His instructions to the inspector and the intern were precise and rapid. There was no need for an autopsy; the odor in the house was sufficient proof that the cause of death had been the cyanide vapors activated in the tray by some photographic acid, and Jeremiah de Saint-Amour knew too much about those matters for it to have been an accident. When the inspector showed some hesitation, he cut him off with the kind of remark that was typical of his manner:
“Don’t forget that I am the one who signs the death certificate.”
The young doctor was disappointed: he had never had the opportunity to study the effects of gold cyanide on a cadaver. Dr. Juvenal Urbino had been surprised that he had not seen him at the Medical School, but he understood in an instant from the young man’s easy blush and Andean accent that he was probably a recent arrival in the city. He said:
“There is bound to be someone driven mad by love who will give you the chance one of these days.”
And only after he said it, he realized that among the countless suicides he could remember, this was the first with cyanide that had not been caused by the sufferings of love. Then something changed in the tone of his voice.
“And when you do find one, observe with care,” he said to the intern: “they almost always have crystals in their heart.”
Then he spoke to the inspector as he would have to a subordinate. He ordered him to circumvent all the legal procedures so that the burial could take place that same afternoon and with the greatest discretion. He said:
“I will speak to the mayor later.”
He knew that Jeremiah de Saint-Amour lived in primitive austerity.
From “Love in the Time of Cholera” by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Over the past two weeks, I conducted an informal study of my most influential authors who have published their works in the past century. I evaluated their prose in the original language: English, Spanish, and French. Gabriel Garcia Marquez emerged as the most impactful. I was fascinated by his ability to enhance the meaning of contemporary Spanish words, his use and revitalization of old Castilian terms that enriched Hispano-American speech, and his extraordinary talent for capturing the moment’s essence. No translation into any language does him justice. Enjoy Gabi’s paragraphs. Those who know both languages will understand what I mean.
I ranked Ernest Hemingway and Albert Camus in second place, both surpassing the typical craftsmanship of literary works. Enjoy Gabi’s paragraphs. Those who know both languages will understand what I mean.
Original text in Spanish
Las instrucciones al comisario y al practicante fueron precisas y rápidas. No había que hacer autopsia. El olor de la casa bastaba para determinar que la causa de la muerte habían sido las emanaciones del cianuro activado en la cubeta por algún ácido de fotografía, y Jeremiah de Saint-Amour sabía mucho de eso para no hacerlo por accidente. Ante una reticencia del comisario, lo paró con una estocada típica de su modo de ser:
—No se olvide que soy yo el que firma el certificado de defunción.
El médico joven quedó desencantado: nunca había tenido la suerte de estudiar los efectos del cianuro de oro en un cadáver. El doctor Juvenal Urbino se había sorprendido de no haberlo visto en la Escuela de Medicina, pero lo entendió de inmediato por su rubor fácil y su dicción andina: tal vez era un recién llegado a la ciudad. Dijo:
—No va a faltarle aquí algún loco de amor que le dé la oportunidad un día de estos.
Y sólo al decirlo cayó en la cuenta de que entre los incontables suicidios que recordaba, aquel era el primero con cianuro que no había sido causado por un infortunio de amores. Algo cambió entonces en los hábitos de su voz.
—Cuando lo encuentre, fíjese bien —le dijo al practicante, —suelen tener arena en el corazón.
Luego habló con el comisario como lo hubiera hecho con un subalterno. Le ordenó que sortearan todas las instancias para que el entierro se hiciera esa misma tarde y con el mayor sigilo. Dijo:
— Yo hablaré después con el alcalde.
Sabía que Jeremiah de Saint-Amour era de una austeridad primitiva.
Del “El amor en los tiempos del colera” de García Márquez.
