Literary Newspaper · Read at night at the moment
From his posthumous essay "See You in August" to his newly published memoir by his eldest son, "A Farewell", read the story of Márquez's final life with Alzheimer's disease on the 10th anniversary of his death.
On April 17, 2014, García Márquez died at home, and all the readers who loved him bid farewell to the beloved master of literature with the same heartbreak. On April 21, the Palace of Arts of Mexico hosted his "cheerful funeral in his dreams". On August 15, 2020, Márquez's lifelong wife Mercedes passed away, and the lives of the literary legends came to an end.
After Mercedes' death, his eldest son, Rodrigo, had this feeling: "It's like looking at the night sky with a telescope and never being able to find a planet that has been somewhere." ”
This year marks exactly 10 years since Márquez's death. On March 6 of this year, Marquez's birthday, his posthumous work "See You in August" was released simultaneously around the world, and the 10th anniversary of his death on April 17 was "A Farewell", which is the exclusive memory of the eldest son, Rodrigo García, of his parents' later life, they are a gentle, humorous and witty ordinary parents, who face the last moments of their lives calmly while battling illness and forgetting.
[Colombia] by Rodrigo Garcia / by ▲
/ Translated by Yang Ling
New Classic Culture: Nanhai Publishing Company
Márquez developed Alzheimer's disease in his later years and eventually died at home. In the preface to "See You in August", Rodrigo refers to his father's state at the time of the creation of this work: "We will see you in August is the fruit of his last creation against all odds. The creative process was a race between the artist's desire for perfection and his declining memory. ”
In "A Farewell", Gabo's desperate mobilization of brain cells to repeatedly revise the manuscript is concretized:
My father was visibly aware that the memories were slowly fading. He persistently asks for help, emphasizing again and again that he is losing his memory. It takes a tremendous effort to watch a person be so anxious and endure their endless chatter. "I work from memory," he said. Memory is my tool, my raw material. I can't work without it, help me. ”
What was once a "pot of creativity" has been shattered, and writers are no longer able to write grand and complex novels. Although he is lost and confused, he will never be defeated by difficulties. He almost forgot about Mercedes, who had been with him all his life, but he still desperately tried to make room for her in his memory, he forgot what his two sons looked like, he forgot his secretary, his driver, his cook, and he could only lie down and listen to his favorite music all day, "with a kind of happiness with fatigue".
Today, from "A Farewell", we go back to the last month of Márquez's time, which is a precious and exclusive memory, and we can stand up close and read the story of Márquez's life that will not end.
It was a "more cruel and irreversible forgetting"
▲ Photo of Mercedes on his 80th birthday
He recognized my mother and affectionately called her "Meche", "Mercedes", "Mama", "Mama Sage". Not so long ago, there were those months that were tough. He remembered the love of his life, but was convinced that the woman in front of him, though he had repeatedly claimed to be his wife, was nothing more than a liar.
"Why is this woman here giving orders and in charge of everything in the house? She has nothing to do with me. ”
The mother was mad with rage.
"What's wrong with him?" she asked incredulously.
"Mom, it's not really him. It's caused by Alzheimer's disease. ”
She looked at me as if I was prevaricating her. Unexpectedly, this period finally passed, and she regained her place in his mind and became his partner again. She is the last bond. As for his secretary, driver, and cook, all the people who had worked in this family for many years were regarded by him as family, close to them, and their presence gave him a sense of security, but he did not remember their names. My brother and I went to visit him, and he stared at us for a long time, carefully, with unbridled curiosity. Our face touched something far away, but in the end he didn't recognize us.
"Who are those two people in the next room?" he asked the babysitter.
"Your son. ”
"Really, those two guys, hell, it's unbelievable. ”
A few years ago, there was an even more difficult time. My father was visibly aware that the memories were slowly fading. He persistently asks for help, emphasizing again and again that he is losing his memory. It takes a tremendous effort to watch a person be so anxious and endure their endless chatter. "I work from memory," he said. Memory is my tool, my raw material. I can't work without it, help me. And so he kept repeating it in different forms, for an hour or even half an afternoon. It's physically and mentally exhausting. Eventually, though, those days passed slowly. The father slowly regained his composure, sometimes saying, "I lost my memory, but luckily I will forget that I lost it." Or, "Everybody treats me like a child." That's good, I like it. ”
His secretary told me that one afternoon he was seen standing alone in the middle of the garden, looking into the distance, lost in thought.
"Mr. Gabriel, what are you doing out here?"
"I'm crying. ”
"Crying, but you didn't cry. ”
"I was crying, but there were no tears. Don't you notice that my mind is like a piece of?"
Music is his "semi-secret lifelong love"
▲ Marquez enjoying the "Tuesday nap time".
Wednesday night was full of nightmares. I was afraid that they would knock on my door and tell me he was dead. At dawn, I got up and walked to his room, where the nurse told me he hadn't moved all night. He had been in the same position I had seen him in the previous night, his breathing so weak that he could barely detect it. I wondered if the nurse still needed to stretch him and roll him over to avoid bedsores, or if we didn't need to do it anymore. I took a shower, got dressed, and went back to my room. At this moment, in the faint morning light, he looked like a different person, an ascetic twin with himself, with a thin and haggard face, and his skin was almost translucent, so that I could not even recognize it. I felt that the person in front of me was strange and distant. Perhaps this is the reason for his transformation, which makes the separation easier, and he seems to be a newborn in front of me, which arouses the pity in my heart.
In the kitchen, I sat at the table with the silent cook, who would come to my house every once in a while for decades to help out, and my father admired her straightforward temper. For a moment, she looked at me, but didn't speak. Then she went out to see her boss, muttering, "Maybe he needs something." ”
After breakfast, I heard the Bayenato music in my father's room. It was his favorite style of music, and sometimes he listened to chamber music or pop folk with disloyalty, but he always came back to Vallenato eventually. After his amnesia worsened, he would be able to recite many of the poems of the Golden Age if he were to be given a head. After this talent is gone, he can still sing his beloved songs. Valenato is a unique artistic expression of his homeland, and in his final months, even though he remembers nothing, his eyes still twinkle with excitement when the classic accordion prelude is played. His secretary would often play a series of compilation albums, and he would sit in his study, happily lost in the tunnel of time. So, for the last few days, the nurse began to play Bayenato for him in the room, turning up the volume to maximum and leaving the windows all open. The sound of music spread to all corners of the house. Some of the pieces were composed by his old friend Rafael Escalona. In such an atmosphere, the music evokes infinite memories for me. It takes me back to my father's old days, which nothing else can match. I wandered through my father's past and back to the present, echoing in my ears like the last lullaby.
"A great opportunity to get together with friends from Latin America"
While they were preparing for their father, a doctor filled out the forms needed for a death certificate. We realized we had to wait a little longer before we could call the media. A close friend was flying from Colombia to say goodbye to my father, and a female friend from Mexico was returning from a family vacation. But I'm more worried about my daughters, who are still on the plane from Los Angeles with my wife. I don't want my daughters to open their phones as soon as they land, and all they see is the news that their grandfather has died. So we decided to wait and not call anyone until all our friends and relatives were safely landed and we could contact us. If my father had known about it, he would have laughed out loud. "Waiting for battle, but doing nothing. ”
I looked into the room again, and my father's body was wrapped from his feet to his neck. The bed was lowered, and he lay flat, with only a thin pillow slightly cushioning his head. His face had been scrubbed, the towel around his neck had been removed, his jaw had been closed, his dentures had been put on, and he looked pale and serious, but peaceful. A lock of gray curly hair stuck to my forehead reminded me of a bust of an aristocracy. My niece put a bouquet of yellow roses in his abdomen. It was my father's favorite flower, and he firmly believed that yellow roses could bring good luck.
For the next few hours, we sat next to our mother. She turned on the TV as usual to distract herself. A television program is being shown about the life of Octavio Paz, a poet and diplomat who died a few years ago and was a friend of my parents. The mother watched for a few minutes, but it was clear from her expression that she was thinking about what she might see on television in the coming days or weeks.
Suddenly, she muttered to herself that perhaps her father had been reunited with Álvaro, who was a close friend of his father's and had died a few months earlier, and that "they must have been chatting over whiskey".
The phone rang at home, and unlike in the past, this time she went to answer the phone herself. The caller was from a friend who we don't see often, who called to inquire about my father's condition and offered to do everything he could to help us with the help we needed. The mother patiently listened to the other party and expressed her gratitude mechanically, but then found the right time to tell the other party that her father had died. You don't have to listen to it to imagine the shock of the other party when they learn the news, let alone such a news being conveyed in such a straightforward tone. The mother took over and explained that it had happened in the past hour, as if she were talking about a meal delivery. My niece and nephew knew her well, and they were sad, but at the same time they couldn't hold back a laugh. I glanced at them, their eyes were complicated, and they were overwhelmed and ran away in a hurry.
"I dreamed of attending my own funeral"
▲ Marquez and Mercedes on the Day of the Dead altar
They placed flowers, commemorative objects, icons or plaques in front of the table where the urns were kept. Many people left their own books and wrote notes expressing their condolences or love, some calling their father a master, but most calling him Gabo, or Gabito. All of this is a stark reminder that fathers belong not only to us, but to many people.
This farewell ceremony gave us the opportunity to meet other friends we hadn't met before or hadn't seen for a long time. I even saw some friends walking silently in the mourning crowd. I motioned for them to come to the other side of the hall for a quick chat. Thanks to these small gatherings, the memorial ceremony is not so sad.
For a moment, I lost my mind and watched the faces of the mourners. I am reminded of what my father once said that each of us has three kinds of lives: in public, in private, and in secret. For a moment, I thought that perhaps the man who carried his secret life was in the crowd. Before I could get mad at the idea, one of the Bayenato trios came close, stopped and sang a song for my father. Their performances were enthusiastic and I would like to express my gratitude.
We learned that the plane in which the President of Colombia was flying had landed and that he was on his way. After a while, the president of Colombia walked in, and in front of him was the president of the host, Mexico. Surprisingly, many of my father's friends also arrived on the same plane, and we were thrilled by the arrival of a new wave of memorial climax. The mother greeted the guests very happily, and her joy was palpable. "What do you think of this memorial service?" she asked.
The national anthems of the two countries sounded, and the atmosphere turned solemn. The president of Colombia and I are the same age, and I have known my father for many years, and I became close friends with him before he became president. He spoke impassionedly. Gabo is undoubtedly the greatest Colombian of all time, he said. His mother looked at him proudly, as if he were the outstanding nephew of her own family. The president's younger brother as a journalist also came. He was one of his mother's favorites and always brought her the latest gossip news from Bogotá. Despite the fact that she was in such an atmosphere, she was happy.
The President of Mexico gave a good speech, but ended by referring to us as "his sons and widows". I squirmed in my seat, thinking to myself that my mother must not agree with that. After the two heads of state left, my younger brother came up to me and said in a sarcastic tone, "Widow." We laughed a little uneasily. Soon, the mother indignantly and resolutely expressed her opinion. She threatened to tell the first reporter who walked by her that she was planning to remarry, and that the sooner the better. In the end, she said categorically: "I am not a widow. I am who I am. ”
......
New Media Editor: Zheng Zhouming
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