From the Publisher
“A revelation. . . . Martin does a masterful job of tracing the continuing evolution of a man, his work and the world that surrounds him. . . . Extraordinary.”
—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“Could any biographer have been better suited to this gargantuan undertaking? Absolutely not: Mr. Martin is the ideal man for the job. . . . An intensive, assured, penetratingly analytical book.”
—The New York Times
“Martin’s biography, a towering achievement of Latin American literary studies, reads beautifully, almost like a novel. . . . This enjoyable, impressive book will be mined for decades to come.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Terrific. . . . Crisp, clear, compelling. . . . A biography that is fresh and insightful about one of the most popular and influential writers of the 20th century.”
“A masterful, admiring (but far from fawning) biography. . . . A marvel of investigation, clarity and just plain sorting things out from the myths García Márquez has himself propagated, the book is particularly fascinating in charting the writer’s arduous climb from utter obscurity to fame.”
—The Chicago Sun-Times
“Abounds with fresh discoveries. . . . Will delight anyone interested in a novelist whose acclaim and appeal have been matched by his transforming influence on contemporary literature. . . . Martin’s book is proof that the literary biography is a genre in which scholars of Latin American literature have made remarkable contributions.”
—The Houston Chronicle
“If Martin has left any stone unturned it’s hard to imagine what that might be. . . . Meticulous.”
—The Christian Science Monitor
“Martin has made the most of the opportunities that García Márquez’s life offers. . . . He skillfully shows how a long journalistic apprenticeship led to the incredible creative explosion that produced One Hundred Years of Solitude.”
—Washington Post Book World
“[A] masterful and sensitive account—balanced, judicious, yet clearly also a stirringly enthusiastic labour of love. . . . It is and will be the authoritative work on the ‘new Cervantes,’ Latin America’s perhaps only truly global writer. . . . Very subtle and revealing.”
—Times Literary Supplement (London)
“A rich and resourceful biography.”
“A riveting account not just of one man’s life, but of the time and place in which it was lived. . . . An absorbing book on one of the most beloved masters of modern literature.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Readers might feel as if they’ve picked up one of the magical realist’s novels, for here are the family, friends and folktales that the writer fictionalized. . . . Accounts of the life dovetail with brilliant précis of Latin American literature and politics. . . . Its scholarship is peerless. Every poem, newspaper editorial and novel receives masterful analysis.”
—Time Out New York
“Richly detailed. . . . Martin’s lucid, swiftly paced study treats both the writer and his works with equal care, showing that it is impossible to separate one from the other —and showing as well that the world would be much the poorer without them.”
—St. Petersburg Times
“Márquez once remarked that ‘every self-respecting writer should have an English biographer.’ He could have asked for none more accomplished than Gerald Martin. . . . A monumental work.”
“Martin uses this biographical material to generate consistently first-rate readings of García Márquez’s work. . . . Sensitive and often courageous.”
“Richly detailed. . . . A judicious and occasionally juicy examination of Gabo’s life, his politics and work. . . . Perceptively and persuasively, Martin lays out the literary antecedents of García Márquez’s ‘magical realism.’”
“García Márquez’s life story is just as magical as anything in his fiction. . . . It is both a fine tribute to a remarkable artist and a fascinating cultural history of the region he helped to find its voice.”
“[Martin is] extremely knowledgeable about Latin American literature in general, providing context and enthusiastic critical analysis of the kind that usually gets lost in a scoop of this size.”
—The Guardian (London)
“[Martin has a] profound knowledge of Latin American fiction [and] eloquently shows the extent to which [García Márquez’s] deeply personal obsession became irreversibly intertwined with his need to write. . . . Martin’s detailed analysis of García Márquez’s political life leaves no controversy or criticism untouched. Instead, with perceptiveness and lyricism, he offers his readers insight into the complexities of a subtle diplomat.”
“A superbly well-researched book. . . . Consistently engaging and sympathetic.”
—Sunday Times (London)
“The rags-to-riches tale of Gabriel García Márquez is rich biographical territory. . . . An engaging tribute to a much-loved author. . . . Entertaining.”
“As a piece of investigation alone Martin’s book is an outstanding achievement unlikely ever to be bettered. . . . It is a rags-to-riches tale as absorbing and at times bizarre as anything in Márquez’s fiction. . . . In refreshing contrast to other literary biographers, Martin has managed to study his subject in intimate detail without ever wavering in his faith either in the man or in the writer. Martin’s passionate enthusiasm for Márquez gives the book much of its power and impetus. . . . His analyses of the novels are unfailingly perceptive. . . . Martin is a brave and superhumanly persistent biographer.”
“Masterful. . . . Martin’s book, the product of 17 years of research, is an astonishing feat: a subtle tribute to a very complex man and an indispensable key to his life’s work.”
—Sunday Telegraph (London)
“Lucid. . . . [Martin] blends the stories and novels superbly into his narrative. . . . He is acute on Márquez’s solid marriage and on his protective friends. . . . [This book] helps readers to ground his exceptional fiction in history.”
—The Independent (London)
This intensive, assured, penetratingly analytical book will be the authoritative English-language study of Mr. García Márquez until Mr. Martin can complete an already 2,000-page, 6,000-footnote version "in a few more years, if life is kind"…Could any biographer have been better suited to this gargantuan undertaking? Absolutely not: Mr. Martin is the ideal man for the job. He has already written studies of 20th-century Latin American fiction; translated the work of another Latin American Nobel laureate, Miguel Angel Asturias; and written about Latin American history. These are essential prerequisites for unraveling the labyrinthine cultural and political aspects of Mr. García Márquez's peripatetic life. So are Mr. Martin's demonstrable patience, wide range of knowledge and keen understanding of his subject's worldwide literary forebears, from Cervantes to Dostoyevsky to Mark Twain.
The New York Times
To be sure, in Garcia Marquez's case as in every writer's, the books are all that really matters, but there's a real story here as well. Gerald Martin…on the whole has made the most of the opportunities that Garcia Marquez's life offers. He does rattle on too long about Garcia Marquez's political activities, but he skillfully shows how a long journalistic apprenticeship led to the incredible creative explosion that produced One Hundred Years of Solitude.
The Washington Post
Martin's control of his prodigious material in this first authorized biography of the great Colombian novelist García Márquez is astonishing. Martin (Journeys Through the Labyrinth) writes with a novelist's momentum. His descriptions of García Márquez's hometown, Aracataca (fictionalized as Macondo in One Hundred Years of Solitude), are atmospheric without being cloying; he conducts literary exegesis deftly, like a detective hunting for clues. From isolated youth to shabby college man in thrall to Kafka and Woolf, the "sexual reprobate" and the Nobel Prize laureate, grounded by his marriage and community of fellow writers and friends, and by turns publicly aloof and loquacious, García Márquez seems to be many different men, but his biographer handles the contradictions with finesse. Almost entirely laudatory, the biography addresses the controversies-which generally orbit the politicized García Márquez -gingerly if at all, and renders his off-putting traits endearing. Martin has come to praise García Márquez-whom he regards as the one writer who has been as artistically influential as the early modernists (in pioneering magical realism, now a staple in fiction from the developing world) and positively Dickensian in his popular appeal. 16 pages of photos, 3 maps. (May 20)Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
This superbly researched biography is nothing short of a tour de force. Martin (Andrew W. Mellon Professor Emeritus of Modern Languages, Univ. of Pittsburgh) has for decades been a pioneering scholar of Latin American literature in the English-speaking world (see his Journeys Through the Labyrinth: Latin American Fiction in the Twentieth Century). Based on detailed research as well as personal acquaintance with the subject, this is the most substantial English-language biography written of GarcA-a MArquez, winner of the 1982 Nobel prize in Literature and innovator of magical realism. Martin traces GarcA-a MArquez's life from his roots in a small Colombian town, to his worldwide travels, to his days of fame as an internationally acclaimed author. GarcA-a MArquez's politics, personal life, and literary motivations are considered in depth. Seventeen years in the making, this work not only details the life of a great writer but also provides considerable insight into life in Latin America. Including primary bibliographies of works published in Spanish and English and a secondary bibliography of critical and biographical works; highly recommended. [See Prepub Alert, LJ1/09.]
Alison M. Lewis
A probing biography of the 1982 Nobel Prize laureate in literature, whom Pablo Neruda hailed as a Cervantes for our time. Martin (Modern Languages/Univ. of Pittsburgh; Journeys Through the Labyrinth: Latin American Fiction in the Twentieth Century, 1989, etc.) begins by noting that he has been working on this life of Gabriel Garc'a Marquez for two decades. The effort shows. Born in 1927, Garc'a Marquez remains best known for the book he published when he was 40, One Hundred Years of Solitude, a generational epic whose landscape stretches from ocean to deep jungle. Martin's signal contribution is to reveal, even more so than Garc'a Marquez did in his memoir, just how roman a clef-ish that fictional world is. Yet, of course, a particular storytelling genius is needed to bring even the liveliest real-world figures into habitation in a novel. Martin rightly notes that whereas the literature of the first half of the 20th century has several central figures-Woolf, Joyce, Hemingway et al.-that of the latter half finds only Garc'a Marquez universally acknowledged as a master. That acknowledgment took years to come, of course, and early on Garc'a Marquez was written off as a would-be Faulkner-Faulkner being one of his idols and central to the development of modern Latin American literature, a body of work in which, as Martin also observes, Garc'a Marquez's writings appear conservative against his postmodern fellows, and even scorned for being "transparent, easy to read, and accessible even to people who only had a modest literary education." Martin offers lucid literary commentary alongside the facts of his subject's life, which, as is well known, was marked by excellence in journalism andcontroversy in politics. Though Garc'a Marquez was a noted scourger of Yankee imperialism and friend of Castro, Chavez and the like, he was not shy about having amassed considerable wealth over a long career. Essential for Garc'a Marquez fans, and an exemplary literary biography. First printing of 50,000. Agent: Elizabeth Sheinkman/Curtis Brown UK
Many years after the publication of One Hundred Years of Solitude, as he faced an interviewer, Gabriel García Márquez would recall the circumstances surrounding the composition of his most famous book and declare, "I am just a mediocre notary." Millions of readers would disagree: he is an extraordinary notary, chronicling as he does the history and culture of Latin America by exploring the lives of rural town folk, powerful dictators, ex-military personnel, possessed virgins, kidnapped journalists, elderly lovers, innocent murderers, etc., etc.
But, as Gerald Martin points out in this life of the Nobel Prize winner and bestselling author, "No matter how successful he became, he would never forget that he was nothing more than one of the sixteen children of the telegraphist of Aracata." Martin fixates on García Márquez's early life and the political activism of his adulthood. Not surprisingly, he reads the novels biographically, at pains to point out analogues among the fictional characters in the books and actual characters in life. The exploration of these carefully drawn parallels provides some of the finest passages in this dense biography.
Martin argues that the story behind One Hundred Years of Solitude is that of the Márquez family, that the unnamed protagonist in The Autumn of the Patriarch is not based on an amalgamation of Fidel Castro and other Latin American dictators but on García Márquez himself, and that the creative catalyst for Love in the Time of Cholera was a re-examination of his parents' marriage. The arc of major themes within the works themselves thus mirrors the arc of García Márquez's own life: from the solitude of the early days of struggle to the power brought by his fame in the wake of One Hundred Years of Solitude -- to the love he both broadcast and felt during his later years as he realized the failure of his political forays to the solitude that waits for us all at the end of our lives.
García Márquez was born in 1927 in Aracataca, a small, mostly illiterate town in Colombia's Costa region. His father, a notorious womanizer who allegedly kept a hammock in his office for afternoon assignations, dragged his mother across Colombia, from one get-rich-quick scheme to another. Little Gabriel was effectively abandoned and left to be raised by his maternal grandparents. "'Every single day of my life,'" he told a journalist decades later, "'I wake up with the feeling, real or imaginary, that I've dreamed I'm in that huge old house.'" Each month his grandfather celebrated the little boy's birthday. That boy, in turn, listened carefully to tales about the War of a Thousand Days between the Conservatives and Liberals and the 1928 massacre of striking workers from the banana plantation; he also watched as his grandfather soldered little gold fish to sell in the neighborhood. Readers familiar with the saga of the Buendías of Macondo will find such details particularly fascinating.
As Martin exhaustively describes, García Márquez eventually reunited with his parents, attended boarding school in Bogotá (which he initially detested for its cold, urbane contrast to the more relaxed tropical region of his youth), dropped out of law school, and spent years working as a journalist, becoming Colombia's first regular movie critic. He met and fell in love with Mercedes Barcha, age 9, and proposed to her 16 years later -- when they were married in 1958, they largely knew one another through correspondence. He traveled through Europe. He became friendly with figures who would ultimately determine the direction of the Latin American Left, including Castro. When he finally finished One Hundred Years of Solitude, he and Mercedes were so poor that at first they could only afford to send half of it to the publisher.
Or so goes the story. By his early 40s, García Márquez had transformed himself into a storyteller, able to alchemize the very stuff of life into something worth hearing. His critics would come to call this "García Marketing," because he so carefully cultivated his own image. In public, he began wearing tropical shirts or liquiliqui, an all-white outfit favored by members of his grandfather's generation. In interviews, he began acting "willfully uncouth," saying "almost the exact opposite of what he mean[t]."
A biography this big -- almost 700 pages, with notes -- encompasses nearly every perk and pitfall of the genre. At both the beginning and end, we're told about Martin's greatest moment during the 18 years he spent researching and writing: the day García Márquez named him the "official" biographer. Given Martin's devotion as well as the standing of his subject as one of the greatest writers of the 20th century, we might excuse the forays into hagiography and over-sharing, the weird asides ("Colombia's buses are the gaudiest in Latin America") and curious bits of trivia (the wife of Carlos Fuentes wore "black leather hot pants" to dinner one night).
Still, Martin strikes a careful balance during his discussion of his subject's politics. Radicalized as a young man, García Márquez longed to see democratic socialism cover the continent as a way of healing the wounds from European colonialism and combating American capitalist imperialism. He published such impassioned critiques of Conservatives that death threats were made. Martin rightly admires a writer who gains enough power to be admitted into presidential chambers and act as a behind-the-scenes diplomat around the world. When General Augusto Pinochet seized power in Chile in 1973, García Márquez decided to cease publishing fiction until the dictatorship fell. (He reneged in the early '80s.) The United States banned him for years as a result of his involvement with communism. But such conviction also caused him to steadfastly support the Cuban Revolution, even as Castro's regime grew increasingly repressive. The rise of the Right throughout the Western Hemisphere hastened García Márquez's retreat from politics, and he realized that he would be "more dangerous as a writer than as a politician." Shortly after winning the Nobel in 1982, he claimed that "love will solve all the world's problems."
It hasn't, of course, but it would be a hard-hearted reader who held that against the octogenarian. In his final chapter, Martin argues that Living to Tell the Tale, García Márquez's wildly popular 2002 autobiography, simply wasn't confessional enough. Unlike that version, Martin's version of his life isn't full of "authentic fairy stor[ies]." He focuses on verifiable scenes and situations, though few of the most important: we rarely see García Márquez writing. Perhaps it's because he habitually destroys drafts and correspondence. Or perhaps it's because the act of writing doesn't make for very exciting reading, lonely and painstaking as it is. Obviously the writing is what matters most -- more than the childhood, more than the myth-making, more than the politics, more than anything that might or might not have happened during the many days of García Márquez's long life. And that is as it should be. The biography and autobiography, compelling as they may be, only annotate the lives begot by the writing itself. Thankfully. --Jessica Allen
Jessica Allen has written for Bitch, The Forward, The Onion AV Club, and The Washington Post. She lives in New York.
Read an Excerpt
Of Colonels and Lost Causes
Five hundred years after Europeans stumbled across it, Latin America often seems a disappointment to its inhabitants. It is as if its destiny had been fixed by Columbus, “the great captain,” who discovered the new continent by mistake, misnamed it—“the Indies”—and then died embittered and disillusioned in the early sixteenth century; or by the “great liberator” Simón Bolívar, who put an end to Spanish colonial rule in the early nineteenth century but died dismayed at the newly emancipated region’s disunity and at the bitter thought that “he who makes a revolution ploughs the sea.” More recently the fate of Ernesto “Che” Guevara, the twentieth century’s most romantic revolutionary icon, who died a martyr’s death in Bolivia in 1967, only confirmed the idea that Latin America, still the unknown continent, still the land of the future, is home to grandiose dreams and calamitous failures.
Long before the name of Guevara circled the planet, in a small Colombian town which history only briefly illuminated during the years when the Boston-based United Fruit Company chose to plant bananas there in the early twentieth century, a small boy would listen while his grandfather told tales of a war that lasted a thousand days, at the end of which he too had experienced the bitter solitude of the vanquished, tales of glorious deeds in days gone by, of ghostly heroes and villains, stories which taught the child that justice is not naturally built in to the fabric of life, that right does not always triumph in the kingdom of this world, and that ideals which fill the hearts and minds of many men and women may be defeated and even disappear from the face of the earth. Unless they endure in the memory of those who survive and live to tell the tale.
At the end of the nineteenth century, seventy years after achieving independence from Spain, the republic of Colombia had been a country of less than five million controlled by an elite of perhaps three thousand owners of large haciendas, most of whom were politicians and businessmen, and many also lawyers, writers or grammarians—which is why the capital, Bogotá, became known as the “Athens of South America.” The War of a Thousand Days was the last and most devastating of more than twenty national and local civil wars which had ravaged Colombia during the nineteenth century, fought between Liberals and Conservatives, centralists and federalists, bourgeoisie and landowners, the capital and the regions. In most other countries the nineteenth century gradually saw the Liberals or their equivalents winning the historical battle, whereas in Colombia the Conservatives were dominant until 1930 and, after a Liberal interlude from 1930 to 1946, took charge again until the mid-1950s and remain a powerful force to the present day. Certainly Colombia is the only country where, at the end of the twentieth century, the general elections were still being fought out between a traditional Liberal Party and a traditional Conservative Party, with no other parties gaining a lasting foothold. This has changed in the last ten years.
Although named the “War of a Thousand Days,” the conflict was really over almost before it began. The Conservative government had vastly superior resources and the Liberals were at the mercy of the eccentricities of their inspirational but incompetent leader Rafael Uribe Uribe. Nevertheless the war dragged on for almost three years, increasingly cruel, increasingly bitter and increasingly futile. From October 1900 neither side took prisoners: a “war to the death” was announced whose sombre implications Colombia is living with still. When it all ended in November 1902 the country was devastated and impoverished, the province of Panama about to be lost for ever and perhaps a hundred thousand Colombians had been slaughtered. Feuds and vendettas resulting from the way the conflict had been fought were to continue for many decades. This has made Colombia a curious country in which the two major parties have ostensibly been bitter enemies for almost two centuries yet have tacitly united to ensure that the people never receive genuine representation. No Latin American nation had fewer coups or dictatorships in the twentieth century than Colombia but the Colombian people have paid a staggeringly high price for this appearance of institutional stability.
The War of a Thousand Days was fought over the length and breadth of the country but the centre of gravity gradually shifted north to the Atlantic coastal regions. On the one hand the seat of government, Bogotá, was never seriously threatened by the Liberal rebels; and on the other hand, the Liberals inevitably retreated towards the coastal escape routes which their leaders frequently took in order to seek refuge in sympathetic neighbouring countries or the United States, where they would try to raise funds and buy weapons for the next round of hostilities. At this time the northern third of the country, known as la Costa (“the Coast”), whose inhabitants are called costeños (coast-dwellers), comprised two major departments: Bolívar to the west, whose capital was the port of Cartagena; and Magdalena to the east, whose capital was the port of Santa Marta, nestling beneath the mighty Sierra Nevada. The two major cities either side of the Sierra Nevada—Santa Marta to the west and Riohacha to the east—and all the towns in between as you rode around the sierra—Ciénaga, Aracataca, Valledupar, Villanueva, San Juan, Fonseca and Barrancas—changed hands many times during the war and provided the scenario for the exploits of Nicolás Márquez and his two eldest, illegitimate children, José María Valdeblánquez and Carlos Alberto Valdeblánquez.
Some time in the early 1890s Nicolás Márquez and Tranquilina Iguarán had moved with their two children Juan de Dios and Margarita to the small town of Barrancas in the Colombian Guajira and rented a house in the Calle del Totumo, a few paces from the square. The house still stands today. Señor Márquez set up as a jeweller, making and selling his own pieces—necklaces, rings, bracelets, chains and his speciality, little gold fish—and establishing, it seems, a profitable business which turned him into a respected member of the community. His apprentice and eventual partner was a younger man called Eugenio Ríos, almost an adopted son, with whom he had worked in Riohacha, having brought him from El Carmen de Bolívar. Ríos was the half-brother of Nicolás’s cousin Francisca Cimodosea Mejía, with whom Nicolás had grown up in El Carmen and whom he would later take with him to Aracataca. When the War of a Thousand Days began, after many years of Liberal frustration and bitterness, Nicolás Márquez was, at thirty- five, getting a bit old for adventure. Besides, he had established a comfortable, productive and agreeable life in Barrancas and was looking to build on his growing prosperity. Still, he joined the army of Uribe Uribe, fought in the Guajira, Padilla and Magdalena provinces and there is evidence that he fought harder and longer than many others. Certainly he was involved from the very start when, as a comandante, he was part of a Liberal army which occupied his native city of Riohacha, and he was still involved at the conclusion of the conflict in October 1902.
By the end of August 1902 the recently reinforced Liberal army, now under the command of Uribe Uribe, who had recently made one of his frequent unscheduled reappearances, had marched its way westward around the sierra from Riohacha to the small village of Aracataca, already known as a Liberal stronghold, arriving on 5 September. There Uribe Uribe held two days of talks with Generals Clodomiro Castillo and José Rosario Durán and other officers, including Nicolás Márquez. And it was there, in Aracataca, that they made the fateful decision to fight one more time which would lead to their disastrous defeat at the Battle of Ciénaga.
Uribe advanced on Ciénaga in the early morning of 14 October 1902. The battle went badly for the Liberals from the moment that a government warship began to shell their positions from the sea. Uribe Uribe was shot from his mule and several bullets that pierced his jacket miraculously missed his person (not for the first time). He exclaimed, as García Márquez’s Colonel Aureliano Buendía might have done: “How many changes of uniform do these damned Goths think I have!” (“Goths” was the Liberal name for the Conservatives.) Nicolás Márquez’s teenage son Carlos Alberto died a hero’s death; his elder brother José María, fourth in command of the Conservative army’s “Carazúa Division,” survived.
Two days later, shattered by the death of Carlos Alberto, José María rode out of Ciénaga towards the encampment of the defeated Liberals, where his father, among others, was nursing his wounds. José María was carrying a peace offer from the Conservatives. As his mule approached the tents of the defeated Liberals an advance party intercepted him and he rode in blindfolded to present the Conservative terms to Uribe Uribe. What took place between the nineteen-year-old illegitimate son and his rebel father on an historic occasion overshadowed for both of them by the death of the younger son, we shall never know. Uribe Uribe discussed the Conservative proposal with his senior officers. They decided to accept. The young messenger rode back to Ciénaga and arrived late at night at the railway station, where he was greeted by a delirious crowd and carried aloft to deliver the joyful news. Ten days later, on 24 October 1902, Conservative leaders and Uribe Uribe met with their respective chiefs of staff at a banana plantation called Neerlandia not far from Ciénaga, to sign the peace treaty. It was little more than a fig leaf concealing the bitter truth: that the Liberals had suffered a disastrous defeat.
Late in 1902, Nicolás Márquez went back to Barrancas and his wife Tranquilina and picked up the threads of his life. In 1905 their third child, Luisa Santiaga, was born and things appeared to have returned to normal. But in 1908 Nicolás was involved in a violent encounter which would change his family’s destiny for ever and he was forced to leave Barrancas. Everyone still knew the story when I passed through Barrancas eighty-five years later in 1993. Unfortunately everyone told a different version. Still, no one denies the following facts. Around five o’clock on the rainy afternoon of Monday 19 October 1908, the final day of the week-long Festival of the Virgin of Pilar, whilst the procession carrying her image was proceeding to the church just a few streets away, Colonel Nicolás Márquez, a respectable local politician, landowner, silversmith and family man, then in his forties, shot and killed a younger man called Medardo, the nephew of his friend and comrade in arms General Francisco Romero. Something else that no one denies is that Nicolás was a “ladies’ man” or, more bluntly, a philanderer. To readers from some other parts of the world this quality might seem to conflict with his image as a man of dignity and good standing among his neighbours. But there are at least two sorts of renown which a man prizes in such a society: one is his “good reputation” as such, the conventional respect, always mingled with fear, which he should know how to impose; and the other is his reputation as a “Don Juan” or a “macho,” which others will happily circulate for him, usually with his complaisance. The trick is to ensure that these reputations mutually reinforce one another.
The first version I heard was as convincing as any that followed. Filemón Estrada had been born in the very year the events took place. He was now completely sightless, and that long-ago story had retained for him a vividness which other testimonies had lost. Filemón said that Nicolás, who already had several illegitimate children, seduced Medarda Romero, the sister of his old friend General Romero, and then bragged about it over drinks in the square. There was a lot of gossip, most of it at Medarda’s expense but some of it involving Tranquilina. Medarda said to her son, “This slander must be washed clean with blood, my son, there’s no other way. And if you won’t see to him I’ll have to put on your trousers and you can put on my skirts!” Medardo, a skilled marksman who had ridden with Nicolás in the war, and now lived in nearby Papayal, repeatedly and publicly challenged and insulted his former commander, who took the warnings seriously and some time later lay in wait for the younger man. Medardo rode in to town on the day of the fiesta, dressed up in a white gabardine raincoat, and took a short cut down an alleyway that no longer exists. As he got down from his horse with a bunch of grass in one hand and a lighted pilgrim’s candle in the other, Nicolás said, “Are you armed, Medardo?” Medardo said “No.” “Well, you remember what I told you”—and Nicolás fired one, some say two shots. An old woman who lived down that alleyway came out and said, “So you finally killed him.” “The bullet of right has prevailed over might,” said Nicolás. “After that,” said blind Filemón, “old Nicolás Márquez charged off down the street, leaping over puddles, with his gun in one hand and his umbrella in the other, and looked for Lorenzo Solano Gómez, his compadre, who went with him to give himself up. He was jailed but later his son José María Valdeblánquez, who was very smart, and almost a lawyer, got him out of jail. Medardo being illegitimate, it wasn’t certain whether his surname was Pacheco or Romero, so Valdeblánquez said it wasn’t clear who exactly had been killed; it was a technicality, see, and that’s how Valdeblánquez got him off.”
None other than Ana Ríos, the daughter of Nicolás’s partner Eugenio, who surely had better reason to know than most, told me that Tranquilina was closely involved in the entire tragedy. She recalled that Tranquilina was intensely jealous, and with good reason because Nicolás was always deceiving her. Medarda was a widow and there is always talk about widows in small towns. It was widely rumoured that she was Nicolás’s regular mistress. Tranquilina became obsessed with this possibility, perhaps because Medarda was from a higher class, and therefore more dangerous, than his other conquests. It was said that Tranquilina consulted witches, brought water from the river to clean her threshold and sprinkled lemon juice around the house. Then one day— it is said—she went out into the street and shouted, “There’s a fire at widow Medarda’s place, fire, fire!,” whereupon a boy she had paid to wait in the tower of the the church of San José began to ring the alarm bells, and shortly thereafter Nicolás was seen sneaking out of Medarda’s house in broad daylight (presumably while his friend the General was away).
When he gave his statement to the authorities Nicolás Márquez was asked whether he admitted killing Medardo Romero Pacheco, and he said: “Yes, and if he comes back to life I’ll kill him again.” The Mayor, a Conservative, resolved to protect Nicolás. Deputies were despatched to collect Medardo’s body. He was placed face down in the rain and his hands were tied together behind his back before they carried him away. Most people accept that Medardo sought the confrontation and “asked for” what happened; this may be, although the bare facts seem to demonstrate that it was Nicolás who chose the time, the place and the manner of the final showdown. There is not enough information to appreciate how justified or reprehensible his action may have been; what is crystal clear is that there was nothing remotely heroic about it. Nicolás was not some sedentary farmer but a seasoned war veteran; and the man he killed by stealth was both his military inferior and his junior.