar again until he saw him on the docks, and then he
congratulated himself for having made the right decision.
 The Vicario brothers had told their plans to more than a dozen people who had
gone to buy milk, and these had spread the news everywhere before six o'clock. It seemed
impossible to Clotilde Armenta that they didn't know in the house across the way. She
didn't think that Santiago Nasar was there, since she hadn't seen the bedroom light go on,
and she asked all the people she could to warn him when they saw him. She even sent word
to Father Amador through the novice on duty, who came to buy milk for the nuns. After
four o'clock, when she saw the lights in the kitchen of Plلcida Linero's house, she sent the
last urgent message to Victoria Guzman by the beggar woman who came every day to ask
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 35 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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for a little milk in the name of charity. When the bishop's boat bellowed, almost everybody
was up to receive him and there were very few of us who didn't know that the Vicario twins
were waiting for Santiago Nasar to kill him, and, in addition, the reasons were understood
down to the smallest detail.
 Clotilde Armenta hadn't finished dispensing her milk when the Vicario brothers
returned with two other knives wrapped up in newspapers. One was for quartering, with a
strong, rusty blade twelve inches long and three inches wide, which had been put together
by Pedro Vicario with the metal from a marquetry saw at a time when German knives were
no longer available because of the war. The other one was shorter, but broad and curved.
The investigator had made sketches of them in the brief, perhaps because he had trouble
describing them, and all he ventured to say was that this one looked like a miniature
scimitar. It was with these knives that the crime was committed, and both were rudimentary
and had seen a lot of use.
 Faustino Santos couldn't understand what had happened. "They came to sharpen
their knives a second time," he told me, "and once more they shouted for people to hear that
they were going to cut Santiago Nasar's guts out, so I believed they were kidding around,
especially since I didn't pay any attention to the knives and thought they were the same
ones." This time, however, Clotilde Armenta noticed from the moment she saw them enter
that they didn't have the same determination as before.
 Actually, they'd had their first disagreement. Not only were they much more
different inside than they looked on the outside, but in difficult emergencies they showed
opposite characters. We, their friends, had spotted it ever since grammar school. Pablo
Vicario was six minutes older than his brother, and he was the more imaginative and
resolute until adolescence. Pedro Vicario always seemed more sentimental to me, and by
the same token more authoritarian. They presented themselves together for military service
at the age of twenty, and Pablo Vicario was excused in order to stay home and take care of
the family. Pedro Vicario served for eleven months on police patrol. The army routine,
aggravated by the fear of death, had matured his tendency to command and the habit of
deciding for his brother. He also came back with a case of sergeant's blennorrhea that
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 36 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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resisted the most brutal methods of military medicine as well as the arsenic injections and
permanganate purges of Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn. Only in jail did they manage to cure it. We,
his friends, agreed that Pablo Vicario had suddenly developed the strange dependence of a
younger brother when Pedro Vicario returned with a barrack-room soul and with the novel
trick of lifting his shirt for anyone who wanted to see a bullet wound with seton on his left
side. He even began to develop a kind of fervour over the great man's blennorrhea that his
brother wore like a war medal.
 Pedro Vicario, according to his own declaration, was the one who made the
decision to kill Santiago Nasar, and at first his brother only followed along. But he was also
the one who considered his duty fulfilled when the mayor disarmed them, and then it was
Pablo Vicario who assumed command. Neither of the two mentioned that disagreement in
their separate statements to the investigator, but Pablo Vicario confirmed several times to
me that it hadn't been easy for him to convince his brother of their final resolve. Maybe it
was really nothing but a wave of panic, but the fact is that Pablo Vicario went into the
pigsty alone to get the other two knives, while his brother agonised, drop by drop, trying to
urinate under the tamarind trees. "My brother never knew what it was like," Pedro Vicario
told me in our only interview. "It was like pissing ground glass." Pablo Vicario found him
hugging the tree when he came back with the knives. "He was in a cold sweat from the
pain," he said to me, "and he tried to tell me to go on by myself because he was in no
condition to kill anybody." He sat down on one of the carpenters' benches they'd set up
under the trees for the wedding lunch, and he dropped his pants down to his knees. "He
spent about half an hour changing the gauze he had his prick wrapped in," Pablo Vicario
told me. Actually, he hadn't delayed more than ten minutes, but this was something so
difficult and so puzzling for Pablo Vicario that he interpreted it as some new trick on his
brother's part to waste time until dawn. So he put the knife in his hand and dragged him off
almost by force in search of their sister's lost honour.
 "There's no way out of this," he told him. "It's as if it had already happened."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 37 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 They left by way of the pigpen gate with the knives unwrapped, trailed by the
uproar of the dogs in the yards. It was beginning to get light. "It wasn't raining," Pablo
Vicario remembered.
 "Just the opposite," Pedro recalled. "There was a sea wind and you could still
count the stars with your finger." The news had been so well spread by then that Hortensia
Baute opened her door precisely as they were passing her house, and she was the first to
weep for Santiago Nasar. "I thought they'd already killed him," she told me, "because I saw
the knives in the light from the street lamp and it looked to me like they were dripping
blood." One of the few houses open on that misbegotten street was that of Prudencia Cotes,
Pablo Vicario's fiancee. Whenever the twins passed by there at that time, and especially on
Fridays when they were going to the market, they would drop in to have their first cup of
coffee. They pushed open the door to the courtyard, surrounded by the dogs, who
recognised them in the half light of dawn, and they greeted Prudencia Cotes's mother in the
kitchen. Coffee wasn't ready yet.
 "We'll leave it for later," Pablo Vicario said. "We're in a hurry now."
 "I can imagine, my sons," she said. "Honour doesn't wait."
 But in any case, they waited, and this time it was Pedro Vicario who thought his
brother was wasting time on purpose. While they were drinking their coffee, Prudencia
Cotes came into the kitchen in all her adolescent bloom, carrying a roll of old newspapers
to revive the fire in the stove. "I knew what they were up to," she told me, "and I didn't only
agree, I never would have married him if he hadn't done what a man should do." Before
leaving the kitchen, Pablo Vicario took two sections of newspaper from her and gave them
to his brother to wrap the knives in.
 Prudencia Cotes stood waiting in the kitchen until she saw them leave by the
courtyard door, and she went on waiting for three years without a moment of
discouragement until Pablo Vicario got out of jail and became her husband for life.
 "Take good care of yourselves," she told them.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 38 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 So Clotilde Armenta had good reason when it seemed to her that the twins weren't
as resolute as before, and she served them a bottle of rotgut rum with the hope of getting
them dead drunk.
 "That day," she told me, "I realised just how alone we women are in the world!"
Pedro Vicario asked to borrow her husband's shaving implements, and she brought him the
brush, the soap, the hanging mirror, and the safety razor with a new blade, but he shaved
with his butcher knife. Clotilde Armenia thought that was the height of machismo. "He
looked like a killer in the movies," she told me. But as he explained to me later, and it was
true, in the army he'd learned to shave with a straight razor and couldn't do it any other way
ever since. His brother, for his part, shaved in a more humble way, with Don Rogelio de la
Flor's borrowed safety razor. Finally, they drank the bottle in silence, very slowly, gazing
with the boobish look of early risers at the dark window in the house across the way, while
fake customers buying milk they didn't need and asking for food items that didn't exist went
in and out with the purpose of seeing whether it was true that they were waiting for
Santiago Nasar to kill him.
 The Vicario brothers would not see that window light up. Santiago Nasar went into
the house at four-twenty, but he didn't have to turn on any light to reach his bedroom
because the bulb on the stairway stayed lit through the night. He threw himself onto his bed
in the darkness and with his clothes on, since he had only an hour in which to sleep, and
that was how Victoria Guzman found him when she came up to wake him so he could
receive the bishop. We'd been together at Maria Alejandrina Cervantes's until after three,
when she herself sent the musicians away and turned out the lights in the dancing courtyard
so that her pleasurable mulatto girls could go to bed by themselves and get some rest.
They'd been working without cease for three days, first taking care of the guests of honour
in secret, and then turned loose, the doors wide open for those of us still unsated by the
wedding bash. Maria Alejandrina Cervantes, about whom we used to say that she would go
to sleep only once and that would be to die, was the most elegant and the most tender
woman I have ever known, and the most serviceable in bed, but she was also the strictest.
She'd been born and reared here, and here she lived, in a house with open doors, with
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 39 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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several rooms for rent and an enormous courtyard for dancing lit by lantern gourds bought
in the Chinese bazaars of Paramaribo. It was she who did away with my generation's
virginity. She taught us much more than we should have learned, but she taught us above all
that there's no place in life sadder than an empty bed. Santiago Nasar lost his senses the first
time he saw her. I warned him: "'A falcon who chases a warlike crane can only hope for a
life of pain. But he didn't listen to me, dazzled by Maria Alejandrina Cervantes's illusory
calls. She was his mad passion, his mistress of tears at the age of fifteen, until Ibrahim
Nasar drove him out of the bed with a whip and shut him up for more than a year on The
Divine Face. Ever since then they were still linked by a serious affection, but without the
disorder of love, and she had so much respect for him that she never again went to bed with
anyone if he was present. During those last vacations she would send us off early with the
pretext that she was tired, but she left the door unbarred and with a lamp lighted in the hall
so that I could come in secretly.
 Santiago Nasar had an almost magical talent for disguises, and his favourite sport
was to confuse the identities of the mulatto girls. He would rifle the wardrobe of some to
disguise the others, so that they all ended up feeling different from themselves and like the
ones they weren't. On a certain occasion, one of them found herself repeated in another with
such exactness that she had an attack of tears. "I felt like I'd stepped out of the mirror," she
said. But that night Maria Alejandrina Cervantes wouldn't let Santiago Nasar indulge
himself for the last time in his tricks as a transformer, and she prevented it with such flimsy
pretexts that the bad taste left by that memory changed his life. So we took the musicians
with us for a round of serenades, and we continued the party on our own, while the Vicario
twins were waiting for Santiago Nasar to kill him. It was he who got the idea, at almost four
o'clock, to go up the widower Xius's hill and sing for the newly weds.
 Not only did we sing under the windows, but we set off rockets and fireworks in
the gardens, yet we didn't perceive any sign of life inside the farmhouse. It didn't occur to
us that there was no one there, especially because the new car was by the door with its top
still folded down and with the satin ribbons and bouquets of wax orange blossoms they had
hung on it during the festivities. My brother Luis Enrique, who played the guitar like a
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 40 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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professional at that time, improvised a song with matrimonial double meanings in honour of
the newlyweds. Until then it hadn't rained; on the contrary, the moon was high in the sky
and the air was clear, and at the bottom of the precipice you could see the trickle of light
from the Saint Elmo's fire in the cemetery. On the other side you could make out the groves
of blue banana trees in the moonlight, the sad swamps, and the phosphorescent line of the
Caribbean on the horizon. Santiago Nasar pointed to an intermittent light at sea and told us
that it was the soul in torment of a slave ship that had sunk with a cargo of blacks from
Senegal across from the main harbour mouth at Cartagena de Indias. It wasn't possible to
think that his conscience was bothering him, although at that time he didn't know that the
ephemeral married life of Angela Vicario had come to an end two hours before. Bayardo
San Roman had taken her to her parents' house on foot so that the noise of the motor
wouldn't betray his misfortune in advance, and he was back there alone and with the lights
out in the widower Xius's happy farmhouse.
 When we went down the hill my brother invited us to have some breakfast of fried
fish at one of the lunch stands in the market, but Santiago Nasar was against it because he
wanted to get an hour's sleep before the bishop arrived. He went along the riverbank with
Cristo Bedoya, passing the poor people's eating places that were beginning to light up by
the old harbour, and before turning the corner he waved good-bye. It was the last time we
saw him.
 Cristo Bedoya, whom he had agreed to meet later on at the docks, took leave of
him at the back door of his house. The dogs barked at him as usual when they heard him
come in, but he calmed them down in the half light with the tinkling of his keys. Victoria
Guzman was keeping watch over the coffeepot on the stove when he passed by the kitchen
on his way into the house.
 "White man," she called to him, "coffee will be ready soon."
 Santiago Nasar told her that he'd have some later, and he asked her to tell Divina
Flor to wake him up at five-thirty and bring him a clean change of clothes, just like the ones
he had on. An instant after he'd gone to bed, Victoria Guzman got the message from
Clotilde Armenta sent via the milk beggar. At five-thirty she followed his orders to wake
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 41 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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him, but she didn't send Divina Flor and went up to the bedroom herself with the suit of
pure linen, because she never missed a chance to keep her daughter away from the claws of
the seigneur.
 Maria Alejandrina Cervantes had left the door of her house unbarred. I took leave
of my brother, crossed the veranda where the mulatto girls' cats were sleeping curled up
among the tulips, and opened the bedroom door without knocking. The lights were out, but
as soon as I went in I caught the smell of a warm woman and I saw the eyes of an
insomniac leopard in the darkness, and then I didn't know anything else about myself until
the bells began to ring.
 On his way to our house, my brother went in to buy some cigarettes at Clotilde
Armenia's store. He'd drunk so much that his memories of that encounter were always quite
confused, but he never forgot the fatal drink that Pedro Vicario offered him. "It was liquid
fire," he told me. Pablo Vicario, who had fallen asleep, awoke with a start when he heard
him come in, and he showed him the knife.
 "We're going to kill Santiago Nasar," he told him.
 My brother doesn't remember it. "But even if I did remember, I wouldn't have
believed it," he told me many times. "Who the fuck would ever think that the twins would
kill anyone, much less with a pig knife!" Then they asked him where Santiago Nasar was,
because they'd seen the two of them together, and my brother didn't remember his own
answer either. But Clotilde Armenta and the Vicario brothers were so startled when they
heard it that it was left established in the brief in separate declarations. According to them,
my brother said: "Santiago Nasar is dead." Then he delivered an episcopal blessing,
stumbled over the threshold, and staggered out. In the middle of the square he crossed paths
with Father Amador, who was going to the dock in his vestments, followed by an acolyte
ringing the bell and several helpers carrying the altar for the bishop's field mass. The
Vicario brothers crossed themselves when they saw them pass.
 Clotilde Armenta told me that they'd lost their last hopes when the priest passed by
her place. "I thought he hadn't got my message," she said. Nonetheless, Father Amador
confessed to me many years later, retired from the world in the gloomy Calafell Rest Home,
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 42 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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that he had in fact received Clotilde Armenta's message and others more peremptory while
he was getting ready to go the docks. "The truth is I didn't know what to do," he told me.
"My first thought was that it wasn't any business of mine but something for the civil
authorities, but then I made up my mind to say something in passing to Plلcida Linero."
Yet when he crossed the square, he'd forgotten completely. "You have to understand," he
told me, "that the bishop was coming on that unfortunate day." At the moment of the crime
he felt such despair and was so disgusted with himself that the only thing he could think of
was to ring the fire alarm.
 My brother Luis Enrique entered the house through the kitchen door, which my
mother left unlocked so my father wouldn't hear us come in. He went to the bathroom
before going to bed, but he fell asleep sitting on the toilet, and when my brother Jaime got
up to go to school he found him stretched out face down on the tile floor and singing in his
sleep. My sister the nun, who wasn't going to wait for the bishop because she had an eightyproof
hangover, couldn't get him to wake up. "It was striking five when I went to the
bathroom," she told me. Later, when my sister Margot went in to bathe before going to the
docks, she managed with great effort to drag him to his bedroom. From the other side of
sleep he heard the first bellows of the bishop's boat without awakening. Then he fell into a
deep sleep, worn out by his carousing, until my sister the nun rushed into the bedroom,
trying to put her habit on as she ran, and woke him up with her mad cry: "They've killed
Santiago Nasar!"
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 43 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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CHAPTER 4
THE DAMAGE FROM THE KNIVES WAS only a beginning for the unforgiving autopsy
that Father Carmen Amador found himself obliged to perform in Dr. Dionisio Iguaran's
absence. "It was as if we killed him all over again after he was dead," the aged priest told
me in his retirement at Calafell. "But it was an order from the mayor, and orders from the
barbarian, stupid as they might have been, had to be obeyed." It wasn't entirely proper. In
the confusion of that absurd Monday, Colonel Aponte had had an urgent telegraphic
conversation with the governor of the province, and the latter authorised him to take the
preliminary steps while he sent an investigating magistrate. The mayor was a former troop
commander with no experience in matters of law, and he was too conceited to ask anyone
who knew where he should begin. The first thing that bothered him was the autopsy. Cristo
Bedoya, who was a medical student, managed to get out of it because of his intimate
friendship with Santiago Nasar. The mayor thought that the body could be kept under
refrigeration until Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn came back, but he couldn't find a human-sized
freezer, and the only one in the market that would serve the purpose was out of order. The
body had been exposed to public view in the centre of the living room, lying on a narrow
iron cot while they were building a rich man's coffin for it. They'd brought in fans from the
bedrooms and some neighbouring houses, but there were so many people anxious to see it
that they had to push back the furniture and take down the bird cages and pots of ferns, and
even then the heat was unbearable. In addition, the dogs, aroused by the smell of death,
increased the uneasiness. They hadn't stopped howling since I went into the house, when
Santiago Nasar was still in his death throes in the kitchen and I found Divina Flor weeping
in great howls and holding them off with a stick.
 "Help me," she shouted to me. "What they want is to eat his guts."
 We locked them up in the stable. Plلcida Linero later ordered them taken to some
place far off until after the funeral. But toward noon, no one knew how, they escaped from
where they were and burst madly into the house. Plلcida Linero, just once, lost her grip.
 "Those shitty dogs!" she shouted. "Kill them!"
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 44 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 The order was carried out immediately and the house was silent again. Until then
there hadn't been any concern at all for the state of the body. The face had remained intact,
with the same expression it wore when he was singing, and Cristo Bedoya had put the
intestines back in place and wrapped the body in linen strips. Nevertheless, in the afternoon
a syrup-coloured liquid began to flow from the wounds, drawing flies, and a purple blotch
appeared on the upper lip and spread out very slowly, like the shadow of a cloud on water,
up to the hairline. His face, which had always been easy-going, took on a hostile
expression, and his mother covered it with a handkerchief. Colonel Aponte understood then
that they couldn't wait any longer and he ordered Father Amador to perform the autopsy. "It
would be worse digging him up a week later," he said. The priest had studied medicine and
surgery at Salamanca, but had entered the seminary before he was graduated, and even the
mayor knew that his autopsy would have no legal standing. Nevertheless, he made him
carry out the order.
 It was a massacre, performed at the public school with the help of the druggist,
who took notes, and a first-year medical student who was here on vacation. They had only a
few instruments for minor surgery available and the rest were craftsmen's tools. But despite
the havoc wrought on the body, Father Amador's report seemed in order and the
investigator incorporated it in the brief as a useful piece of evidence.
 Seven of the many wounds were fatal. The liver was almost sliced in pieces by two
deep cuts on the anterior side. He had four incisions in the stomach, one of them so deep
that it went completely through, and destroyed, the pancreas. He had six other, lesser
perforations in the transverse colon and multiple wounds in the small intestine. The only
one he had in the back, at the level of the third lumbar vertebra, had perforated the right
kidney. The abdominal cavity was filled with large clots of blood, and in the midst of the
morass of gastric contents appeared a medal of gold that Santiago Nasar had swallowed at
the age of four. The thoracic cavity showed two perforations: one in the second right rib
space that affected the lung, and another quite close to the left armpit. He also had six
minor wounds on his arms and hands, and two horizontal cuts: one on the right thigh and
the other in the abdominal muscles. He had a deep stab in the right hand. The report says:
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 45 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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"It looked like a stigma of the crucified Christ." The encephalic mass weighed sixty grams
more than that of a normal Englishman, and Father Amador noted in the report that
Santiago Nasar had a superior intelligence and a brilliant future. Nevertheless, in the final
note he pointed out a hypertrophy of the liver that he attributed to a poorly cured case of
hepatitis. "That is to say," he told me, "he had only a few years of life left to him in any
case." Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn, who in fact had treated Santiago Nasar for hepatitis at the age
of twelve, recalled that autopsy with indignation. "Only a priest could be so dumb," he told
me. "There was never any way to make him understand that we tropical people have larger
livers than greenhorn Galician Spaniards." The report concluded that the cause of death had
been a massive haemorrhage brought on by any one of the seven major wounds.
 They gave us back a completely different body. Half of the cranium had been
destroyed by the trepanation, and the lady-killer face that death had preserved ended up
having lost its identity. Furthermore, the priest had pulled out the sliced-up intestines by the
roots, but in the end he didn't know what to do with them, and he gave them an angry
blessing and threw them into the garbage pail. The last onlookers ranged about the
schoolhouse windows lost their curiosity, the helper fainted, and Colonel Lلzaro Aponte,
who had seen and caused so many repressive massacres, became a vegetarian as well as a
spiritualist. The empty shell, stuffed with rags and quicklime and sewed up crudely with
coarse twine and baling needles, was on the point of falling apart when we put it into the
new coffin with its silk quilt lining. "I thought it would last longer that way," Father
Amador told me. Just the opposite happened, and we had to bury him hurriedly at dawn
because he was in such bad shape that it was already unbearable in the house.
 A cloudy Tuesday was breaking through. I didn't have the courage to sleep at the
end of that oppressive time, and I pushed on the door of Maria Alejandrina Cervantes's
house in case she hadn't put up the bar. The gourd lamps were burning where they hung
from the trees, and in the courtyard for dancing there were several wood fires with huge
steaming pots where the mulatto girls were putting mourning dye onto their party clothes. I
found Maria Alejandrina Cervantes awake as always at dawn, and completely naked as
always when there weren't any strangers in the house. She was squatting like a Turkish
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 46 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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houri on her queenly bed across from a Babylonic platter of things to eat: veal cutlets, a
boiled chicken, a pork loin, and a garnishing of plantains and vegetables that would have
served five people. Disproportionate eating was always the only way she could ever mourn
and I'd never seen her do it with such grief. I lay down by her side with my clothes on,
barely speaking, and mourning too in my way. I was thinking about the ferocity of Santiago
Nasar's fate, which had collected twenty years of happiness from him not only with his
death but also with the dismemberment of his body and its dispersion and extermination. I
dreamed that a woman was coming into the room with a little girl in her arms, and that the
child was chewing without stopping to take a breath, and that half-chewed kernels of corn
were falling into the woman's brassiere. The woman said to me: "She crunches like a nutty
nuthatch, kind of sloppy, kind of slurpy." Suddenly I felt the anxious fingers that were
undoing the buttons of my shirt, and I caught the dangerous smell of the beast of love lying
by my back, and I felt myself sinking into the delights of the quicksand of her tenderness.
But suddenly she stopped, coughed from far off, and slipped out of my life.
 "I can't," she said. "You smell of him." Not just I. Everything continued smelling
of Santiago Nasar that day. The Vicario brothers could smell him in the jail cell where the
mayor had locked them up until he could think of something to do with them. "No matter
how much I scrubbed with soap and rags, I couldn't get rid of the smell," Pedro Vicario told
me. They'd gone three nights without sleep, but they couldn't rest because as soon as they
began to fall asleep they would commit the crime all over again. Now, almost an old man,
trying to explain to me his condition on that endless day, Pablo Vicario told me without any
effort: "It was like being awake twice over." That phrase made me think that what must
have been most unbearable for them in jail was their lucidity.
 The room was ten feet square, and had a very high skylight with iron bars, a
portable latrine, a washstand with its pitcher and basin, and two makeshift beds with straw
mats. Colonel Aponte, under whose orders it had been built, said that no hotel existed that
was more humane. My brother Luis Enrique agreed, because one night they'd locked him
up after a fight among musicians, and the mayor allowed him the charity of having one of
the mulatto girls stay with him. Perhaps the Vicario brothers could have thought the same
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 47 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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thing at eight o'clock in the morning, when they felt themselves safe from the Arabs. At that
moment they were comforted by the honour of having done their duty, and the only thing
that worried them was the persistence of the smell. They asked for lots of water, laundry
soap, and rags, and they washed the blood from their arms and faces, and they also washed
their shirts, but they couldn't get any rest. Pedro Vicario asked for his laxatives and
diuretics and a roll of sterile gauze so he could change his bandage, and he succeeded in
having two urinations during the morning. Nevertheless, life was becoming so difficult for
him as the day advanced that the smell took second place. At two in the afternoon, when the
heaviness of the heat should have melted them, Pedro Vicario couldn't stay there lying on
the bed, but the same weariness prevented him from standing. The pain in his groin had
reached his throat, his urine was shut off, and he suffered the frightful certainty that he
wouldn't sleep ever again for the rest of his life. "I was awake for eleven months," he told
me, and I knew him well enough to know that it was true. He couldn't eat any lunch. Pablo
Vicario, for his part, ate a little bit of everything they brought him, and fifteen minutes later
unloosed a pestilential diarrhoea. At six in the afternoon, while they were performing the
autopsy on Santiago Nasar's corpse, the mayor was summoned urgently because Pedro
Vicario was convinced that his brother had been poisoned. "He was turning into water right
in front of me," Pedro Vicario told me, "and we couldn't get rid of the idea that it was some
trick of the Turks." Up till then he'd overflowed the portable latrine twice and the guard on
watch had taken him to the town hall washroom another six times. There Colonel Aponte
found him, in the doorless toilet boxed in by the guard, and pouring out water so fluently
that it wasn't too absurd to think about poison. But they put the idea aside immediately
when it was established that he had only drunk the water and eaten the food sent by Pura
Vicario. Nonetheless, the mayor was so impressed that he had the prisoners taken to his
house under a special guard until the investigating judge came and transferred them to the
panoptic prison in Riohacha.
 The twins' fear was in response to the mood in the streets. Revenge by the Arabs
wasn't dismissed, but no one, except the Vicario brothers, had thought of poison. It was
supposed, rather, that they would wait for nightfall in order to pour gasoline through the
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 48 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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skylight and burn up the prisoners in their cell. But even that was too easy a supposition.
The Arabs comprised a community of peaceful immigrants who had settled at the beginning
of the century in Caribbean towns, even in the poorest and most remote, and there they
remained, selling coloured cloth and bazaar trinkets. They were clannish, hardworking, and
Catholic. They married among themselves, imported their wheat, raised lambs in their
yards, and grew oregano and eggplants, and playing cards was their only driving passion.
The older ones continued speaking the rustic Arabic they had brought from their homeland,
and they maintained it intact in the family down to the second generation, but those of the
third, with the exception of Santiago Nasar, listened to their parents in Arabic and answered
them in Spanish. So it was inconceivable that they would suddenly abandon their pastoral
spirit to avenge a death for which we all could have been to blame. On the other hand, no
one thought about reprisals from Plلcida Linero's family, who had been powerful and
fighting people until their fortune ran out, and had bred more than two barroom killers who
had been preserved by the salt of their name.
 Colonel Aponte, worried by the rumours, visited the Arabs family by family and
that time, at least, drew a correct conclusion. He found them perplexed and sad, with signs
of mourning on their altars, and some of them sitting on the ground and wailing, but none
harboured ideas of vengeance. The reaction that morning had grown out of the heat of the
crime, and even the very leaders admitted that in no case would it have gone beyond a
beating. Furthermore, it was Susana Abdala, the centenarian matriarch, who recommended
the prodigious infusion of passion flowers and absinthe that dried up Pablo Vicario's
diarrhoea and unleashed at the same time his brother's florid flow. Pedro Vicario then fell
into an insomniac drowsiness and his recovered brother earned his first sleep without
remorse. That was how Pure sima Vicario found them at three o'clock in the morning on
Tuesday when the mayor brought her to say good-bye to them. The whole family left, even
the older sisters with their husbands, on Colonel Aponte's initiative. They left without
anyone's noticing, sheltered by public exhaustion, while the only survivors of that
irreparable day among us who were awake were burying Santiago Nasar. They were
leaving until spirits cooled off, according to the mayor's decision, but they never came
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 49 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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back. Pura Vicario wrapped the face of the rejected daughter in a cloth so that no one would
see the bruises, and she dressed her in bright red so nobody might think she was mourning
her secret lover. Before leaving she asked Father Amador to confess her sons in jail, but
Pedro Vicario refused, and convinced his brother that they had nothing to repent. They
remained alone, and on the day of their transfer to Riohacha they had so far recovered and
were so convinced that they were right that they didn't want to be taken out by night, as had
happened with the family, but in broad daylight and with their faces showing. Poncio
Vicario, the father, died a short time later. "His moral pain carried him off," Angela Vicario
told me. When the twins were absolved, they remained in Riohacha, only a day's trip from
Manaure, where the family was living. Prudencia Cotes went there to marry Pablo Vicario,
who learned to work with precious metals in his father's shop and came to be an elegant
goldsmith. Pedro Vicario, without love or a job, re-enlisted in the armed forces three years
later, earned his first sergeant's stripes, and one fine morning his patrol went into guerrilla
territory singing whorehouse songs and was never heard of again.
 For the immense majority of people there was only one victim: Bayardo San
Roman. They took it for granted that the other actors in the tragedy had been fulfilling with
dignity, and even with a certain grandeur, their part of the destiny that life had assigned
them. Santiago Nasar had expiated the insult, the brothers Vicario had proved their status as
men, and the seduced sister was in possession of her honour once more. The only one who
had lost everything was Bayardo San Roman: "poor Bayardo," as he was remembered over
the years. Still, no one had thought of him until after the eclipse of the moon the following
Saturday, when the widower Xius told the mayor that he'd seen a phosphorescent bird
fluttering over his former home, and he thought it was the soul of his wife, who was going
about demanding what was hers. The mayor slapped his brow, but it had nothing to do with
the widower's vision.
 "Shit!" he shouted. "I'd completely forgotten about that poor man!"
 He went up the hill with a patrol and found the car with its top down in front of the
farmhouse, and he saw a solitary light in the bedroom, but no one answered his knocks. So
they broke down a side door and searched the rooms, which were lighted by the traces of
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 50 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
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have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
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the eclipse. "Things looked like they were under water," the mayor told me. Bayardo San
Roman was unconscious on the bed, still the way Pura Vicario had seen him early Tuesday
morning, wearing his dress pants and silk shirt, but with his shoes off. There were empty
bottles on the floor and many more unopened beside the bed, but not a trace of food. "He
was in the last stages of ethylic intoxication," I was told by Dr. Dionisio Iguarلn, who had
given him emergency treatment. But he recovered in a few hours, and as soon as his mind
had cleared, he threw them out of the house with the best manners he was capable of.
 "Nobody fucks with me," he said. "Not even my father with his war veteran's
balls."
 The mayor informed General Petronio San Roman of the episode, down to the last
literal phrase, in an alarming telegram. General San Roman must have followed his son's
wishes to the letter, because he didn't come for him, but sent his wife with their daughters
and two other older women who seemed to be her sisters. They came on a cargo boat,
locked in mourning up to their necks because of Bayardo San Roman's misfortunes, and
with their hair hanging loose in grief. Before stepping onto land, they took off their shoes
and went barefoot through the streets up to the hilltop in the burning dust of noon, pulling
out strands of hair by the roots and wailing loudly with such high-pitched shrieks that they
seemed to be shouts of joy. I watched them pass from Magdalena Oliver's balcony, and I
remember thinking that distress like theirs could only be put on in order to hide other,
greater shames.
 Colonel Lلzaro Aponte accompanied them to the house on the hill, and then Dr.
Dionisio Iguarلn went up on the mule he kept for emergencies. When the sun let up, two
men from the town government brought Bayardo San Roman down in a hammock hanging
from a pole, wrapped up to his neck in a blanket and with a retinue of wailing women.
Magdalena Oliver thought he was dead.
 "Collons de déu!" she exclaimed. "What a waste!"
 He was laid out by alcohol again, but it was hard to believe they were carrying a
living person, because his right arm was dragging on the ground, and as soon as his mother
put it back inside the hammock it would fall out again, so that he left a trail on the ground
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 51 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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from the edge of the precipice to the deck of the boat. That was all that we had left of him:
the memory of a victim.
 They left the farmhouse the way it was. My brothers and I would go up to explore
it on carousing nights when we were home on vacation, and each time we found fewer
things of value in the abandoned rooms. Once we rescued the small valise that Angela
Vicario had asked her mother for on her wedding night, but we didn't pay any great
attention to it. What we discovered inside seemed to be a woman's natural items for hygiene
and beauty, and I only learned their real use when Angela Vicario told me many years later
which things were the old wives' artifices she had been instructed in so as to deceive her
husband. It was the only trace she'd left in what had been her home as a married woman for
five hours.
 Years later when I came back to search out the last pieces of testimony for this
chronicle, not even the embers of Yolanda Xius's happiness remained. Things had been
disappearing little by little, despite Colonel Lلzaro Aponte's determined vigilance, even the
full-length closet with six mirrors that the master craftsmen of Mom-pox had had to
assemble inside the house because it wouldn't fit through the door. At first the widower
Xius was overjoyed, thinking that all those were the posthumous recourses of his wife in
carrying off what was hers. Colonel Lلzaro Aponte made fun of him. But one night it
occurred to him to hold a spiritualist seance in order to clear up the mystery, and the soul of
Yolanda Xius confirmed in her own handwriting that it was in fact she who was recovering
the knick-knacks of her happiness for her house of death. The house began to crumble. The
wedding car was falling apart by the door, and finally nothing remained except its weatherrotted
carcass. For many years nothing was heard again of its owner. There is a declaration
by him in the brief, but it is so short and conventional that it seems to have been put
together at the last minute in order to comply with an unavoidable requirement. The only
time I tried to talk to him, twenty-three years later, he received me with a certain
aggressiveness and refused to supply even the most insignificant fact that might clarify a
little his participation in the drama. In any case, not even his family knew much more about
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 52 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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him than we did, nor did they have the slightest idea of what he had come to do in a mislaid
town, with no other apparent aim than to marry a woman he had never seen."
 Of Angela Vicario, on the other hand, I was always receiving periodic news that
inspired an idealised image in me. My sister the nun had been going about the upper
Guajira for some time trying to convert the last idolaters, and she was in the habit of
stopping and chatting with Angela in the village baked by Caribbean salt where her mother
had tried to bury her alive. "Regards from your cousin," she would always tell me. My
sister Margot, who also visited her during the first years, told me she had bought a solid
house with a large courtyard with cross ventilation, the only problem being that on nights of
high tide the toilets would back up and fish would appear flopping about in the bedrooms at
dawn. Everyone who saw her during that time agreed that she was absorbed and skilled at
her embroidery machine, and that by her industry she had managed to forget.
 Much later, during an uncertain period when I was trying to understand something
of myself by selling encyclopaedias and medical books in the towns of Guajira, by chance I
got as far as that Indian death village. At the window of a house that faced the sea,
embroidering by machine during the hottest hour of the day, was a woman half in
mourning, with steel-rimmed glasses and yellowish grey hair, and hanging above her head
was a cage with a canary that didn't stop singing. When I saw her like that in the idyllic
frame of the window, I refused to believe that the woman there was who I thought it was,
because I couldn't bring myself to admit that life might end up resembling bad literature so
much. But it was she: Angela Vicario, twenty-three years after the drama.
 She treated me the same as always, like a distant cousin, and answered my
questions with very good judgment and a sense of humour. She was so mature and witty
that it was difficult to believe that she was the same person. What surprised me most was
the way in which she'd ended up understanding her own life. After a few minutes she no
longer seemed as aged to me as at first sight, but almost as young as in my memory, and
she had nothing in common with the person who'd been obliged to marry without love at
the age of twenty. Her mother, in her grouchy old age, received me like a difficult ghost.
She refused to talk about the past, and for this chronicle I had to be satisfied with a few
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 53 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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disconnected phrases from her conversations with my mother, and a few others rescued
from my memories. She had gone beyond what was possible to make Angela Vicario die in
life, but the daughter herself had brought her plans to naught because she never made any
mystery out of her misfortune. On the contrary, she would recount it in all its details to
anyone who wanted to hear it, except for one item that would never be cleared up: who was
the real cause of her damage, and how and why, because no one believed that it had really
been Santiago Nasar. They belonged to two completely different worlds. No one had ever
seen them together, much less alone together. Santiago Nasar was too haughty to have
noticed her: "Your cousin the booby," he would say to me when he had to mention her.
Besides, as we said at that time, he was a sparrow hawk. He went about alone, just like his
father, nipping the bud of any wayward virgin who began showing up in those woods, but
in town no other relationship ever came to be known except for the conventional one he
maintained with Flora Miguel, and the stormy one with Maria Alejandrina Cervantes,
which drove him crazy for fourteen months. The most current version, perhaps because it
was the most perverse, was that Angela Vicario was protecting someone who really loved
her and she had chosen Santiago Nasar's name because she thought her brothers would
never dare go up against him. I tried to get that truth out of her myself when I visited her
the second time, with all my arguments in order, but she barely lifted her eyes from the
embroidery to knock them down. "Don't beat it to death, cousin," she told me. "He was the
one."
 Everything else she told without reticence, even the disaster of her wedding night.
She recounted how her friends had instructed her to get her husband drunk in bed until he
passed out, to feign more embarrassment than she really felt so he'd turn out the light, to
give herself a drastic douche of alum water to fake virginity, and to stain the sheet with
Mercurochrome so she could display it the following day in her bridal courtyard. Her
bawds hadn't counted on two things: Bayardo San Roman's exceptional resistance as a
drinker, and the pure decency that Angela Vicario carried hidden inside the stolidity her
mother had imposed. "I didn't do any of what they told me," she said, "because the more I
thought about it, the more I realised that it was all something dirty that shouldn't be done to
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 54 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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anybody, much less to the poor man who had the bad luck to marry me." So she let herself
get undressed openly in the lighted bedroom, safe now from all the acquired fears that had
ruined her life. "It was very easy," she told me, "because I'd made up my mind to die."
 The truth is that she spoke about her misfortune without any shame in order to
cover up the other misfortune, the real one, that was burning in her insides. No one would
even have suspected until she decided to tell me that Bayardo San Roman had been in her
life forever from the moment he'd brought her back home. It was a coup de grace.
"Suddenly, when Mama began to hit me, I began to remember him," she told me. The
blows hurt less because she knew they were for him. She went on thinking about him with a
certain surprise at herself while she was lying on the dining room couch sobbing. "I wasn't
crying because of the blows or anything that had happened," she told me. "I was crying
because of him." She kept on thinking about him while her mother put arnica compresses
on her face, and even more when she heard the shouting in the street and the fire alarm bells
in the belfry, and her mother came in to tell her she could sleep now because the worst was
over.
 She'd been thinking about him for a long time, without any illusions, when she had
to go with her mother to get her eyes examined in the hospital at Riohacha. They stopped
off on the way at the Hotel del Puerto, whose owner they knew, and Pura Vicario asked for
a glass of water at the bar. She was drinking it with her back to her daughter when the latter
saw her own thoughts reflected in the mirrors repeated around the room. Angela Vicario
turned her head with a last breath and watched him pass by without seeing her and saw him
go out of the hotel. Then she looked at her mother with her heart in shreds. Pura Vicario
had finished drinking, dried her lips on her sleeve, and smiled at her from the bar with her
new glasses. In that smile, for the first time since her birth, Angela Vicario saw her as she
was: a poor woman devoted to the cult of her defects. "Shit," she said to herself. She was so
upset that she spent the whole trip back home singing aloud, and she threw herself on her
bed to weep for three days.
 She was reborn. "I went crazy over him," she told me, "out of my mind." She only
had to close her eyes to see him, she heard him breathing in the sea, the blaze of his body in
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 55 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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bed would awaken her at midnight. Toward the end of that week, unable to get a moment's
rest, she wrote him the first letter. It was a conventional missive, in which she told him that
she'd seen him come out of the hotel, and that she would have liked it if he had seen her.
She waited in vain for a reply. At the end of two months, tired of waiting, she sent him
another letter in the same oblique style as the previous one, whose only aim seemed to be to
reproach him for his lack of courtesy. Six months later she had written six letters with no
reply, but she comforted herself with the certainty that he was getting them.
 Mistress of her fate for the first time, Angela Vicario then discovered that hate and
love are reciprocal passions. The more letters she sent the more the coals of her fever
burned, but the happy rancour she felt for her mother also heated up. "Just seeing her would
turn my stomach," she told me, "but I couldn't see her without remembering him." Her life
as a rejected wife continued on, simple as that of an old maid, still doing machine
embroidery with her friends just as before she had made cloth tulips and paper birds, but
when her mother went to bed she would stay in the room until dawn writing letters with no
future. She became lucid, overbearing, mistress of her own free will, and she became a
virgin again just for him, and she recognised no other authority than her own nor any other
service than that of her obsession.
 She wrote a weekly letter for over half a lifetime. "Sometimes I couldn't think of
what to say," she told me, dying with laughter, "but it was enough for me to know that he
was getting them." At first they were a fiancee's notes, then they were little messages from
a secret lover, perfumed cards from a furtive sweetheart, business papers, love documents,
and lastly they were the indignant letters of an abandoned wife who invented cruel illnesses
to make him return. One night, in a good mood, she spilled the inkwell over the finished
letter and instead of tearing it up she added a postscript: "As proof of my love I send you
my tears." On occasion, tired of weeping, she would make fun of her own madness. Six
times the post-mistresses were changed and six times she wore their complicity. The only
thing that didn't occur to her was to give up. Nevertheless, he seemed insensible to her
delirium; it was like writing to nobody.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 56 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 Early one windy morning in the tenth year, she was awakened by the certainty that
he was naked in her bed. Then she wrote him a feverish letter, twenty pages long, in which
without shame she let out the bitter truths that she had carried rotting in her heart ever since
that ill-fated night. She spoke to him of the eternal scars he had left on her body, the salt of
his tongue, the fiery furrow of his African tool. On Friday she gave it to the postmistress
who came Friday afternoons to embroider with her and pick up the letters, and she was
convinced that that final alleviation would be the end of her agony. But there was no reply.
From then on she was no longer conscious of what she wrote nor to whom she was really
writing, but she kept on without quarter for seventeen years.
 Halfway through one August day, while she was embroidering with her friends,
she heard someone coming to the door. She didn't have to look to see who it was. "He was
fat and was beginning to lose his hair, and he already needed glasses to see things close by,"
she told me. "But it was him, God damn it, it was him!" She was frightened because she
knew he was seeing her just as diminished as she saw him, and she didn't think he had as
much love inside as she to bear up under it. His shirt was soaked in sweat, as she had seen
him the first time at the fair, and he was wearing the same belt, and carrying the same
unstitched leather saddlebags with silver decorations. Bayardo San Roman took a step
forward, unconcerned about the other astonished embroiderers, and laid his saddlebags on
the sewing machine.
 "Well," he said, "here I am."
 He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it
with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in
bundles tied with coloured ribbons, and they were all unopened.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 57 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
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CHAPTER 5
FOR YEARS WE COULDN'T TALK ABOUT anything else. Our daily conduct,
dominated then by so many linear habits, had suddenly begun to spin around a single
common anxiety. The cocks of dawn would catch us trying to give order to the chain of
many chance events that had made absurdity possible, and it was obvious that we weren't
doing it from an urge to clear up mysteries but because none of us could go on living
without an exact knowledge of the place and the mission assigned to us by fate.
 Many never got to know. Cristo Bedoya, who went on to become a surgeon of
renown, never managed to explain to himself why he gave in to the impulse to spend two
hours at his grandparents' house until the bishop came instead of going to rest at his
parents', who had been waiting for him since dawn to warn him.
 But most of those who could have done something to prevent the crime and did not
consoled themselves with the pretext that affairs of honour are sacred monopolies, giving
access only to those who are part of the drama. "Honour is love," I heard my mother say.
Hortensia Baute, whose only participation was having seen two bloody knives that weren't
bloody yet, felt so affected by the hallucination that she fell into a penitential crisis, and one
day, unable to stand it any longer, she ran out naked into the street. Flora Miguel, Santiago
Nasar's fiancee, ran away out of spite with a lieutenant of the border patrol, who prostituted
her among the rubber workers on the Vichada. Aura Villeros, the midwife who had helped
bring three generations into the world, suffered a spasm of the bladder when she heard the
news and to the day of her death had to use a catheter in order to urinate. Don Rogelio de la
Flor, Clotilde Armenta's good husband, who was a marvel of vitality at the age of eightysix,
got up for the last time to see how they had hewn Santiago Nasar to bits against the
locked door of his own house, and he didn't survive the shock. Plلcida Linero had locked
that door at the last moment, but with the passage of time she freed herself from blame. "I
locked it because Divina Flor had sworn to me that she'd seen my son come in," she told
me, "and it wasn't true." On the other hand, she never forgave herself for having mixed up
the magnificent augury of trees with the unlucky one of birds, and she succumbed to the
pernicious habit of her time of chewing pepper cress seeds.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 58 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 Twelve days after the crime, the investigating magistrate came upon a town that
was an open wound. In the squalid wooden office in the town hall, drinking pot coffee laced
with cane liquor against the mirages of the heat, he had to ask for troop reinforcements to
control the crowd that was pouring in to testify without having been summoned, everyone
eager to show off his own important role in the drama. The magistrate was newly graduated
and still wore his black linen law school suit and the gold ring with the emblem of his
degree, and he had the airs and the lyricism of a happy new parent. But I never discovered
his name. Everything we know about his character has been learned from the brief, which
several people helped me look for twenty years later in the Palace of Justice in Riohacha.
There was no classification of files whatever, and more than a century of cases were piled
up on the floor of the decrepit colonial building that had been Sir Francis Drake's
headquarters for two days. The ground floor would be flooded by high tides and the
unbound volumes floated about the deserted offices. I searched many times with the water
up to my ankles in that lagoon of lost causes, and after five years rummaging around only
chance let me rescue some 322 pages filched from the more than 500 that the brief must
have contained.
 The judge's name didn't appear on any of them, but it was obvious that he was a
man burning with the fever of literature. He had doubtless read the Spanish classics and a
few Latin ones, and he was quite familiar with Nietzsche, who was the fashionable author
among magistrates of his time. The marginal notes, and not just because of the colour of the
ink, seemed to be written in blood. He was so perplexed by the enigma that fate had
touched him with, that he kept falling into lyrical distractions that ran contrary to the rigour
of his profession. Most of all, he never thought it legitimate that life should make use of so
many coincidences forbidden literature, so that there should be the untrammelled fulfilment
of a death so clearly foretold.
 Nevertheless, what had alarmed him most at the conclusion of his excessive
diligence was not having found a single clue, not even the most improbable, that Santiago
Nasar had been the cause of the wrong. The friends of Angela Vicario who had been her
accomplices in the deception went on saying for a long time that she had shared her secret
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 59 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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with them before the wedding, but that she hadn't revealed any name. In the brief, they
declared: "She told us about the miracle but not the saint." Angela Vicario, for her part,
wouldn't budge. When the investigating magistrate asked her with his oblique style if she
knew who the decedent Santiago Nasar was, she answered him impassively: "He was my
perpetrator."
 That's the way she swears in the brief, but with no further precision of either how
or where. During the trial, which lasted only three days, the representative of the people put
his greatest effort into the weakness of that charge. Such was the perplexity of the
investigating magistrate over the lack of proof against Santiago Nasar that his good work at
times seemed ruined by disillusionment. On folio 416, in his own handwriting and with the
druggist's red ink, he wrote a marginal note: Give me a prejudice and I will move the world.
Under that paraphrase of discouragement, in a merry sketch with the same blood ink, he
drew a heart pierced by an arrow. For him, just as for Santiago Nasar's closest friends, the
victim's very behaviour during his last hours was overwhelming proof of his innocence.
 On the morning of his death, in fact, Santiago Nasar hadn't had a moment of doubt,
in spite of the fact that he knew very well what the price of the insult imputed to him was.
He was aware of the prudish disposition of his world, and he must have understood that the
twins' simple nature was incapable of resisting an insult. No one knew Bayardo San Roman
very well, but Santiago Nasar knew him well enough to know that underneath his worldly
airs he was as subject as anyone else to his native prejudices. So the murdered man's refusal
to worry could have been suicide. Besides, when he finally learned at the last moment that
the Vicario brothers were waiting for him to kill him, his reaction was not one of panic, as
has so often been said, but rather the bewilderment of innocence.
 My personal impression is that he died without understanding his death. After he'd
promised my sister Margot that he would come and have breakfast at our house, Cristo
Bedoya took him by the arm as they strolled along the dock and both seemed so
unconcerned that they gave rise to false impressions. "They were both going along so
contentedly," Merne Loiza told me, "that I gave thanks to God, because I thought the matter
had been cleared up." Not everybody loved Santiago Nasar so much, of course. Polo
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 60 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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Carrillo, the owner of the electric plant, thought that his serenity wasn't innocence but
cynicism.
 "He thought that his money made him untouchable," he told me. Fausta Lopez, his
wife, commented: "Just like all Turks." Indalecio Pardo had just passed by Clotilde
Armenta's store and the twins had told him that as soon as the bishop left, they were going
to kill Santiago Nasar. Like so many others, he thought these were the usual fantasies of
very early risers, but Clotilde Armenta made him see that it was true, and she asked him to
get to Santiago Nasar and warn him.
 "Don't bother," Pedro Vicario told him. "No matter what, he's as good as dead
already."
 It was too obvious a challenge: the twins knew the bonds between Indalecio Pardo
and Santiago Nasar, and they must have thought that he was just the right person to stop the
crime without bringing any shame on them. But Indalecio found Santiago Nasar being led
by the arm by Cristo Bedoya among the groups that were leaving the docks, and he didn't
dare warn him. "I lost my nerve," he told me. He gave each one a pat on the back and let
them go their way. They scarcely noticed, because they were still taken up with the costs of
the wedding.
 The people were breaking up and heading toward the square the same way they
were. It was a thick crowd, but Scoldastica Cisneros thought she noticed that the two
friends were walking in the centre of it without any difficulty, inside an empty circle,
because everyone knew that Santiago Nasar was about to die and they didn't dare touch
him. Cristo Bedoya also remembered a strange attitude toward them. "They were looking at
us as if we had our faces painted," he told me. Also, Sara Noriega was opening her shoe
store at the moment they passed and she was frightened at Santiago Nasar's paleness. But he
calmed her down.
 "You can imagine, Missy Sara," he told her without stopping, "with this
hangover!"
 Celeste Dangond was sitting in his pyjamas by the door of his house, mocking
those who had gone to greet the bishop, and he invited Santiago Nasar to have some coffee.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 61 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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"It was in order to gain some time to think," he told me. But Santiago Nasar answered that
he was in a hurry to change clothes to have breakfast with my sister. "I got all mixed up,"
Celeste Dangond told me, "because it suddenly seemed to me that they couldn't be killing
him if he was so sure of what he was going to do." Yamil Shaium was the only one who did
what he had proposed doing. As soon as he heard the rumour, he went out to the door of his
dry goods store and waited for Santiago Nasar so he could warn him. He was one of the last
Arabs who had come with Ibrahim Nasar, had been his partner in cards until his death, and
was still the hereditary counsellor of the family. No one had as much authority as he to talk
to Santiago Nasar. Nevertheless, he thought that if the rumour was baseless it would alarm
him unnecessarily, and he preferred to consult first with Cristo Bedoya in case the latter
was better informed. He called to him as he went by. Cristo Bedoya gave a pat on the back
to Santiago Nasar, who was already at the corner of the square, and answered Yamil
Shaium's call. "See you Saturday," he told him.
 Santiago Nasar didn't reply, but said something in Arabic to Yamil Shaium, and
the latter answered him, also in Arabic, twisting with laughter. "It was a play on words we
always had fun with," Yamil Shaium told me. Without stopping, Santiago Nasar waved
good-bye to both of them and turned the corner of the square. It was the last time they saw
him.
 Cristo Bedoya only took the time to grasp Yamil Shaium's information before he
ran out of the store to catch Santiago Nasar. He'd seen him turn the corner, but he couldn't
find him - among the groups that were beginning to break up on the square. Several people
he asked gave him the same answer.
 "I just saw him with you."
 It seemed impossible that he could have reached home in such a short time, but
just in case, he went in to ask about him since he found the front door unbarred and ajar. He
went in without seeing the paper on the floor. He passed through the shadowy living room,
trying not to make any noise, because it was still too early for visitors, but the dogs became
aroused at the back of the house and came out to meet him. He calmed them down with his
keys as he'd learned from their master, and went on toward the kitchen, with them
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following. On the veranda he came upon Divina Flor, who was carrying a pail of water and
a rag to clean the floor in the living room. She assured him that Santiago Nasar hadn't
returned. Victoria Guzman had just put the rabbit stew on the stove when he entered the
kitchen. She understood immediately. "His heart was in his mouth," she told me. Cristo
Bedoya asked her if Santiago Nasar was home, and she answered him with feigned
innocence that he still hadn't come in to go to sleep, "It's serious," Cristo Bedoya told her.
"They're looking for him to kill him."
 Victoria Guzman forgot her innocence.
 "Those poor boys won't kill anybody," she said.
 "They've been drinking since Saturday," Cristo Bedoya said.
 "That's just it," she replied. "There's no drunk in the world who'll eat his own crap."
 Cristo Bedoya went back to the living room, where Divina Flor had just opened
the windows. "Of course it wasn't raining," Cristo Bedoya told me. "It was just going on
seven and a golden sun was already coming through the windows." He asked Divina Flor
again if she was sure that Santiago Nasar hadn't come in through the living room door. She
wasn't as sure then as the first time. He asked her about Plلcida Linero, and she answered
that just a moment before she'd put her coffee on the night table, but she hadn't awakened
her. That's the way it always was: Plلcida Linero would wake up at seven, have her coffee,
and come down to give instructions for lunch. Cristo Bedoya looked at the clock: it was six
fifty-six. Then he climbed up to the second floor to make sure that Santiago Nasar hadn't
come in.
 The bedroom was locked from the inside, because Santiago Nasar had gone out
through his mother's bedroom. Cristo Bedoya not only knew the house as well as his own,
but was so much at home with the family that he pushed open the door to Plلcida Linero's
bedroom and went from there into the adjoining one. A beam of dusty light was coming in
through the skylight, and the beautiful woman asleep on her side in the hammock, her
bride's hand on her cheek, had an unreal look. "It was like an apparition," Cristo Bedoya
told me. He looked at her for an instant, fascinated by her beauty, and then he crossed the
room in silence, passed by the bathroom, and proceeded into Santiago Nasar's bedroom.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 63 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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The bed was still made, and on the chair, well-pressed, were his riding clothes, and on top
of the clothes his horseman's hat, and on the floor his boots beside their spurs. On the night
table, Santiago Nasar's wristwatch said six fifty-eight. "Suddenly I thought that he'd come
back so that he could go out armed," Cristo Bedoya told me. But he found the Magnum in
the drawer of the night table. "I'd never shot a gun," Cristo Bedoya told me, "but I decided
to take the revolver and bring it to Santiago Nasar." He stuck it in his belt, under his shirt,
and only after the crime did he realise that it was unloaded. Plلcida Linero appeared in the
doorway with her mug of coffee just as he was closing the drawer.
 "Good heavens!" she exclaimed. "You gave me a start!"
 Cristo Bedoya was also startled. He saw her in the full light, wearing a dressing
gown with golden larks, her hair loose, and the charm had vanished. He explained,
somewhat confused, that he was looking for Santiago Nasar.
 "He went to receive the bishop," Plلcida Linero said.
 "The bishop went right through," he said.
 "I thought so," she said. "He's the son of the worst kind of mother."
 She didn't go on because at that moment she realised that Cristo Bedoya didn't
know what to do with his body. "I hope that God has forgiven me," Plلcida Linero told me,
"but he seemed so confused that it suddenly occurred to me that he'd come to rob us." She
asked him what was wrong. Cristo Bedoya was aware that he was in a suspicious situation,
but he didn't have the courage to reveal the truth.
 "It's just that I haven't had a minute's sleep," he told her.
 He left without any further explanations. "In any case," he told me, "she was
always imagining that she was being robbed." In the square he ran into Father Amador, who
was returning to the church with the vestments for the frustrated mass, but he didn't think he
could do anything for Santiago Nasar except save his soul. He was heading toward the
docks again when he heard them calling him from the door of Clotilde Armenta's store.
Pedro Vicario was in the doorway, pale and haggard, his shirt open and his sleeves rolled
up to the elbows, and with the naked knife in his hand. His manner was too insolent to be
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natural, and yet it wasn't the only final or the most visible pose that he'd assumed in the last
moments so they would stop him from committing the crime.
 "Cristobal," he shouted, "tell Santiago Nasar that we're waiting for him here to kill him."
 Cristo Bedoya could have done him the favour of stopping him. "If I'd known how
to shoot a revolver, Santiago Nasar would be alive today," he told me. But the idea did
impress him, after all he'd heard about the devastating power of an armour plated bullet.
 "I warn you. He's armed with a Magnum that can go through an engine block," he shouted.
 Pedro Vicario knew it wasn't true. "He never went armed except when he wore
riding clothes," he told me. But in any case, he'd foreseen the possibility that he might be
armed when he made the decision to wipe his sister's honour clean.
 "Dead men can't shoot," he shouted.
Then Pablo Vicario appeared in the doorway. He was as pale as his brother and he
was wearing his wedding jacket and carrying his knife wrapped in the newspaper. "If it
hadn't been for that," Cristo Bedoya told me, "I never would have known which of the two
was which." Clotilde Armenta then appeared behind Pablo Vicario and shouted to Cristo
Bedoya to hurry up, because in that faggot town only a man like him could prevent the
tragedy.
 Everything that happened after that is in the public domain. The people who were
coming back from the docks, alerted by the shouts, began to take up positions around the
square to witness the crime. Cristo Bedoya asked several people he knew if they'd seen
Santiago Nasar, but no one had. At the door of the social club he ran into Colonel Lلzaro
Aponte and he told him what had just happened in front of Clotilde Armenta's store.
 "It can't be," Colonel Aponte said, "because I told them to go home to bed."
 "I just saw them with pig-killing knives," Cristo Bedoya said.
 "It can't be, because I took them away from them before sending them home to
bed," said the mayor. "It must be that you saw them before that."
 "I saw them two minutes ago and they both had pig-killing knives," Cristo Bedoya said.
 "Oh, shit," the mayor said. "Then they must have come back with two new ones."
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 65 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
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 He promised to take care of it at once, but he went into the social club to check on
a date for dominoes that night, and when he came out again the crime had already been
committed. Cristo Bedoya then made his only mortal mistake: he thought that Santiago
Nasar had decided at the last moment to have breakfast at our house before changing his
clothes, and he went to look for him there. He hurried along the riverbank, asking everyone
he passed if they'd seen him go by, but no one said he had. He wasn't alarmed, because
there were other ways to get to our house. Prَspera Arango, the uplander, begged him to do
something for her father, who was in his death throes on the stoop of his house, immune to
the bishop's fleeting blessing. "I'd seen him when I passed," my sister Margot told me, "and
he already had the face of a dead man." Cristo Bedoya delayed four minutes to ascertain the
sick man's condition, and promised to come back later for some emergency treatment, but
he lost three minutes more helping Prَspera Arango carry him into the bedroom. When he
came out again he heard distant shouts and it seemed to him that rockets were being fired in
the direction of the square. He tried to run but was hindered by the revolver, which was
clumsily stuck in his belt. As he turned the last corner he recognised my mother from the
rear as she was practically dragging her youngest son along.
 "Luisa Santiaga," he shouted to her, "where's your godson?"
 My mother barely turned, her face bathed in tears.
 "Oh, my son," she answered, "they say he's been killed!"
 That's how it was. While Cristo Bedoya had been looking for him, Santiago Nasar
had gone into the house of Flora Miguel, his fiancee, just around the corner from where he'd
seen him for the last time. "It didn't occur to me that he could be there," he told me,
"because those people never got up before noon." The version that went around was that the
whole family slept until twelve o'clock on orders from Nahir Miguel, the wise man of the
community. "That's why Flora Miguel, who wasn't that young anymore, was preserved like
a rose," Mercedes says. The truth is that they kept the house locked up until very late, like
so many others, but they were early-rising and hard-working people. The parents of
Santiago Nasar and Flora Miguel had agreed that they should get married. Santiago Nasar
accepted the engagement in the bloom of his adolescence, and he was determined to fulfill
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it, perhaps because he had the same utilitarian concept of matrimony as his father. Flora
Miguel, for her part, enjoyed a certain floral quality, but she lacked wit and judgment and
had served as bridesmaid for her whole generation, so the agreement was a providential
solution for her. They had an easy engagement, without formal visits or restless hearts. The
wedding, postponed several times, was finally set for the following Christmas.
 Flora Miguel awoke that Monday with the first bellows of the bishop's boat, and
shortly thereafter she found out that the Vicario twins were waiting for Santiago Nasar to
kill him. She informed my sister the nun, the only one she spoke to after the misfortune,
that she didn't even remember who'd told her. "I only know that at six o'clock in the
morning everybody knew it," she told her. Nevertheless, it seemed inconceivable to her that
they were going to kill Santiago Nasar, but on the other hand, it occurred to her that they
would force him to marry Angela Vicario in order to give her back her honour. She went
through a crisis of humiliation. While half the town was waiting for the bishop, she was in
her bedroom weeping with rage, and putting in order the chestful of letters that Santiago
Nasar had sent her from school.
 Whenever he passed by Flora Miguel's house, even if nobody was home, Santiago
Nasar would scratch his keys across the window screens. That Monday she was waiting
with the chest of letters in her lap. Santiago Nasar couldn't see her from the street, but she,
however, saw him approaching through the screen before he scratched it with his keys.
 "Come in," she told him.
 No one, not even a doctor, had entered that house at six forty-five in the morning.
Santiago Nasar had just left Cristo Bedoya at Yamil Shaium's store, and there were so many
people hanging on his movements in the square that it was difficult to believe that no one
saw him go into his fiancee's house. The investigating magistrate looked for a single person
who'd seen him, and he did so with as much persistence as I, but it was impossible to find
one. In folio 382 of the brief, he wrote another marginal pronouncement in red ink: Fatality
makes us invisible. The fact is that Santiago Nasar went in through the main door, in full
view of everyone, and without doing anything not to be seen. Flora Miguel was waiting for
him in the parlour, green with rage, wearing one of the dresses with unfortunate ruffles that
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 67 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
I lend to my friends. I am trying to make the text in digital form to ensure that I am not going to loose any of them. As I
have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
legal issues in giving my library collections to my friends, those who loves to read. Kindly delete this file after reading and
it would be taken as I got the book back.
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she was in the habit of putting on for memorable occasions, and she placed the chest in his
hands.
 "Here you are," she told him. "And I hope they kill you!"
 Santiago Nasar was so perplexed that he dropped the chest and his loveless letters
poured out onto the floor. He tried to catch Flora Miguel in the bedroom, but she closed the
door and threw the bolt. He knocked several times, and called her in too pressing a voice
for the time of day, so the whole family came in, all alarmed. Counting relatives by blood
and by marriage, adults and minors, there were more than fourteen of them. The last to
come was Nahir Miguel, the father, with his red beard and the Bedouin caftan he had
brought from his homeland and which he always wore at home. I saw him many times and
he was immense and spare, but what most impressed me was the glow of his authority.
 "Flora," he called in his language. "Open the door."
 He went into his daughter's bedroom while the family stared at Santiago Nasar. He
was kneeling in the parlour, picking up the letters and putting them into the chest. "It looked
like a penance, " they told me. Nahir Miguel came out of the bedroom after a few minutes,
made a signal with his hand, and the whole family disappeared.
 He continued talking in Arabic to Santiago Nasar. "From the first moment I
understood that he didn't have the slightest idea of what I was saying," he told me. Then he
asked him outright if he knew that the Vicario brothers were looking for him to kill him.
"He turned pale and lost control in such a way that it was impossible to think that he was
pretending," he told me. He agreed that his manner reflected not so much fear as confusion.
 "Only you can know if they're right or not," he told him. "But in any case, you've
only got two paths to follow now: either you hide here, in this house which is yours, or you
go out with my rifle."
 "I don't understand a God-damned thing," Santiago Nasar said.
 It was the only thing he managed to say, and he said it in Spanish. "He looked like
a little wet bird," Nahir Miguel told me. He had to take the chest from his hands because he
didn't know where to put it in order to open the door.
 "It'll be two against one," he told him.
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 68 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
I lend to my friends. I am trying to make the text in digital form to ensure that I am not going to loose any of them. As I
have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
legal issues in giving my library collections to my friends, those who loves to read. Kindly delete this file after reading and
it would be taken as I got the book back.
With Thanks and regards your friend Antony. mail me to antonyboban@gmail.com
 Santiago Nasar left. The people had stationed themselves on the square the way
they did on parade days. They all saw him come out, and they all understood that now he
knew they were going to kill him, and that he was so confused he couldn't find his way
home. They say that someone shouted from a balcony: "Not that way, Turk; by the old
dock." Santiago Nasar sought out the voice. Yamil Shaium shouted for him to get into his
store and went to get his hunting gun, but he couldn't remember where he'd put the
cartridges. They began to shout at him from every side, and Santiago Nasar went backward
and forward several times, baffled by hearing so many voices at the same time. It was
obvious that he was heading toward his house as if to enter through the kitchen door, but
suddenly he must have realised that the main door was open.
 "There he comes," said Pedro Vicario.
 They'd both seen him at the same time. Pablo Vicario took off his jacket, put it on
the bench, and unwrapped his knife, holding it like a scimitar. Before leaving the store,
without any agreement, they both crossed themselves. Then Clotilde Armenta grabbed
Pedro Vicario by the shirt and shouted to Santiago Nasar to run because they were going to
kill him. It was such an urgent shout that it drowned out all the others. "At first he was
startled," Clotilde Armenta told me, "because he didn't know who was shouting at him or
from where." But when he saw her, he also saw Pedro Vicario, who threw her to the ground
and caught up with his brother. Santiago Nasar was less than fifty yards from his house and
he ran to the main door.
 Five minutes before, in the kitchen, Victoria Guzman had told Plلcida Linero what
everybody already knew. Plلcida Linero was a woman of steady nerves, so she didn't let
any sign of alarm show through. She asked Victoria Guzman if she'd said anything to her
son, and she lied honestly, since she answered that she still hadn't known anything when he
came down for coffee. In the living room, where she was still scrubbing the floor, Divina
Flor at the same time saw Santiago Nasar come in through the door on the square and go up
the open stairs to the bedrooms. "It was a very clear vision," Divina Flor told me. "He was
wearing his white suit and carrying something that I couldn't make out well in his hand, but
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 69 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
I lend to my friends. I am trying to make the text in digital form to ensure that I am not going to loose any of them. As I
have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
legal issues in giving my library collections to my friends, those who loves to read. Kindly delete this file after reading and
it would be taken as I got the book back.
With Thanks and regards your friend Antony. mail me to antonyboban@gmail.com
it looked like a bouquet of roses." So when Plلcida Linero asked about him, Divina Flor
calmed her down.
 "He went up to his room a minute ago," she told her.
 Plلcida Linero then saw the paper on the floor, but she didn't think to pick it up,
and she only found out what it said when someone showed it to her later on during the
confusion of the tragedy. Through the door she saw the Vicario brothers running toward the
house with their knives out. From the place where she was standing she could see them but
she couldn't see her son, who was running toward the door from a different angle. "I
thought they wanted to get in to kill him inside the house," she told me. Then she ran to the
door and slammed it shut. She was putting up the bar when she heard Santiago Nasar's
shouts, and she heard the terrified pounding on the door, but she thought he was upstairs,
insulting the Vicario brothers from the balcony in his room. She went up to help him.
 Santiago Nasar only needed a few seconds to get in when the door closed. He managed
to pound with his fists several times, and he turned at once to face his enemies with his bare
hands. "I was scared when I saw him face on," Pablo Vicario told me, "because he looked
twice as big as he was." Santiago Nasar raised his hand to stop the first strike from Pedro
Vicario, who attacked him on the right side with his knife pointed straight in.
 "Sons of bitches!" he shouted.
 The knife went through the palm of his right hand and then sank into his side up to
the hilt. Everybody heard his cry of pain.
 "Oh, mother of mine!"
 Pedro Vicario pulled out his knife with his slaughterer's iron wrist and dealt him a
second thrust almost in the same place. "The strange thing is that the knife kept coming out
clean," Pedro Vicario declared to the investigator. "I'd given it to him at least three times
and there wasn't a drop of blood." Santiago Nasar twisted after the third stab, his arms
crossed over his stomach, let out the moan of a calf, and tried to turn his back to them.
Pablo Vicario, who was on his left, then gave him the only stab in the back and a spurt of
blood under high pressure soaked his shirt. "It smelled like him," he told me. Mortally
wounded three times, Santiago Nasar turned frontward again and leaned his back against
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 70 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
I lend to my friends. I am trying to make the text in digital form to ensure that I am not going to loose any of them. As I
have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
legal issues in giving my library collections to my friends, those who loves to read. Kindly delete this file after reading and
it would be taken as I got the book back.
With Thanks and regards your friend Antony. mail me to antonyboban@gmail.com
his mother's door, without the slightest resistance, as if he only wanted to help them finish
killing him by his own contribution. "He didn't cry out again," Pedro Vicario told the
investigator. "Just the opposite: it looked to me as if he was laughing." Then they both kept
on knifing him against the door with alternate and easy stabs, floating in the dazzling
backwater they had found on the other side of fear. They didn't hear the shouts of the whole
town, frightened by its own crime. "I felt the way you do when you're galloping on
horseback," Pablo Vicario declared. But they both suddenly woke up to reality, because
they were exhausted, and yet they thought that Santiago Nasar would never fall. "Shit,
cousin," Pablo Vicario told me, "you can't imagine how hard it is to kill a man!" Trying to
finish it once and for all, Pedro Vicario sought his heart, but he looked for it almost in the
armpit, where pigs have it. Actually, Santiago Nasar wasn't falling because they themselves
were holding him up with stabs against the door. Desperate, Pablo Vicario gave him a
horizontal slash on the stomach, and all his intestines exploded out. Pedro Vicario was
about to do the same, but his wrist twisted with horror and he gave him a wild cut on the
thigh. Santiago Nasar was still for an instant, leaning against the door, until he saw his own
viscera in the sunlight, clean and blue, and he fell on his knees.
 After looking and shouting for him in the bedroom, hearing other shouts that
weren't hers and not knowing where they were coming from, Plلcida Linero went to the
window facing the square and saw the Vicario twins running toward the church. Hot in
pursuit was Yamil Shaium with his jaguar gun and some other unarmed Arabs, and Plلcida
Linero thought the danger had passed. Then she went out onto the bedroom balcony and
saw Santiago Nasar in front of the door, face down in the dust, trying to rise up out of his
own blood. He stood up, leaning to one side, and started to walk in a state of hallucination,
holding his hanging intestines in his hands.
 He walked more than a hundred yards, completely around the house, and went in
through the kitchen door. He still had enough lucidity not to go along the street, it was the
longest way, but by way of the house next door. Poncho Lanao, his wife, and their five
children hadn't known what had just happened twenty paces from their door. "We heard the
shouting," the wife told me, "but we thought it was part of the bishop's festival." They were
Chronicle of a Death Foretold 71 Grabriel Garcia Marquez
Dear Friends, this is a backup copy of the original works in my personal library. I had a bad luck in getting back the books
I lend to my friends. I am trying to make the text in digital form to ensure that I am not going to loose any of them. As I
have an original printed edition, its sure that the writer/publisher already got their share. As on my knowledge there is no
legal issues in giving my library collections to my friends, those who loves to read. Kindly delete this file after reading and
it would be taken as I got the book back.
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sitting down to breakfast when they saw Santiago Nasar enter, soaked in blood and carrying
the roots of his entrails in his hands. Poncho Lanao told me: "What I'll never forget was the
terrible smell of shit." But Argénida Lanao, the oldest daughter, said that Santiago Nasar
walked with his usual good bearing, measuring his steps well, and that his Saracen face
with its dashing ringlets was handsomer than ever. As he passed by the table he smiled at
them and continued through the bedrooms to the rear door of the house. "We were
paralysed with fright," Argénida Lanao told me. My aunt, Wenefrida Mلrquez, was scaling
a shad in her yard on the other side of the river when she saw him go down the steps of the
old dock, looking for his way home with a firm step.
 "Santiago, my son," she shouted to him, "what has happened to you?"
 "They've killed me, Wene child," he said.
 He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. "He even took care to brush off
the dirt that was stuck to his guts," my Aunt Wene told me. Then he went into his house
through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.
The End