Of Love and Other Demons by Gabriel García Márquez, Edith Grossman Page B
Authors: Gabriel García Márquez, Edith Grossman
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Marquis overcame his uncertaintyand paid an unannounced visit that same day.
The Bishop had assumed his ministry when the Marquis was already withdrawn from public life, and they had never met. He was, moreover, a man assailed by poor health; his stentorian body permitted him to do very little on his own and was corroded by a malignant asthma that put his faith to the test. He had not been present at numerous public eventswhere his absence wasunthinkable, and at the few he did attend he maintained an aloofness that over time was turning him into an unreal being.
The Marquis had seen him on a few occasions, always at a distance and in public, but the memory he had of the Bishop was a Mass at which he officiated wearing a pallium and was carried in a sedan chair by government dignitaries. Because of his huge bodyand the extravagant richness of his vestments, at first glance he had seemed nothing more than a colossal old man, but his clean-shaven face, with its precise features and unusual green eyes, preserved an ageless beauty intact. High in the sedan chair, he had the magical aura of a Supreme Pontiff, and those who knew him at closer quarters sensed the same thing in the brilliance of his learningand his consciousness of power.
The palace where he lived was the oldest in the city and had two stories of vast, ruined spaces, although the Bishop occupied less than half a floor. It was adjacent to the cathedral, and the two buildings shared a cloister with blackened arches and a courtyard where a crumbling cistern was surrounded by desert scrub. Even its imposing façade of carved stone andgreat entrances made of single timbers revealed the ravages of neglect.
The Marquis was received at the main door by an Indian deacon. He distributed meager alms to the crowd of beggars crawling in front of the portico, and entered the cool shadows of the interior just as the enormous tolling of four o’clock sounded in the cathedral and resounded in his belly. The central corridor was so darkthat he followed after the deacon without seeing him and considered each step before taking it to avoid stumblingover ill-placed statues and debris that blocked the way. At the end of the corridor was a small anteroom where a transom provided more light. The deacon stopped here, asked the Marquis to have a seat and wait and then walked through the door into an adjoining room. The Marquis remainedstanding and looked at a large oil portrait, hung on the long wall, of a young soldier in the dress uniform of the King’s Cadets. Only when he read the bronze plaque on the frame did he realize it was a portrait of the Bishop in his youth.
The deacon opened the door to ask him in, and the Marquis did not have to move to see the Bishop again, forty years older than in his portrait. Even overcomeby asthma and undone by the heat, he was much larger and more imposing than people claimed. The perspiration streamed off his body, and he rocked at a snail’s pace in a chair from the Philippines, barely moving a palm fan back and forth as he leaned forward to ease his breathing. He was dressed in peasant sandals and a tunic of coarse linen with patches worn thin by abuses of soap. The sincerityof his poverty was evident at first glance. Most notable, however, was the purity of his eyes, understandable only as a privilege of the soul. He stopped rocking as soon as he saw the Marquis in the doorway and waved the fan in an affectionate gesture.
‘Come in, Ygnacio,’ he said. ‘My house is yours.’
The Marquis wiped his perspiring hands on his trousers, walked through the door and found himselfunder a canopy of yellow bellflowers and hanging ferns on an outdoor terrace that overlooked all the church towers, the red-tile roofs of the principal houses, the dovecotes drowsing in the heat, the military fortificationsoutlined against the glass sky, the burning sea. The Bishop extended his soldier’s hand in a meaningful way, and the Marquis kissed his ring.
Asthma
The Bishop had assumed his ministry when the Marquis was already withdrawn from public life, and they had never met. He was, moreover, a man assailed by poor health; his stentorian body permitted him to do very little on his own and was corroded by a malignant asthma that put his faith to the test. He had not been present at numerous public eventswhere his absence wasunthinkable, and at the few he did attend he maintained an aloofness that over time was turning him into an unreal being.
The Marquis had seen him on a few occasions, always at a distance and in public, but the memory he had of the Bishop was a Mass at which he officiated wearing a pallium and was carried in a sedan chair by government dignitaries. Because of his huge bodyand the extravagant richness of his vestments, at first glance he had seemed nothing more than a colossal old man, but his clean-shaven face, with its precise features and unusual green eyes, preserved an ageless beauty intact. High in the sedan chair, he had the magical aura of a Supreme Pontiff, and those who knew him at closer quarters sensed the same thing in the brilliance of his learningand his consciousness of power.
The palace where he lived was the oldest in the city and had two stories of vast, ruined spaces, although the Bishop occupied less than half a floor. It was adjacent to the cathedral, and the two buildings shared a cloister with blackened arches and a courtyard where a crumbling cistern was surrounded by desert scrub. Even its imposing façade of carved stone andgreat entrances made of single timbers revealed the ravages of neglect.
The Marquis was received at the main door by an Indian deacon. He distributed meager alms to the crowd of beggars crawling in front of the portico, and entered the cool shadows of the interior just as the enormous tolling of four o’clock sounded in the cathedral and resounded in his belly. The central corridor was so darkthat he followed after the deacon without seeing him and considered each step before taking it to avoid stumblingover ill-placed statues and debris that blocked the way. At the end of the corridor was a small anteroom where a transom provided more light. The deacon stopped here, asked the Marquis to have a seat and wait and then walked through the door into an adjoining room. The Marquis remainedstanding and looked at a large oil portrait, hung on the long wall, of a young soldier in the dress uniform of the King’s Cadets. Only when he read the bronze plaque on the frame did he realize it was a portrait of the Bishop in his youth.
The deacon opened the door to ask him in, and the Marquis did not have to move to see the Bishop again, forty years older than in his portrait. Even overcomeby asthma and undone by the heat, he was much larger and more imposing than people claimed. The perspiration streamed off his body, and he rocked at a snail’s pace in a chair from the Philippines, barely moving a palm fan back and forth as he leaned forward to ease his breathing. He was dressed in peasant sandals and a tunic of coarse linen with patches worn thin by abuses of soap. The sincerityof his poverty was evident at first glance. Most notable, however, was the purity of his eyes, understandable only as a privilege of the soul. He stopped rocking as soon as he saw the Marquis in the doorway and waved the fan in an affectionate gesture.
‘Come in, Ygnacio,’ he said. ‘My house is yours.’
The Marquis wiped his perspiring hands on his trousers, walked through the door and found himselfunder a canopy of yellow bellflowers and hanging ferns on an outdoor terrace that overlooked all the church towers, the red-tile roofs of the principal houses, the dovecotes drowsing in the heat, the military fortificationsoutlined against the glass sky, the burning sea. The Bishop extended his soldier’s hand in a meaningful way, and the Marquis kissed his ring.
Asthma
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