Gabriel Garcia Marquez_ A Life Part 6

GGM working for Prensa Latina, Bogota, 1959.

Mercedes Barcha in Barranquilla before her marriage to GGM.

Cuba, December 1958: Che Guevara and comrades relax after battle before marching into Havana.

GGM and Plinio Mendoza in Prensa Latina, Bogota, 1959.

GGM and Mercedes on Septima, Bogota, 1960s.

Havana, January 1961: Cuban militia prepare for the expected U.S. invasion, at the time GGM arrives in New York to work for the revolution.

Havana, 21 April 1961: U.S.-backed invaders are taken to prison following defeat at Playa Giron (Bay of Pigs), at the time GGM is planning to leave Prensa Latina and travel to Mexico.

Mexico, 1964: GGM (in gla.s.ses, looking distinctly alienated) with Luis Bunuel (front, second left), Luis Alcoriza (front, first left), and (top left to right) Armando Bartra, unknown, unknown (probably Cesare Zavattini), Arturo Ripstein, Alberto Isaac and Claudio Isaac.

GGM in Aracataca, 1966, with accordionist: this improvised event was the seed of the later vallenato festivals in Valledupar.

Valledupar, Colombia, 1967: (left to right) Clemente Quintero, Alvaro Cepeda, Roberto Pavajeau, GGM, Hernando Molina and Rafael Escalona.

Camilo Torres: university friend of GGM, baptized his first son Rodrigo, became Latin America's best-known revolutionary priest and died in action in 1966.

Wizard or dunce? GGM in Barcelona, crowned by the famous cabbalistic cover of One Hundred Years of Solitude, 1969.

Mercedes, Gabo, Gonzalo and Rodrigo, Barcelona, late 1960s.

A few months later Garcia Marquez was invited by the cultural section of the Mexican Foreign Office to give a lecture and, where he would normally have refused, he in fact agreed, though specifying that he would like to give a literary reading rather than a talk. Always self-critical and concerned with the quality of his work, he had become anxious that he was now lost in a world of his own with Alvaro and Maria Luisa and that their enthusiasm for his ideas might have hypnotized him: I sat down to read on the illuminated stage; the stalls with "my" audience completely in the dark. I started to read, I can't remember which chapter, but I went on reading and at a given moment there was such silence in the hall and I was in such a state of tension that I panicked. I stopped reading and tried to peer through the darkness and after a few seconds I could see the faces of those in the front row and on the contrary, I could see they had their eyes open wide, like this, and so I was able to go on calmly with the reading. Really people were hanging on my words; not a fly buzzed. When I finished and stepped down from the stage, the first person to embrace me was Mercedes, with an expression on her face-I think it was the first time since I married her that I realized she loved me, because she looked at me with such an expression on her face! ... She'd been managing on virtually nothing for a year so that I could write and the day of that reading the expression on her face gave me the certainty that the book was heading in the right direction.12 Mercedes went on fighting her own campaign to keep the family finances afloat. By early 1966 the money set aside from previous earnings had gone but although her husband's writer's block was a thing of the past, the book just got bigger and bigger and seemed set to go on right through the year. Finally Garcia Marquez drove the white Opel to a car pound in Tacubaya and came back with another large sum.13 Now their friends had to drive them around. He even considered letting the telephone go, not only to save the money but to avoid his greatest distraction: talking endlessly to his friends on the phone. When the money for the car ran out Mercedes began to p.a.w.n everything: television, fridge, radio, jewellery. Her three last "military positions" were her hairdryer, the liquidizer for the boys' meals and Gabo's electric fire. She bought her meat from Don Felipe, the butcher, on ever more elastic credit; she persuaded Luis Coudurier, the landlord, to wait even longer for the rent. And their friends brought regular supplies of every description. They kept the record player, though. Garcia Marquez could not at this stage in his life compose a novel while music was playing; but he could not live without music either and his beloved Bartok, Debussy's Now their friends had to drive them around. He even considered letting the telephone go, not only to save the money but to avoid his greatest distraction: talking endlessly to his friends on the phone. When the money for the car ran out Mercedes began to p.a.w.n everything: television, fridge, radio, jewellery. Her three last "military positions" were her hairdryer, the liquidizer for the boys' meals and Gabo's electric fire. She bought her meat from Don Felipe, the butcher, on ever more elastic credit; she persuaded Luis Coudurier, the landlord, to wait even longer for the rent. And their friends brought regular supplies of every description. They kept the record player, though. Garcia Marquez could not at this stage in his life compose a novel while music was playing; but he could not live without music either and his beloved Bartok, Debussy's Preludes Preludes and the Beatles' and the Beatles' Hard Day's Night Hard Day's Night were in the background of most of what he did in those times. were in the background of most of what he did in those times.

His worst day in the entire writing was the death of Colonel Aureliano Buendia (chapter 13). Like many writers he experienced the loss of his princ.i.p.al character as a personal bereavement, perhaps even as a homicide. The narration of the death is invested with some of Garcia Marquez's own most poignant childhood memories and, though the critics have not realized it, the novelist had put more of himself into this apparently unsympathetic character than into any other in his fiction before that time. Aureliano, although the second child, is "the first human being to be born in Macondo"; he is born in March, like Garcia Marquez; born, moreover, with his eyes open, eyes which gaze around that house the moment he emerges from the womb, as little Gabito's were said to have done. From early childhood he is clairvoyant, just as Gabito is reputed to be in his family. He falls in love with a little girl (and marries her before she reaches p.u.b.erty); but after her death he is "incapable of love" and acts only out of "sinful pride." Though capable of great empathy and even kindness as a young man (and though a writer of love poetry-which later embarra.s.ses him), Aureliano is solitary, egocentric and ruthless; nothing can stand in the way of his personal ambition. In Aureliano Buendia, then, Garcia Marquez fuses selected memories of Colonel Marquez (the war, the workshop, the little gold fish) with a self-portrait which amounts to a self-critique; a self-critique which amounts to a perception that he has now achieved his lifelong ambition but that the quest to do so has been calculating, all-consuming and ultimately narcissistic and egotistical. The vocation for writing (for becoming Melquiades), which he would later stress so strongly in Living to Tell the Tale Living to Tell the Tale, in fact screens another more elemental and perhaps less palatable instinct, the will to triumph and the desire for fame, glory and riches (Colonel Aureliano Buendia). The Autumn of the Patriarch The Autumn of the Patriarch would take this self-critique to even more surprising lengths. would take this self-critique to even more surprising lengths.

At two in the morning, after the deed was done, he went up to the bedroom, where Mercedes was fast asleep, lay down and wept for two hours.14 It requires little biographical insight to suppose that in killing off his central character he was brought to confront not only his own mortality and the end of this novel but also the end of a uniquely euphoric experience-indeed, the end of an entire era of his life and of a person he had been, and the end of a particular inexpressible relations.h.i.+p with the most important person in his life, his grandfather (now lost for ever because literature could not resurrect him). Now, irony of ironies, Garcia Marquez was back, in the midst of his triumphs, to being the man envisaged by his first stories, a man doomed to multiple, successive deaths as he left behind each moment of his life and each object and person that he had loved. Except his wife and children. It requires little biographical insight to suppose that in killing off his central character he was brought to confront not only his own mortality and the end of this novel but also the end of a uniquely euphoric experience-indeed, the end of an entire era of his life and of a person he had been, and the end of a particular inexpressible relations.h.i.+p with the most important person in his life, his grandfather (now lost for ever because literature could not resurrect him). Now, irony of ironies, Garcia Marquez was back, in the midst of his triumphs, to being the man envisaged by his first stories, a man doomed to multiple, successive deaths as he left behind each moment of his life and each object and person that he had loved. Except his wife and children.

Although he has always given the impression that he stayed in his smoke-filled room until the book was completed, the opportunity of travelling to Colombia at someone else's expense arose and, after much consideration, he decided to take the opportunity. He had persuaded the Ripsteins to enter Tiempo de morir Tiempo de morir in the Cartagena Film Festival and travelled by cruise liner from Veracruz to Cartagena, arriving on 1 March 1966 (two weeks after the death in combat of his friend Camilo Torres, now a guerrilla). The film won first prize at the festival, despite Garcia Marquez's own doubts about the job Ripstein had done. He had much to celebrate on 6 March: the triumph of his movie, the prospects for his novel, and his thirty-ninth birthday back home with the family in Cartagena. He made a brief visit to Bogota and then flew in to Barranquilla, where Plinio Mendoza was now living. Mendoza received a phone call at work. in the Cartagena Film Festival and travelled by cruise liner from Veracruz to Cartagena, arriving on 1 March 1966 (two weeks after the death in combat of his friend Camilo Torres, now a guerrilla). The film won first prize at the festival, despite Garcia Marquez's own doubts about the job Ripstein had done. He had much to celebrate on 6 March: the triumph of his movie, the prospects for his novel, and his thirty-ninth birthday back home with the family in Cartagena. He made a brief visit to Bogota and then flew in to Barranquilla, where Plinio Mendoza was now living. Mendoza received a phone call at work.

"Gabo, great to hear your voice, where are you?"

"Sitting in your house, a.s.shole, having a whisky."15 He told Mendoza and Alvaro Cepeda about his novel: "It's nothing like the others, compadres. compadres. This time I've finally let my hair down. Either I'm going to make my big hit or fall flat on my face." During the visit he walked round the old haunts in Barranquilla with Alfonso Fuenmayor, reliving old times and reminding himself of places and faces. To complete the whirlwind tour, he returned to Aracataca for the first time in a decade. This time I've finally let my hair down. Either I'm going to make my big hit or fall flat on my face." During the visit he walked round the old haunts in Barranquilla with Alfonso Fuenmayor, reliving old times and reminding himself of places and faces. To complete the whirlwind tour, he returned to Aracataca for the first time in a decade.16 This time he travelled not with his mother but with Alvaro Cepeda, in a jeep driven by Cepeda himself. They were conveniently accompanied on their quest for time past by the Barranquilla correspondent of This time he travelled not with his mother but with Alvaro Cepeda, in a jeep driven by Cepeda himself. They were conveniently accompanied on their quest for time past by the Barranquilla correspondent of El Tiempo El Tiempo, who wrote a detailed report: suddenly Garcia Marquez was being converted into a folk hero by the media-prior to his further metamorphosis into a superstar.17 He had intended to stay several weeks but embarked for Mexico after a few days, arriving towards the end of March. Alfonso Fuenmayor protested at his departure, and Garcia Marquez explained that the night before he left he had suddenly seen the end of his novel so clearly that he could dictate it word for word to a typist. He locked himself away in that room again, and set about a.s.similating what had just happened to him. The ending that had occurred to him-which speaks perhaps to a sense of how much he had moved on and how much his Colombian friends had not-was one of the greatest conclusions to a novel in all of literature.

One Hundred Years of Solitude was a book that had a publisher almost from the moment it was started. It had a daily audience of enthusiasts on whom its author could count. And the euphoric writer was hardly in need of encouragement: he was a man possessed. Possessed of creative powers of literature pulsing through him and possessed of the certainty that the work's success was in the stars, preordained. James Joyce's Ulysses is the closest example of a mythic book which the cognoscenti knew was coming and which they knew was destined for greatness; but Joyce had no publisher and could never expect to be a best-selling author. Yet so confident was the normally hyper-cautious Garcia Marquez that, far from succ.u.mbing to the superst.i.tions that usually restrained him, during his visit to Bogota in March he had given his old colleagues in was a book that had a publisher almost from the moment it was started. It had a daily audience of enthusiasts on whom its author could count. And the euphoric writer was hardly in need of encouragement: he was a man possessed. Possessed of creative powers of literature pulsing through him and possessed of the certainty that the work's success was in the stars, preordained. James Joyce's Ulysses is the closest example of a mythic book which the cognoscenti knew was coming and which they knew was destined for greatness; but Joyce had no publisher and could never expect to be a best-selling author. Yet so confident was the normally hyper-cautious Garcia Marquez that, far from succ.u.mbing to the superst.i.tions that usually restrained him, during his visit to Bogota in March he had given his old colleagues in El Espectador El Espectador the first chapter, which they published on 1 May. Carlos Fuentes, by now back in Paris, received the first three chapters in June 1966 and was dazzled. the first chapter, which they published on 1 May. Carlos Fuentes, by now back in Paris, received the first three chapters in June 1966 and was dazzled.18 He pa.s.sed them to his friend Julio Cortazar. The reaction was the same. Then Fuentes pa.s.sed chapter 2 to Emir Rodriguez Monegal to publicize it in the first edition of a new literary magazine, He pa.s.sed them to his friend Julio Cortazar. The reaction was the same. Then Fuentes pa.s.sed chapter 2 to Emir Rodriguez Monegal to publicize it in the first edition of a new literary magazine, Mundo Nuevo Mundo Nuevo, in Paris in August 1966.

In an interview with the editor, Fuentes announced that he had just received the first seventy-five pages of Garcia Marquez's "work in progress" (the reference to Joyce was unmistakable) and considered it without the slightest doubt an absolute masterpiece which immediately consigned all previous Latin American regional cla.s.sics to a dusty past.

Then Fuentes sent an article to La Cultura en Mexico (Siempre!) La Cultura en Mexico (Siempre!) announcing to his compatriots also, on 29 June, that announcing to his compatriots also, on 29 June, that One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude was coming and was a great novel (Garcia Marquez probably hadn't even finished it): "I have just read eighty magisterial pages: the first eighty pages of One Hundred Years of Solitude, the novel Gabriel Garcia Marquez is working on." was coming and was a great novel (Garcia Marquez probably hadn't even finished it): "I have just read eighty magisterial pages: the first eighty pages of One Hundred Years of Solitude, the novel Gabriel Garcia Marquez is working on."19 People could hardly express their astonishment. There were no precedents for what was happening. People could hardly express their astonishment. There were no precedents for what was happening.

In view of the climate of expectation, it was as well that Garcia Marquez was able to finish the novel. He told Plinio Mendoza: "The book arrived at its natural end in a rush, at eleven in the morning. Mercedes was out and I couldn't find anyone on the telephone to tell the news. I remember my confusion as if it were yesterday: I didn't know what to do with myself and tried to make something up to survive until three o'clock in the afternoon!"20 Later that day a blue cat came into the house and the writer thought, "Hmmm, maybe this book is going to sell." Minutes later the two boys came in with brushes and blue paint all over their hands and clothes. Later that day a blue cat came into the house and the writer thought, "Hmmm, maybe this book is going to sell." Minutes later the two boys came in with brushes and blue paint all over their hands and clothes.

His first act was to send a copy off to German Vargas in Bogota, prior to sending the ma.n.u.script to Sudamericana. Garcia Marquez asked Vargas if he thought it was all right to have made references to himself and his friends in Barranquilla. First Vargas, then Fuenmayor, replied that they were honoured to be friends of the last of the Buendias. Then Vargas, in that slow way of his, digested the book and wrote an article ent.i.tled "A Book That Will Make a Noise," which he published in April 1967 in Encuentro Liberal Encuentro Liberal, the weekly he himself edited in Bogota; Vargas's own essay itself made a noise and was the first Colombian prediction of the novel's future status.21 Plinio Mendoza also received a copy in Barranquilla and, cancelling work for the day, read it from start to finish. He told his new wife Marvel Moreno, an ex-beauty queen and future novelist, "He's done it. Gabo's made the big hit he wanted." Plinio pa.s.sed it on to Alvaro Cepeda. Alvaro read it, took the cigar out of his mouth, and shouted, "No s.h.i.+t, Gabo's pulled off a h.e.l.luva novel." Plinio Mendoza also received a copy in Barranquilla and, cancelling work for the day, read it from start to finish. He told his new wife Marvel Moreno, an ex-beauty queen and future novelist, "He's done it. Gabo's made the big hit he wanted." Plinio pa.s.sed it on to Alvaro Cepeda. Alvaro read it, took the cigar out of his mouth, and shouted, "No s.h.i.+t, Gabo's pulled off a h.e.l.luva novel."22 The way Garcia Marquez has always told it, his return to the world was almost as dramatic and confusing as that of Rip Van Winkle.23 It was the year of Swinging London. Indira Gandhi was now running the largest democracy on earth and Fidel Castro, in whose company Garcia Marquez would meet that same Indian leader many years later, was busy organizing the first Tricontinental Conference of Asian, African and Latin American States to be held in Havana in August 1967. A right-wing actor called Ronald Reagan was running for Governor of California. China was in uproar and Mao would proclaim the Cultural Revolution a few days after Garcia Marquez sent the first tranche of his precious package to Buenos Aires. In fact Garcia Marquez himself had to leave the magical world of Macondo in a hurry and begin to make some money. He felt unable to take even a week off to celebrate. He was afraid that it might take him years to pay off the debts he had acc.u.mulated. He would say later that he had written 1,300 pages of which he had finally sent 490 to Porrua; that he had smoked 30,000 cigarettes and owed 120,000 pesos. Understandably, he still felt insecure. Soon after he had finished it he attended a party at his English friend James Papworth's house. Papworth enquired about the book and Garcia Marquez replied, "I've either got a novel or just a kilo of paper, I'm still not sure which." It was the year of Swinging London. Indira Gandhi was now running the largest democracy on earth and Fidel Castro, in whose company Garcia Marquez would meet that same Indian leader many years later, was busy organizing the first Tricontinental Conference of Asian, African and Latin American States to be held in Havana in August 1967. A right-wing actor called Ronald Reagan was running for Governor of California. China was in uproar and Mao would proclaim the Cultural Revolution a few days after Garcia Marquez sent the first tranche of his precious package to Buenos Aires. In fact Garcia Marquez himself had to leave the magical world of Macondo in a hurry and begin to make some money. He felt unable to take even a week off to celebrate. He was afraid that it might take him years to pay off the debts he had acc.u.mulated. He would say later that he had written 1,300 pages of which he had finally sent 490 to Porrua; that he had smoked 30,000 cigarettes and owed 120,000 pesos. Understandably, he still felt insecure. Soon after he had finished it he attended a party at his English friend James Papworth's house. Papworth enquired about the book and Garcia Marquez replied, "I've either got a novel or just a kilo of paper, I'm still not sure which."24 He went straight back to working on film scripts. Then, in his first article for five years, dated July 1966 and still not written for consumption in Mexico, Garcia Marquez wrote a self-referential meditation for He went straight back to working on film scripts. Then, in his first article for five years, dated July 1966 and still not written for consumption in Mexico, Garcia Marquez wrote a self-referential meditation for El Espectador El Espectador ent.i.tled "Misfortunes of a Writer of Books": ent.i.tled "Misfortunes of a Writer of Books": Writing books is a suicidal profession. No other demands as much time, as much work, as much dedication, by comparison with its immediate benefits. I don't think many readers finis.h.i.+ng a book ask themselves how many hours of anguish and domestic calamities those two hundred pages have cost the author or how much he received for his work ... After this grim a.s.sessment of misfortunes, it is elementary to ask why we writers write. The reply, inevitably, is as melodramatic as it is sincere. One is a writer, simply, as one is a Jew or a Black. Success is encouraging, the favour of one's readers is stimulating, but these are mere additional gains because a good writer will go on writing anyway, even though his shoes need mending and even if his books don't sell.25 The new Garcia Marquez, the first sight of whom could be glimpsed in the interviews he gave when he arrived in Cartagena the previous March, has been born. He has started to say almost the exact opposite of what he means. He writes about his misfortunes because his misfortunes are almost over. The man who never complained, never made a fuss in even the most straitened circ.u.mstances, is intending to make a fuss henceforth about everything-not least about the cupidity of publishers and booksellers, a topic that will become an obsession. Here he is, the Garcia Marquez who will endlessly fascinate the public and permanently irritate the critics, particularly those who will be convinced that he does not deserve his success and that they who are far more sophisticated, far less vulgar and far more important literarily speaking, should have his glittering prizes. This new personage-a true man of the sixties, apparently-is provocative, opinionated, demagogic, hypocritical, wilfully uncouth and yet impossible to pin down; but the people will love him for all this because he seems to be one of them, making it big and getting away with it thanks to his wit, which is their wit, their view of the world.

Around the same time, soon after completing the novel, Garcia Marquez wrote a long letter to Plinio Mendoza. It begins with a striking statement of his feelings at the time and then moves on to an explanation of his newly finished masterpiece and what it means to him: After so many years of working like an animal I feel overwhelmed by tiredness, without clear prospects, except in the only thing that I like but which doesn't feed me: the novel. My decision, which speaks to an overwhelming impulse, is to arrange things any way I have to in order to go on writing my stuff. Believe me, dramatic or not, I don't know what's going to happen.What you've said about the first chapter of One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude has made me very happy. That's why I published it. When I got back from Colombia and read what I'd already written I suddenly had the demoralizing feeling that I was embarked on an adventure that could as easily be catastrophic as successful. So to find out how it would be viewed by other eyes I sent that chapter to Guillermo Cano and here I brought together the most demanding, expert and candid people and I read them another one. The result was great, above all because the chapter I read was the riskiest: Remedios the Beauty's ascent to heaven, in body and soul... has made me very happy. That's why I published it. When I got back from Colombia and read what I'd already written I suddenly had the demoralizing feeling that I was embarked on an adventure that could as easily be catastrophic as successful. So to find out how it would be viewed by other eyes I sent that chapter to Guillermo Cano and here I brought together the most demanding, expert and candid people and I read them another one. The result was great, above all because the chapter I read was the riskiest: Remedios the Beauty's ascent to heaven, in body and soul...I'm trying to answer, without any modesty, your question as to how I write my things. In reality One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude was the first novel I tried to write, when I was seventeen, ent.i.tled "The House," which I gave up after a while because it was too much for me. Since then I've never stopped thinking about it, trying to see it mentally, to find the most effective way of narrating it, and I can tell you that the first paragraph hasn't a comma more or less than the first paragraph written twenty years ago. My conclusion from all of this is that when you have a topic that pursues you it starts growing in your head for a long time and the day it explodes you have to sit down at the typewriter or run the risk of murdering your wife ... was the first novel I tried to write, when I was seventeen, ent.i.tled "The House," which I gave up after a while because it was too much for me. Since then I've never stopped thinking about it, trying to see it mentally, to find the most effective way of narrating it, and I can tell you that the first paragraph hasn't a comma more or less than the first paragraph written twenty years ago. My conclusion from all of this is that when you have a topic that pursues you it starts growing in your head for a long time and the day it explodes you have to sit down at the typewriter or run the risk of murdering your wife ...26 The letter makes it clear that in writing all this he is partly preparing himself to defend his views-and his novel-in public and that he is expecting a parallel high-profile career in journalism. He also says he now has three different projects for novels which are "pus.h.i.+ng" him.

In early August, two weeks after writing that letter, Garcia Marquez accompanied Mercedes to the post office to mail the finished ma.n.u.script to Buenos Aires. They were like two survivors of a catastrophe. The package contained 490 typed pages. The counter official said: "Eighty-two pesos." Garcia Marquez watched as Mercedes searched in her purse for the money. They only had fifty and could only send about half of the book Garcia Marquez made the man behind the counter take sheets off like slices of bacon until the fifty pesos were enough. They went home, p.a.w.ned the heater, hairdryer and liquidizer, went back to the post office and sent the second tranche. As they came out of the post office Mercedes stopped and turned to her husband: "Hey, Gabo, all we need now is for the book to be no good."27

16.

Fame at Last 19661967 GARCIA M MaRQUEZ HIMSELF was less anxious about the book's eventual success than whether the two packages would even arrive in Buenos Aires. Alvaro Mutis had been working as the Latin American representative of 20th Century Fox for a year and was shortly off to Argentina; Garcia Marquez asked him to take another copy to Paco Porrua in the Sudamericana office in Buenos Aires. Mutis phoned Porrua on arrival and said he had the ma.n.u.script. Porrua said: "Forget it. I've already read it, and it's absolutely brilliant." was less anxious about the book's eventual success than whether the two packages would even arrive in Buenos Aires. Alvaro Mutis had been working as the Latin American representative of 20th Century Fox for a year and was shortly off to Argentina; Garcia Marquez asked him to take another copy to Paco Porrua in the Sudamericana office in Buenos Aires. Mutis phoned Porrua on arrival and said he had the ma.n.u.script. Porrua said: "Forget it. I've already read it, and it's absolutely brilliant."1 If Porrua thought the book was "absolutely brilliant," it was likely to be a sensation. If Porrua thought the book was "absolutely brilliant," it was likely to be a sensation.

Back in Mexico City Garcia Marquez had all his daily notes and his family trees written in forty school notebooks. He and Mercedes claim to have torn them up and burned them as soon as they heard the ma.n.u.script had arrived safely in Argentina. They were mainly about structural and procedural questions, he has said. His friends, much more aware of academic and historical considerations, were appalled and said he should not have destroyed them but rather saved them for posterity (or even, as things turned out, to make a handy profit out of them).2 But Garcia Marquez has always defended himself by explaining his sense of embarra.s.sment ("pudor"), which means that he would no more want people to sift over his literary sc.r.a.ps than his household sc.r.a.ps or bits of gossip about his family intimacies. "It's like being caught in your underwear." But Garcia Marquez has always defended himself by explaining his sense of embarra.s.sment ("pudor"), which means that he would no more want people to sift over his literary sc.r.a.ps than his household sc.r.a.ps or bits of gossip about his family intimacies. "It's like being caught in your underwear."3 Of course there is also something about the artist-or the magician-wanting to protect the tricks of the trade. Unfortunately for biographers he has the same att.i.tude to revealing the most innocent details about his own life. He has always wanted to control the version of his life that would be told-or tell several versions so that no one version can ever be told-as if to cover over for ever the feelings of loss, betrayal, abandonment and inferiority that came to him from his childhood. Of course there is also something about the artist-or the magician-wanting to protect the tricks of the trade. Unfortunately for biographers he has the same att.i.tude to revealing the most innocent details about his own life. He has always wanted to control the version of his life that would be told-or tell several versions so that no one version can ever be told-as if to cover over for ever the feelings of loss, betrayal, abandonment and inferiority that came to him from his childhood.

He was already being talked about as the fourth member of that small band of brothers who were leading the Latin American narrative vanguard to international attention through the so-called literary Boom. These four writers-Cortazar, Fuentes, Vargas Llosa and, from this moment, Garcia Marquez-would receive unparalleled publicity in the years to come but at that particular time the movement had not entirely gelled and no one writer had emerged as what might be called the brand leader of this extraordinary range of new products. But his peers already knew; metaphorically, they had already bowed their heads: Gabriel Garcia Marquez was it. Nothing would ever be the same again in Latin America after the publication of One Hundred Years of Solitude. One Hundred Years of Solitude. The first people to realize this were the Argentinians. The first people to realize this were the Argentinians.

Argentina, in terms of high culture, was the leading nation in Latin America. Buenos Aires, its glamorous cosmopolitan capital, where Garcia Marquez's novel was soon to be published, was something like a fusion of Paris and London in the New World. Literary culture there was intense and sometimes pretentious but the quality of debate was always high and its influence on the rest of Latin America undeniable, particularly after the Spanish Civil War when the mother country ceased to have significant intellectual or literary impact on the great continent to the south. When Garcia Marquez read Kafka in Bogota in 1947, and so many other writers in Barranquilla between 1950 and 1953, it was invariably in Argentinian editions that he did so. Losada had turned down his first novel fifteen years before; now his early dream was about to come true and that early wrong was about to be righted: he was about to be published in Buenos Aires.

Down in the Argentinian capital the publishers at Sudamericana were making no secret of the fact that they thought they had a Latin American prodigy-and possibly a critical sensation-on their hands. As it happened, the name Garcia Marquez had already received a modest amount of publicity in Buenos Aires over the preceding months. Around the middle of 1966 the Jorge Alvarez Editorial published The Ten Commandments (Los diez mandamientos) The Ten Commandments (Los diez mandamientos), an anthology of Latin American short stories which included "There Are No Thieves in This Town." This book, which was an early attempt to cash in on the growing Boom, was a best-seller throughout the second half of 1966.4 The publishers had invited each writer to give a literary self-portrait. Garcia Marquez's was emblematic of his new approach to self-advertising once he became convinced that he was about to become a literary success: The publishers had invited each writer to give a literary self-portrait. Garcia Marquez's was emblematic of his new approach to self-advertising once he became convinced that he was about to become a literary success: My name, Senor, is Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I'm sorry: I don't like the name either because it is a string of commonplaces I've never been able to connect to myself. I was born in Aracataca, Colombia, forty years ago and I'm still not sorry. My sign is Pisces and my wife Mercedes. Those are the two most important things that have happened in my life because thanks to them, at least until now, I've been able to survive by writing.I am a writer through timidity. My true vocation is that of magician, but I get so fl.u.s.tered trying to do tricks that I've had to take refuge in the solitude of literature. Both activities, in any case, lead to the only thing that has interested me since I was a child: that my friends should love me more.In my case, being a writer is an exceptional achievement because I am very bad at writing. I have had to subject myself to an atrocious discipline in order to finish half a page after eight hours of work; I fight physically with every word and it is almost always the word that wins, but I am so stubborn that I have managed to publish four books in twenty years. The fifth, which I am writing now, is going slower than the others, because between my debtors and my headaches I have very little free time.I never talk about literature because I don't know what it is and besides I'm convinced the world would be just the same without it. On the other hand, I'm convinced it would be completely different without the police. I therefore think I'd have been much more useful to humanity if instead of being a writer I'd been a terrorist.5 Here, patently, was a writer expecting to be famous. Once more he had mainly said the opposite of the truth in a way calculated to make himself not only more visible but also more lovable. The image is of the ordinary guy with-implicitly, sheepishly-the extraordinary gift. The contrast between the surface timidity and self-deprecation and the underlying confidence and desire for attention is notable, and would irritate future adversaries beyond measure. Readers of the statement would also have divined that this ordinary guy was politically progressive too, though with a great sense of humour about politics and everything else. He was a man of his age, a man of the moment. Who, reading this, would not look out for his books?

Argentina's most influential weekly magazine at the time was Primera Plana. Primera Plana. Its editor was Porrua's friend the writer Tomas Eloy Martinez, who would later become a good friend of Garcia Marquez himself. Its editor was Porrua's friend the writer Tomas Eloy Martinez, who would later become a good friend of Garcia Marquez himself. Primera Plana Primera Plana was a major opinion former and sold 60,000 copies a week. Its proprietors were always looking for the next big cultural sensation and in December 1966, primed by Paco Porrua, they decided to send Ernesto Schoo, their star reporter and a member of the editorial board, to interview Garcia Marquez in Mexico. Given the cost of air fares in those days this was quite an investment for any magazine but was a major opinion former and sold 60,000 copies a week. Its proprietors were always looking for the next big cultural sensation and in December 1966, primed by Paco Porrua, they decided to send Ernesto Schoo, their star reporter and a member of the editorial board, to interview Garcia Marquez in Mexico. Given the cost of air fares in those days this was quite an investment for any magazine but Primera Plana Primera Plana trusted Porrua and knew what they were about. The Argentinian journalist effectively lived with the Garcia Barcha family in Mexico for an entire week. When the magazine eventually published his piece six months later it put Garcia Marquez on the cover, not in his own unglamorous street but in the picturesque cobbled lanes of old San Angel. The photos were taken by Schoo himself and showed Garcia Marquez clowning about in typical sixties style wearing his familiar black and red checked jacket. This was not the way Argentinian writers dressed, it was more Jack Kerouac; soon it would just be Garcia Marquez; then "Gabo." So instead of the gloomy writer described by Luis Harss in that influential book published only a few weeks before Schoo's interview, Schoo's pictures would show a happy, indeed euphoric, novelist essentially at home in the world. trusted Porrua and knew what they were about. The Argentinian journalist effectively lived with the Garcia Barcha family in Mexico for an entire week. When the magazine eventually published his piece six months later it put Garcia Marquez on the cover, not in his own unglamorous street but in the picturesque cobbled lanes of old San Angel. The photos were taken by Schoo himself and showed Garcia Marquez clowning about in typical sixties style wearing his familiar black and red checked jacket. This was not the way Argentinian writers dressed, it was more Jack Kerouac; soon it would just be Garcia Marquez; then "Gabo." So instead of the gloomy writer described by Luis Harss in that influential book published only a few weeks before Schoo's interview, Schoo's pictures would show a happy, indeed euphoric, novelist essentially at home in the world.6 In April Mario Vargas Llosa, who had recently published his scintillating second novel The Green House The Green House, rode one of his own hobby horses into battle by announcing that Garcia Marquez's forthcoming book was, not Latin America's "Bible," as Carlos Fuentes had a.s.serted, but Latin America's great "novel of chivalry." Vargas Llosa must have been stunned by the sudden appearance of this unexpected rival from Colombia but, like Fuentes, he opted, appropriately enough, for the chivalrous approach. His groundbreaking article, "Amadis in America," appeared in Primera Plana Primera Plana in April and declared that in April and declared that One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude was at one and the same time a family saga and an adventure story: "A sharply focused prose, an infallible technical wizardry and a diabolical imagination are the weapons which have made this narrative deed possible, the secret of this exceptional book." was at one and the same time a family saga and an adventure story: "A sharply focused prose, an infallible technical wizardry and a diabolical imagination are the weapons which have made this narrative deed possible, the secret of this exceptional book."7 The Argentinians decided to give Garcia Marquez the full treatment. He was invited to visit Buenos Aires in June, both to publicize the novel and as the member of a jury of the Primera Plana Primera Plana/Sudamericana fiction prize. In the interim both Sudamericana and Primera Plana Primera Plana redoubled their efforts to publicize the novel. redoubled their efforts to publicize the novel. One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude was finally printed on 30 May 1967. It was 352 pages long and cost 650 pesos, about U.S.$2. The initial idea had been to produce the standard print run of 3,000 copies, high by Latin American standards but fairly normal in Argentina. But the overwhelming enthusiasm of Fuentes, Vargas Llosa and Cortazar, plus Porrua's own intuition, made them take a chance. So they moved to 5,000; but demand from booksellers for pre-publication copies put it up to 8,000 two weeks before printing. They expected these to sell in six months if things went well. After a week the book had sold 1,800 copies and was third in the list of best-sellers, an unheard-of achievement for a Latin American novel by a virtually unknown writer. By the end of the second week it had tripled that number in Buenos Aires alone and was out in first place, with the initial print run of 8,000 now looking totally inadequate. was finally printed on 30 May 1967. It was 352 pages long and cost 650 pesos, about U.S.$2. The initial idea had been to produce the standard print run of 3,000 copies, high by Latin American standards but fairly normal in Argentina. But the overwhelming enthusiasm of Fuentes, Vargas Llosa and Cortazar, plus Porrua's own intuition, made them take a chance. So they moved to 5,000; but demand from booksellers for pre-publication copies put it up to 8,000 two weeks before printing. They expected these to sell in six months if things went well. After a week the book had sold 1,800 copies and was third in the list of best-sellers, an unheard-of achievement for a Latin American novel by a virtually unknown writer. By the end of the second week it had tripled that number in Buenos Aires alone and was out in first place, with the initial print run of 8,000 now looking totally inadequate.

Ironically enough, Primera Plana Primera Plana itself, after all the staff's efforts, was a little slow out of the blocks. The intention had been to publish Schoo's six-month-old report with Garcia Marquez's picture on the front page of the edition for the week 13 to 19 June but the Six Day War in the Middle East broke out on the 5th at 3.10 a.m. Buenos Aires time and Garcia Marquez's moment was postponed until the 29th. Inside the magazine a note introducing the issue said that this was not just an extraordinary event but that it (the book but also, implicitly, this issue of itself, after all the staff's efforts, was a little slow out of the blocks. The intention had been to publish Schoo's six-month-old report with Garcia Marquez's picture on the front page of the edition for the week 13 to 19 June but the Six Day War in the Middle East broke out on the 5th at 3.10 a.m. Buenos Aires time and Garcia Marquez's moment was postponed until the 29th. Inside the magazine a note introducing the issue said that this was not just an extraordinary event but that it (the book but also, implicitly, this issue of Primera Plana Primera Plana) was the baptismal font from which the new Latin American novel would emerge. Schoo's essay was ent.i.tled "The Journeys of Sinbad," implicitly comparing Garcia Marquez's work from the outset with the One Thousand and One Nights One Thousand and One Nights which had indeed been so important in the fas.h.i.+oning of his imagination. Magic was in the air. Between the book being printed and going on sale the Beatles' which had indeed been so important in the fas.h.i.+oning of his imagination. Magic was in the air. Between the book being printed and going on sale the Beatles' Sergeant Pepper Sergeant Pepper, also destined for mythical status, appeared in record shops all over the world.

Garcia Marquez had tried to placate his friend Vicente Rojo, sore at the Colombian not selling the book to his friends at Era in Mexico, by inviting him to design the cover. Rojo worked hard to communicate the chaotic, multiple, popular flavour of the novel. He put the E of SOLEDAD backwards, leading in due course to the most recondite and esoteric theories of literary critics and to a letter from a bookseller in Guayaquil protesting the receipt of defective copies which he had had to correct by hand so as not to annoy his customers.8 Rojo's cover would eventually appear on more than a million copies of the book, and become a Latin American cultural icon; but it did not appear in the first printing because it failed to arrive in time. So for the first edition a house designer, Iris Pagano, drew up a blueish galleon floating in a blueish jungle against a grey background, with three orange flowers blooming beneath the s.h.i.+p. This is the cover which collectors would later seek for their transactions, not the much more sophisticated cover designed by one of Mexico's leading artists. The second, third and fourth editions in June, September and December each carried Rojo's design and were produced in print runs of 20,000 copies, a phenomenon without precedent in the history of Latin American publis.h.i.+ng. Rojo's cover would eventually appear on more than a million copies of the book, and become a Latin American cultural icon; but it did not appear in the first printing because it failed to arrive in time. So for the first edition a house designer, Iris Pagano, drew up a blueish galleon floating in a blueish jungle against a grey background, with three orange flowers blooming beneath the s.h.i.+p. This is the cover which collectors would later seek for their transactions, not the much more sophisticated cover designed by one of Mexico's leading artists. The second, third and fourth editions in June, September and December each carried Rojo's design and were produced in print runs of 20,000 copies, a phenomenon without precedent in the history of Latin American publis.h.i.+ng.

In early June Garcia Marquez was interviewed in Mexico by Vision Vision, the Latin American equivalent of Time, and the only magazine sold all over the continent (though published, significantly enough, from Was.h.i.+ngton). Garcia Marquez told his interviewers that he was planning to take his family for two years to "a beach resort near Barcelona."9 He repeated the now familiar story that he had started He repeated the now familiar story that he had started One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude when he was "seventeen" but that the "package" was too big for him to manage. But he also said something surprising: "When I finish writing a book it no longer interests me. As Hemingway said: 'Every finished book is like a dead lion.' The problem then is how to hunt an elephant." Garcia Marquez tired of when he was "seventeen" but that the "package" was too big for him to manage. But he also said something surprising: "When I finish writing a book it no longer interests me. As Hemingway said: 'Every finished book is like a dead lion.' The problem then is how to hunt an elephant." Garcia Marquez tired of One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude: could he be serious! The statement was published in other magazines and newspapers all over Latin America and was typical of a new journalistic phenomenon: the boutade a la boutade a la Garcia Marquez. Garcia Marquez.10 It was a multiple contradiction in terms: consciously nonchalant, and irritating to his critics for that and other reasons; as knowingly hypocritical as a wink of the eye, with a kind of my-way arrogance pa.s.sing for modesty; all wrapped up in a popular witticism allowing its author to escape from aggression with the effortless elegance of a Chaplinesque pirouette-and yet, underneath, and paradoxically, it would always contain some undeniable kernel of truth. It was a multiple contradiction in terms: consciously nonchalant, and irritating to his critics for that and other reasons; as knowingly hypocritical as a wink of the eye, with a kind of my-way arrogance pa.s.sing for modesty; all wrapped up in a popular witticism allowing its author to escape from aggression with the effortless elegance of a Chaplinesque pirouette-and yet, underneath, and paradoxically, it would always contain some undeniable kernel of truth.

Garcia Marquez and Mercedes set off for Argentina on 19 June to begin to meet their destiny. He had confessed to Plinio Mendoza that he was "as frightened as a c.o.c.kroach" and looking for "a bed big enough for me to hide under."11 They flew first to Colombia and left their two sons with their maternal grandmother on the way. The boys, both effectively Mexicans, would not return to their home country for many years. On the plane to Buenos Aires their parents discussed their options for the future and Mercedes must have reflected on the promises Gabo had made about his future objectives when they took their first flight together almost ten years before. He had indeed now written "the novel of his life" at the age of forty. On 20 June they landed at Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires at three in the morning, three weeks after the publication of the novel. Despite their clandestine arrival, Paco Porrua recalls that the whole city seemed to be in party mode, having "succ.u.mbed immediately to the novel's seductive charm." They flew first to Colombia and left their two sons with their maternal grandmother on the way. The boys, both effectively Mexicans, would not return to their home country for many years. On the plane to Buenos Aires their parents discussed their options for the future and Mercedes must have reflected on the promises Gabo had made about his future objectives when they took their first flight together almost ten years before. He had indeed now written "the novel of his life" at the age of forty. On 20 June they landed at Ezeiza Airport in Buenos Aires at three in the morning, three weeks after the publication of the novel. Despite their clandestine arrival, Paco Porrua recalls that the whole city seemed to be in party mode, having "succ.u.mbed immediately to the novel's seductive charm."12 He and Martinez were there to greet the unsuspecting couple, whose life had changed more even than they knew. Far from exhausted by the journey, Garcia Marquez asked to see the pampas and to eat an Argentine grilled steak. He and Martinez were there to greet the unsuspecting couple, whose life had changed more even than they knew. Far from exhausted by the journey, Garcia Marquez asked to see the pampas and to eat an Argentine grilled steak.13 As a compromise they took him to a restaurant on Montevideo Street. As they tried to accustom themselves to this man from the tropics, with his psychedelic lumberjack's overcoat, his tight Italian trousers, his Cuban boots, his black-capped teeth and his curious mixture of sententiousness and nonchalance, they persuaded themselves that this indeed was what the author of As a compromise they took him to a restaurant on Montevideo Street. As they tried to accustom themselves to this man from the tropics, with his psychedelic lumberjack's overcoat, his tight Italian trousers, his Cuban boots, his black-capped teeth and his curious mixture of sententiousness and nonchalance, they persuaded themselves that this indeed was what the author of One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude had to look like. As for his wife, she was a wonderful apparition who looked like an Amerindian version of Queen Nefert.i.ti. had to look like. As for his wife, she was a wonderful apparition who looked like an Amerindian version of Queen Nefert.i.ti.14 Garcia Marquez was dazzled by Buenos Aires-his first experience, he would say, of a Latin American metropolis that didn't look "unfinished." One morning he saw a woman with a copy of the novel stuffed in her shopping bag, between the tomatoes and lettuces, as he breakfasted in a cafe on a street corner. His book, already "popular" in both senses of the word, was being received "not like a novel but like life."15 That same night he and Mercedes went to an event in the theatre of the Inst.i.tuto Di Tella, the motor for Argentinian cultural life in that era. Tomas Eloy Martinez has recorded the moment when Garcia Marquez became, for ever, a character in a story he had written in advance, like his character Melquiades, without knowing it: "Mercedes and Gabo moved towards the stage, disconcerted by so many early furs and s.h.i.+mmering feathers. The auditorium was in shadow but for some reason a spotlight followed them. They were about to sit down when someone shouted 'Bravo!' and broke into applause. A woman echoed the shout. 'For your novel!' she said. The entire theatre stood up. At that precise moment I saw fame come down from the sky, wrapped in a dazzling flapping of sheets, like Remedios the Beautiful, and bathe Garcia Marquez in one of those winds of light that are immune to the ravages of time." That same night he and Mercedes went to an event in the theatre of the Inst.i.tuto Di Tella, the motor for Argentinian cultural life in that era. Tomas Eloy Martinez has recorded the moment when Garcia Marquez became, for ever, a character in a story he had written in advance, like his character Melquiades, without knowing it: "Mercedes and Gabo moved towards the stage, disconcerted by so many early furs and s.h.i.+mmering feathers. The auditorium was in shadow but for some reason a spotlight followed them. They were about to sit down when someone shouted 'Bravo!' and broke into applause. A woman echoed the shout. 'For your novel!' she said. The entire theatre stood up. At that precise moment I saw fame come down from the sky, wrapped in a dazzling flapping of sheets, like Remedios the Beautiful, and bathe Garcia Marquez in one of those winds of light that are immune to the ravages of time."16 Martinez says that Garcia Marquez wove his magic all over Buenos Aires. He was just about to leave a party one evening by the banks of the Rio de la Plata when he noticed "a young woman who was almost levitating with happiness. Garcia Marquez said, 'That young woman is really sad but doesn't know how to realize it. Wait a moment, I'm going to help her to cry.' He whispered a few secret words in the young woman's ear. Huge uncontrollable tears sprang from her eyes. 'How could you tell she was sad?' I asked him later. 'What did you say to make her cry?' 'I told her not to feel so alone.' 'She felt alone?' 'Of course. Have you ever known a woman who didn't feel alone?'" Martinez continues, "I met him again, furtively, the night before his departure. They had told him that in a glade in the Palermo woods, couples would hide in dark fiery caves where they could kiss one another freely. 'It's a place they call El Tiradero, f.u.c.k Corner,' he ventured. 'Villa Carino, Love's Abode,' I translated. 'Mercedes and I are desperate,' he said. 'Every time we try to kiss one another someone interrupts.'"17 Garcia Marquez could not possibly know just how famous he was going to be but he must have had some inkling. Back in Mexico City, he and Mercedes began to make plans and wind up their affairs. They were resolved to exercise their new-found freedom. Faced by the sudden, totally new perspective of celebrity and possibly even financial security, Garcia Marquez had decided that he would leave Mexico and move to Spain. And he was in a hurry.

The novel was published in Mexico City, on 2 July, six years after the family had arrived in the country.18 Maria Luisa Elio, to whom it had been dedicated, recalls: "We went crazy. He brought me a copy, then we went from bookstore to bookstore buying books for my friends and making him write dedications. Gabo told me, 'You're heading for financial ruin.' I was buying all the copies I could afford. We went to Gabo's house and drank toasts with Mercedes. The following day, well, we didn't have any money back then, neither do we have any nowadays, but we manage ... You probably remember there's a pa.s.sage in Maria Luisa Elio, to whom it had been dedicated, recalls: "We went crazy. He brought me a copy, then we went from bookstore to bookstore buying books for my friends and making him write dedications. Gabo told me, 'You're heading for financial ruin.' I was buying all the copies I could afford. We went to Gabo's house and drank toasts with Mercedes. The following day, well, we didn't have any money back then, neither do we have any nowadays, but we manage ... You probably remember there's a pa.s.sage in One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude ... where it rained yellow daisies. Well, that day I bought a large basket, the largest I could find, and I filled it with yellow daisies. I had on a gold bracelet, so I took it off and put it in the basket, then looked for a little gold fish and a bottle of whisky. I put it all in the basket and we went to their house." ... where it rained yellow daisies. Well, that day I bought a large basket, the largest I could find, and I filled it with yellow daisies. I had on a gold bracelet, so I took it off and put it in the basket, then looked for a little gold fish and a bottle of whisky. I put it all in the basket and we went to their house."19 This tendency to turn the world of reality into the magical world of This tendency to turn the world of reality into the magical world of One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude would gather pace like a s...o...b..ll and would before too long make the author himself utterly weary of the constructions placed on his extraordinary novel. He would eventually himself wish to move on from the sixties but he would find himself endlessly dragged back there. would gather pace like a s...o...b..ll and would before too long make the author himself utterly weary of the constructions placed on his extraordinary novel. He would eventually himself wish to move on from the sixties but he would find himself endlessly dragged back there.

On 1 August he left for Caracas to attend the 13th International Congress of Ibero-American Literature organized by the University of Pittsburgh, which was to coincide with the presentation of the newly created Romulo Gallegos prize to Mario Vargas Llosa for his 1966 novel The Green House. The Green House. Their planes from London and Mexico landed almost simultaneously at Maiquetia and they met, symbolically enough, in the airport: both men would be taking many flights in the years to come. Their planes from London and Mexico landed almost simultaneously at Maiquetia and they met, symbolically enough, in the airport: both men would be taking many flights in the years to come.20 There had already been correspondence. Now they became room-mates. It was to be a profound but ultimately turbulent literary friends.h.i.+p. Garcia Marquez felt overwhelmed. He had not written a script for this eventuality. He was a late arrival at the banquet of the Boom-although nine years younger, Mario Vargas Llosa, who had lived in Europe since 1959, already knew most of the other writers both in Paris and Barcelona; he was handsome, debonair, critically sophisticated (he had been working towards a PhD), yet he knew how to wow the literary ma.s.ses. In the face of this unmistakable star quality Garcia Marquez, the new sensation, suddenly felt nervy, intimidated, defensive. At one party he had his Venezuelan friends put up a sign saying "Forbidden to speak of There had already been correspondence. Now they became room-mates. It was to be a profound but ultimately turbulent literary friends.h.i.+p. Garcia Marquez felt overwhelmed. He had not written a script for this eventuality. He was a late arrival at the banquet of the Boom-although nine years younger, Mario Vargas Llosa, who had lived in Europe since 1959, already knew most of the other writers both in Paris and Barcelona; he was handsome, debonair, critically sophisticated (he had been working towards a PhD), yet he knew how to wow the literary ma.s.ses. In the face of this unmistakable star quality Garcia Marquez, the new sensation, suddenly felt nervy, intimidated, defensive. At one party he had his Venezuelan friends put up a sign saying "Forbidden to speak of One Hundred Years of Solitude. One Hundred Years of Solitude." Nevertheless he also acted up for the press: he told them, straight-faced, that Mercedes wrote his books but made him sign them because they were so bad. And, asked whether the local sacred cow, ex-President Romulo Gallegos, was a great novelist, he replied: "In his novel Canaima Canaima there's a description of a chicken that's really quite good." there's a description of a chicken that's really quite good."21 Now Garcia Marquez would begin to meet everybody who was anybody; now that there was a Garcia Marquez, there could really be a Boom; now, there could be anything. This man was magic. His book was magic-his name was magic: "Gabo" was a Warhol-era dream and not just for fifteen minutes. Now Garcia Marquez would begin to meet everybody who was anybody; now that there was a Garcia Marquez, there could really be a Boom; now, there could be anything. This man was magic. His book was magic-his name was magic: "Gabo" was a Warhol-era dream and not just for fifteen minutes.

Emir Rodriguez Monegal told Garcia Marquez that two days before flying to Caracas he had been in the Coupole in Paris with Fuentes and Pablo Neruda; Fuentes was giving Neruda a rave review of One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude, predicting that it would be as important for Latin America as Cervantes's Don Quixote Don Quixote had been for Spain. had been for Spain.22 The Gabo-Mario show moved on to Bogota on 12 August. One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude had still not begun to circulate there and there had been little feedback from Buenos Aires. Neither had still not begun to circulate there and there had been little feedback from Buenos Aires. Neither El Espectador El Espectador nor nor El Tiempo El Tiempo published anything about the novel in the early weeks. It was almost as if Colombians were deliberately withholding their interest; as if they were waiting until it was impossible to ignore this astonis.h.i.+ng phenomenon in their midst. The truth is that he would never be as much appreciated in his home country as in other parts of Latin America. published anything about the novel in the early weeks. It was almost as if Colombians were deliberately withholding their interest; as if they were waiting until it was impossible to ignore this astonis.h.i.+ng phenomenon in their midst. The truth is that he would never be as much appreciated in his home country as in other parts of Latin America.23 Plinio Mendoza had travelled up to Bogota with Cepeda: "I remember that just before Plinio Mendoza had travelled up to Bogota with Cepeda: "I remember that just before One Hundred Years of Solitude One Hundred Years of Solitude was published in Colombia Garcia Marquez came to Bogota with Mario Vargas Llosa. Mario had just won the Romulo Gallegos prize in Caracas with was published in Colombia Garcia Marquez came to Bogota with Mario Vargas Llosa. Mario had just won the Romulo Gallegos prize in Caracas with The Green House. The Green House. As happens with all the personalities who turn up there, 'le tout Bogota' rushed out to celebrate him. There were all those people fluttering, bubbling around him, always attending to the etiquette of success, still unaware of the bomb Garcia Marquez had made, still valuing the home writer in quite modest terms; and leaving him discreetly in the background." As happens with all the personalities who turn up there, 'le tout Bogota' rushed out to celebrate him. There were all those people fluttering, bubbling around him, always attending to the etiquette of success, still unaware of the bomb Garcia Marquez h