Okay. So. I finished Love in the Time of Cholera last week. To my disappointment, Urbino did not show up much more past the second "Oh, no! My husband is dead!" moment, which pretty much means there was little humor and more romance. Even more to my disappointment, it ended in the most cliché way possible.
I saw it coming like I see a D on a test I haven't studied for (not that that’s ever happened, Mr. Coon!). I mosey along through my day, ignoring the fact I have a test the next day. I might pull out the textbook for the class in question, but play Zuma or read or stare out the window instead of cracking open the book. I can see the grade coming, but think, "Oh, maybe I won't fail it. It's probably going to be easy anyway." That false hope was what I had for the ending of Cholera. I could see the ending coming while reading, but tried to ignore it. Maybe their love could miraculously continue when they returned home, I thought. I could deal with that. It is a romance novel after all. Or maybe their love will come to a tragic, but beautiful, end when Florentino can finally get his tool to work in bed. They would die together in each other's arms after making love. That ending would be a little harder to swallow, but I can roll with it, mostly because of the potential symbolism: One could reason that because Florentino has finally joined physical love and spiritual love into one glorious emotion, he can finally rest easy, having received what his soul had been searching for all his life.
But no. No, Marquez couldn't let me keep my lunch down. Tension rises because of forbidden love. Reality floods their fairy-tale world. My abdomen clenches in expectation. I swallow some Pepto-Bismol to soften the churning acids in my stomach. How will the lovers keep their romance going? Will the charitable captain be punished for his kindness? Who can save them? My eyes become watery, a last-ditch effort to conserve my well-being by not allowing me to read the words. A sneeze attack, a cramp in the leg, a coughing fit—all part of the natural instinct of self-preservation. Ah, here is brave Florentino! He will be the hero! I read, despite my body’s attempts to dissuade me, as Florentino, with the Rocky theme song playing in the back, heaves a sigh that flicks off the weight of the world he so clearly has on his shoulders, flips his gray hair and flashes his eyes towards the horizon. “Forever,” he says in a voice so wispy it has the power of an earthquake.
And then it ends.
Fade out.
Just like that.
I have to rush to the bathroom and never see fettuccini the same again.
The only thing I can appreciate about the ending was that it puts a new twist on the title of the novel. I mean, that ship at the end is theoretically in the time of cholera since it’s flying the cholera flag. I don’t get a whole lot if I follow that train of thought, but at least it’s something!
I’m not going to say that Love in the Time of Cholera is a bad novel. Not at all. It’s just definitely not my cup of tea. It’s a romance and some people like those. I don’t think less of those who do. Something tells me I’d prefer the novel in Spanish, but that could just be the faint whisper of Latina I have in me peeping through. And there’s also a part of me that wishes I knew every language ever simply so that I may read every book in its native tongue. Anyway, it’s unfortunate that my last impression of Cholera involved a toilet bowl and some Lysol. I’m sure Marquez deserves more than that, if not Dr. Urbino. (659)
