No One Writes to the Colonel

by Gabriel García Márquez

After shaving himself by touch—since he’d lacked a mirror for a long time—the colonel dressed silently. His trousers, almost as tight on his legs as long underwear, closed at the ankles with slip-knotted drawstrings, were held up at the waist by two straps of the same material which passed through two gilt buckles sewn on at kidney height. He didn’t use a belt. His shirt, the color of old Manila paper, and as stiff, fastened with a copper stud which served at the same time to hold the detachable collar. But the detachable collar was torn, so the colonel gave up on the idea of a tie. He did each thing as if it were a transcendent act. The bones in his hands were covered by taut, translucent skin, with light spots like the skin on his neck. Before he put on his patent-leather shoes, he scraped the dried mud from the stitching. His wife saw him at that moment, dressed as he was on their wedding day. Only then did she notice how much her husband had aged. “You look as if you’re dressed for some special event,” she said. “This burial is a special event,” the colonel said. “It’s the first death from natural causes which we’ve had in many years.”

The colonel didn’t read the headlines. He made an effort to control his stomach. “Ever since there’s been censorship, the newspapers talk only about Europe,” he said. “The best thing would be for the Europeans to come over here and for us to go to Europe. That way everybody would know what’s happening in his own country.” “To the Europeans, South America is a man with a mustache, a guitar, and a gun,” the doctor said, laughing over his newspaper. “They don’t understand the problem.” The postmaster delivered his mail. He put the rest in the bag and closed it again. The doctor got ready to read two personal letters, but before tearing open the envelopes he looked at the colonel. Then he looked at the postmaster. “Nothing for the colonel?” The colonel was terrified. The postmaster tossed the bag onto his shoulder, got off the platform, and replied without turning his head: “No one writes to the colonel.” Contrary to his habit, he didn’t go directly home. He had a cup of coffee at the tailor’s while Agustín’s companions leafed through the newspapers. He felt cheated. He would have preferred to stay there until the next Friday to keep from having to face his wife that night with empty hands. But when the tailor shop closed, he had to face up to reality. His wife was waiting for him. “Nothing?” she asked. “Nothing,” the colonel answered.