La Siesta del Martes. La Siesta del Martes. Gabriel Garcia Marquez . the woman and the girl entered the town without disturbing the siesta. La siesta del martes [Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Carme Sole Vendrell, Gabriel García Márquez] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Results 1 – 19 of 19 Short story “La siesta del martes” written by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. PPT in PDF format contains cultural elements of the Hispanic culture.

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Tuesday, April 26, La Siesta del Martes.

La Siesta Del Martes / Tuesday Siesta

La Siesta del Martes. The train emerged from the quivering tunnel of sandy rocks, began to cross the symmetrical, interminable banana plantations, and the air be-came humid and they couldn’t feel the sea breeze any more. A stifling blast of smoke came in the car window. On the narrow road parallel to the railway there were oxcarts loaded with green bunches of bananas.

Beyond the road, in uncultivated spaces set at odd intervals there were offices with electric fans, red-brick build-ings, and residences with chairs and little white tables on the terraces among dusty palm trees and rosebushes.

It was eleven in the morning, and the heat had not yet begun. The girl tried to, but the shade wouldn’t move because of the rust. They were the only passengers in the lone third-class car. Since the smoke of the locomo-tive kept coming through the window, the girl left her seat and put down the only things they had with them: She sat on the opposite seat, away from the window, facing her mother.

They were both in severe and poor mourning clothes. By twelve the heat had begun. The train stopped for ten minutes to take on water at a station where there was no town. Outside, in the mysterious silence of the plantations, the shadows seemed clean.

But the still air inside the car smelled like untanned leather. The train did not pick up speed. It stopped at two identi-cal towns with wooden houses painted bright colors. The woman’s head nodded and she sank into sleep. The girl took off her shoes. Then she went to the washroom to put the bouquet of flowers in some water.

When she came back to her seat, her mother was waiting to eat. She gave her a piece of cheese, half a corn-meal pancake, and a cookie, and took an equal portion out of the plastic sack for herself. While they ate, the train crossed an iron bridge very slowly and passed a town just like the ones before, except that in this one there was a crowd in the plaza.

La siesta del martes

A band was play-ing a lively tune under the oppressive sun. At the other gabril of town the plantations ended in a plain which was cracked from the drought. The girl looked outside. She saw nothing but the deserted plain, where the train began to pick up speed again, but she put the last piece of cookie into the sack and quickly put on her shoes. The woman gave her a comb. Above all, no crying. The girl nodded her head. A dry, burning wind came in the window, together with the locomotive’s whistle and the clatter of the old cars.


The woman folded the plastic bag with the rest of the food and put it in the handbag. For a moment a complete picture of the town, on that bright August Tuesday, shone in the window. The girl wrapped the flowers in the soaking-wet newspapers, moved a little farther away from the window, and stared at her mother. She re-ceived a pleasant expression in return. The train began to whistle and slowed down.

A moment later it stopped. There was no one at the station. On the other side of the street, on the sidewalk shaded by the almond trees, only the pool hall was open. The town was floating in the heat. The woman and gsbriel girl got off the train and marqueez the abandoned station—the tiles split apart by the grass growing up between—and over to the shady side of the street.

Keeping to the protective shade of the al-mond trees, the woman and the girl entered marqhez town without disturbing the siesta. They went directly ziesta the parish house. The woman scratched the metal grating on the door with her fingernail, waited a moment, and scratched again.

An electric fan was humming inside. They did not hear the steps. They hardly heard the slight creaking of a door, and ka a cau-tious voice, right next to the metal grating: They entered a room permeated with an old smell of flowers. The woman of the house led them to a wooden bench and signaled them to sit down.

The girl did so, but her mother re-mained standing, absent-mindedly, with both hands clutching the handbag. No noise could be heard above the electric fan. The far door opened and this time the priest appeared, cleaning his glasses with a handker-chief. Only when he put them on was it evident that he was the brother of the woman who had opened the door. The girl was seated with the flowers siestq her garrcia and her feet crossed under the bench.

The priest looked at her, then looked at the suesta, and then through the wire mesh of the window at the bright, cloudless sky.

The woman moved her head silently. The priest crossed to the other side of the railing, took out of the cabinet a notebook covered in oilcloth, a wooden penholder, and an inkwell, and sat down at the table. There was more gabriiel enough hair on his hands to account for what was missing on his head.

It had all started the Monday of the previous week, at three in the morning, a few blocks from there. Rebecca, a lonely widow who lived in a house full of odds gabril ends, heard above the sound of the drizzling rain someone trying to force the front door from outside.

She got up, rummaged around in her closet for an ancient revolver that no one had fired since the days of Colonel Aureliano Buendia,1 and went into the living room without turning on the lights. Ori-enting herself not so much by the noise at the lock as by a terror developed in her by mxrquez years of loneliness, she fixed in her imagi-nation not only the spot where the door was but also the exact height of the lock.


She clutched the weapon with both hands, closed her eyes, and squeezed the trigger. It was the first time in her life that she had fired a gun. Immediately after the explosion, she could hear nothing ex-cept the murmur of the drizzle on the galva-nized roof. Then she heard a little metallic bump on the cement porch, and a very low voice, pleasant but terribly exhausted: No one in town knew him.

The priest went back to the cabinet. Two big rusty keys hung on the inside of the door; the girl imagined, as her mother had when she was a girl and as the priest himself must have imagined at some time, that they were Saint Peter’s magtes.

The woman scribbled her name, holding the handbag under her arm. The girl picked up the flowers, came to the railing shuffling her feet, and watched her mother garciw. The woman answered when she finished signing. The priest looked first at the woman and then at the girl, and realized with a kind of pious amazement that they were not about to cry.

La Siesta Del Martes / Tuesday Siesta : Gabriel Garcia Marquez :

The woman continued in the same tone: On the other hand, before, aiesta he gabrifl to box, he used to spend three days in bed, exhausted from being punched. The Father had noticed that there was some-one looking inside, his nose pressed against the metal grating, even before he opened the door to the street.

Outside was a group of children. When the door was opened wide, the children scattered. Gabgiel, at that hour there was no one in the street. Now there were not only chil-dren. There were groups of people under the almond trees.

The Father scanned the street swimming in the heat and then he understood. Softly, he closed the door again. His sister appeared at the far door with a black jacket over her nightshirt and her hair down over her shoulders. She looked silently at the Father. The woman seemed not to have understood until then. She tried to look into the street through the metal grating.

Then she took the bouquet of flowers from the girl and began to move toward the door. The girl followed her. She took the girl by the hand and went into the street.

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