Wise men had told us: “Look at the books on the outside and you will know the city inside.” Obeying this teaching, one could have discovered that the spirit of the city was composed of sentimental verses, popular science manuals and interplanetary adventure stories. But despite the transcendentalism of the wise men, the anecdote was better: a client who, due to force of (bad) habit, peeked at the last page of a detective novel to discover who the murderer was without buying the book.
It rained cruelly in our city. You could spend many hours in front of the window, waiting for something to happen, and nothing looked different from the rain. After ten, twenty years, the spectacle could remain the same. But it was worth the wait: sooner or later, an incredible thing happened.
Believing that after that, a deluge must follow, one could make the mistake of closing the window. A movie scene would then have ceased to be seen in our city that would have seemed fantastic if it had been a scene from real life…
And a scene from real life that would have seemed like fantasy in film.
In at least one thing our city was the same as all the cities in the world: on empty and endless Sundays. We tried, in vain, to fill them with insignificant acts.
Then, for a moment, we were happy delighting in idleness: we ate with our hands stretched out in the grass, we had a portrait taken that would serve as a reason to laugh at ourselves for the rest of our lives, we slept in the shade of the trees with our faces covered with a hat, we were dying of unlikely loves….
In order to avoid being home alone, we would go out in search of company, and sometimes we were happy on a Sunday at three in the afternoon, alone in the middle of the crowd….
Monday, a certainty filled us with fortitude: sooner or later, it would be Sunday again.
This article was published in Spanish in the Colombian journal El Malpensante.
Contributor
Gabriel García Márquez, translated by José Vargas