One Hundred Years of Solitude

are begging for seats in
congress. Lying awake at
night, stretched out on his
back in a hammock in the
same room where he had
awaited death, he would
evoke the image of lawyers
dressed in black leaving the
presidential palace in the icy
cold of early morning with
their coat collars turned up
about their ears, rubbing their
hands, whispering, taking
refuge in dreary early-