No One Writes to the Colonel

by Gabriel García Márquez

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.