Standing at her side, I saw her pour an egg white over the eye of a blind man, then stick her index finger, with its long red-painted nail, into the eye. I saw her change a patient’s heart, seeming to open the chest with a single blow, letting loose a stream of blood that stained my face. Pachita made me put my hand into the wound to feel the torn flesh. (When I told Guillermo that it felt cold like a raw steak, he said it was because Brother performed this work in an astral dimension, distinct from our own.) I felt the new heart arrive in the hole; it had allegedly been previously purchased by Enrique; I did not know where or from whom, perhaps from a corrupt morgue employee. The muscle mass was implanted in the patient in a magical manner. This phenomenon was repeated in each operation. Pachita took up a piece of intestine that, as soon as she placed it on the “surgical patient,” disappeared into his insides. I saw her open up a skull, remove cancerous pieces of brain, and put in new gray matter. These tactile and optical illusions, if that is what they were, were accompanied by olfactory effects—the smell of blood, the stench of cancers and wounds—as well as auditory effects: the aqueous sound of viscera, the clatter of bones being cut by a carpenter’s saw. By the third operation, everything began to seem natural to me. We were in another world, a world in which natural laws were abolished. If a transfusion was needed because the patient had lost too much blood, Brother put one end of a tube in her own mouth and the other end into a hole in the patient’s arm, and began to spit out liters of reddish liquid. On two occasions I saw the illness transformed into a kind of animal that seemed to snort and moved excrescences that were like limbs. I returned to my home at midnight, astounded and covered in blood. The world would never be the same to me. I had finally seen a superior being performing miracles, whether true or false.
I decided to attend the operations every Friday. The healer’s work had gained my deep admiration. She was not getting rich with this activity. Upon leaving, the patients deposited however much money they wanted to give in a saucepan. Most left only coins, and the richest ones, those who had come from other countries, showed a strange stinginess. One man, whom she had supposedly cured of paralysis, said, “I have no money to pay you.” She replied, “Very well, pay me nothing now. When you are healed, you will return to work. Then you will pay me what you want to.” Lauder told me that Pachita lived in a modest house on the outskirts of the city surrounded by dogs, parrots, monkeys, and an eagle. Apart from supporting her children, the little money she could save went to a small school in her neighborhood. “In the poor settlements of Mexico people see nothing but nastiness. It’s almost impossible to straighten up a jerk once he’s grown big. They have to be taught good things while they’re still little.” Obviously, healing was Pachita’s vocation. If she was performing trickery, it was sacred trickery. Deception with a charitable purpose is accepted in all religions. The mystic Jacob deceived his brother and his father. In Islamic tradition, lying is forbidden, but clever solutions are accepted. A fugitive passes along a road where a sage is sitting on a stream bank. “Please,” he says, “do not tell my pursuers that I went this way.” The sage waits until the fugitive disappears from his sight, then goes and sits on the opposite bank. When the persecutors come and ask him if he saw anyone pass, he responds, “I haven’t seen anyone pass the whole time I’ve been sitting here.” For a miracle to occur, faith is necessary. Shamans know this. They perform false miracles in their ceremonies with neophytes so that the students’ rational vision will rupture and thus, convinced that there are other dimensions beside their rigid reality, they will begin to have faith. Thanks to this new vision, exceptional events can occur. Was Pachita a great creator of sacred tricks?
I attended countless surgeries over the course of three years. Many were healed. Others died. For example, two people suffering from incurable diseases came from Paris. One, a prominent journalist, had cancer of the hip. The other, who had serious heart disease, was the public relations manager of a film company. Both of them were accompanied by a Dominican priest, Maurice Cocagnac (who later wrote a book about these experiences), and were operated on by Brother. One had his heart changed; the other had a new bone inserted into his hip. Before they returned to France, Pachita said, “Dear children, you are healed. Stop taking medicines, and whatever you do, do not consult a physician before six months have passed.” As soon as he returned to Paris, the journalist assembled a meeting of doctors. The results were clear: the cancer was still there. He died a month later. The other man, however, stopped taking his pills and saw no doctors for six months. Then, when they examined him, they were speechless: the heart was healthy, working like that of a young man . . . I realized that in the magical world, not only faith but also obedience played a vital role. Even if one did not believe in the witch’s power, it was desirable to give that power every chance to act by following her instructions to the letter.
I later applied this idea in psychomagic. A psychomagical act must be performed to the letter, as a contract. The client must promise to obey. If he does not, or if he deviates from the instructions, out of prejudice, fear, or desire for comfort, then the subconscious realizes it can disobey, and the healing will not be achieved. When I was shooting Tusk near Bangalore, India, one of the acting elephants, perhaps unnerved by the heat, destroyed a set. Its mahout*7 (or cornac) began to punish it with an iron bar. It was impressive to see this elephant, trembling like a child, urinating on itself with fear of its vulnerable master. The man beat it until it bled. I protested. It seemed inconceivable to me that one should punish an animal with such intense cruelty. The official who was in charge of the elephant colony said, “Please do not intervene. The trainer knows what he is doing. If you let your elephant disobey, even in something small, it will feel free to do what it wants, and later will end up killing humans.” The subconscious behaves in the same way. The trainer has to teach it to obey. This is difficult; in fact, people fall ill because they have a painful problem that they cannot solve or become conscious of. They want to be treated—that is, they want their symptoms eliminated—but not cured. Although they ask for help, they then struggle to stop that help from being effective.
Brother required unconditional collaboration between the patient and all the assistants for these operations. Sometimes the work seemed to become complicated; at those times, the surgeon and the patient himself would request the help of all those present. I remember operations during which Cuauhtémoc suddenly exclaimed through Pachita’s mouth, “The child is getting cold; warm the air quickly or we will lose him!” We all ran around hysterically in search of an electric heater. Upon plugging it in, we discovered that the electricity had been cut off. “Do something, you wretches, or the child will go into agony,” growled Brother, while the sick man, frozen with terror and on the verge of cardiac arrest, no doubt from seeing his belly opened up and his guts in the air, moaned, “Brothers, I beg you, help me.” We all brought our mouths close to his body and anxiously breathed on him, forgetting ourselves, trying desperately to warm him with our breath. “Well done, dear children,” said Brother suddenly. “The temperature is rising, the danger is over, I can continue now.” I realized that all healing is collective, tribal. The shaman does not act alone—he or she is always surrounded by invisible allies—and the sick person is not alone either. When I had the opportunity to interview the principal machi at a machitún*8 in Temuco, Chile, I asked what methods he used to heal the sick. He replied, “The first thing I do is to ask them who is their owner.”
“Their owner?”
“That’s right, all sick people belong to someone: their spouse, their family, their employer. Those who have no owner cannot be cured. Once that is known, I discuss the price. To cure, one must organize a meal and invite friends who will help to drive away the devils with noises, drumbeats, or gunshots. Once the place is clean, I can operate accompanied by beneficent spirits. We work for the sick person here on Earth while they do the same in heaven.”
Since my meeting with Casta
neda I had continued to feel a sharp pain in my liver. So, armed with an egg, I went to see Pachita. She rubbed the painful region and said, “Dear child of the soul, you have a tumor there. I will operate on you to remove it.” Seeing the pallor on my face, she laughed. “Fear not, little boy, I have been operating for over seventy years, thousands of people have been opened by the knife of Brother. If an accident had happened to any one of his patients, I would have been put in prison long ago. Listen: when I was ten years old, I saw a commotion near the tent at a circus because the pregnant elephant could not bear her baby, which was positioned sideways. There she was, in agony, lying on a carpet of sawdust. The poor performers were weeping. That elephant was the star of their show, and if she died, they too would die, from hunger. The elephant suddenly began to scream deafeningly. I do not know what happened to me then. I fell asleep, and when I woke up I was covered with blood. They told me that I had taken one of the knife thrower’s knives, opened the animal’s belly, removed her child, and then closed the wound, laying on my hands, without leaving a scar. Since then, I have never ceased to operate on both humans and animals.”
I considered what she was telling me to be a therapeutic story, completely untrue. But, seized by an irresistible curiosity, I decided to undergo the experience to see what it felt like to be in such unusual circumstances. I removed my shirt as if I were doing something funny. But once I was lying on the bed, with Pachita brandishing her knife before me dressed as an Aztec hero and surrounded by praying fanatics, I began to feel afraid. Maybe they were all crazy. Panicking, I exclaimed, “My pain is gone, Brother. It is not necessary to operate.” I tried to get up. The possessed woman, with irresistible authority, obliged me to remain lying down, placed the tip of the knife behind my left ear, and slowly lowering it said, “If you do not want me to operate on the liver, I’ll begin by opening you from here, I’ll take your heart out”—she continued lowering the knife—“then I’ll cut through your stomach, and finally, I’ll remove that bothersome devil from your liver!”
It was incredible psychological subtlety: she was forcing me to choose the less atrocious of two atrocious possibilities. Forgetting the third possibility, which was to jump up and run away, I said that she should only operate on the liver, please! A pair of scissors appeared in her hand; she pulled up a roll of my skin, and she made an incision. I heard the noise of the two steel blades. The horror began. This was not theater. I felt the pain of someone whose flesh is being cut with scissors! The blood flowed, and I thought I was going to die. Then she gave me a cut in the belly with the knife, and I had the sensation of my guts being exposed to the open air. It was horrible! I have never felt such pain. For minutes that seemed eternal, I suffered terribly and turned white. Pachita gave me a transfusion. As she spat the strange red liquid through the plastic tube that she had pushed into my wrist, I gradually felt a pleasant warmth come over me. Then she lifted my bleeding liver (mine or a calf ’s, what do I know?) and started pulling an excrescence from it. “We will pull it out at the roots,” Brother said. And I endured, in addition to the odor of the blood and the horrifying sight of my crimson viscera, the greatest pain I had ever felt in my life. I squealed shamelessly. She gave one final pull. She showed me a piece of matter that seemed to move like a toad, had her assistant wrap it in black paper, put my liver back in place, ran her hands over my belly closing the wound, and at that moment the pain disappeared. If it was an illusion, it was executed perfectly: not only I, but all who were present, among them the film producer Michel Seydoux, saw the blood flow and the belly being opened. I was blindfolded, wrapped in a sheet, carried to the waiting room, and laid down among the other surgical patients. I lay there perfectly still for half an hour, glad to be alive. Then Pachita, wiping off blood, knelt beside me, took my hands, and asked me what my name was. She embraced me in her arms, and I surrendered to my thirst for mothering. The more I asked for, the more she gave; I wanted infinite tenderness, I received infinite tenderness. This woman was a mountain, as impressive as a mythical Tibetan master. I never felt so much gratitude as at the moment when she told me I was cured and that I could and should leave. Indeed, Pachita knew the human soul and knew very well how to use a therapy that mixed love and terror. In this regard, I am reminded of the words of Maimonides at the beginning of the Treatise Berachot in the Talmud: “Gather, sages, and wait in your seats. I will give you a beautiful gift: I will teach you the fear of God.”
It is necessary to collaborate with the healer in order to free oneself from disease. Despite believing in the power of Brother, some people may very well not have wanted to recover their health. I remember a brilliant phytotherapist named Henriette, a patient of my doctor friend Jean Claude, who had been told she had no more than two years left to live. Henriette had cancer, and both her breasts had been removed. At the request of Jean Claude, who wanted to try everything, she traveled to Mexico. She stayed with us in our house. Although very depressed, she declared that she was ready to let Pachita operate on her. Pachita proposed replacing all her blood and injecting two liters of plasma from another dimension, materialized by Brother. The day came, and after the usual ceremony, Henriette lay on the bed. Brother cut her arm, and we heard her blood trickling into a brass bucket. It was a thick and foul-smelling stream. Then, as in other operations I had seen, Brother inserted the end of a plastic tube into the wound, this time raising the other end up in the air to connect it to the invisible. We heard the sound of a liquid slowly emanating from who knows where, and Brother said, “Receive the holy plasma, daughter; do not reject it.”
The day after the operation Henriette was sad, downhearted. We tried to bring her around, but to no avail. She was like a child, surly and selfish. She tried to make us feel guilty for wanting to save her from her ordeal. Two days later, a large purulent abscess appeared on her arm. Very scared, I called Enrique, who, after consulting with his mother, said, “Your friend has faith in medicine, but she rejects it. She wants to rid herself of the holy plasma. Tonight she should relieve herself in a basin and apply the excrement to her arm tomorrow morning.” I conveyed the message to Henriette, who shut herself in her room. I do not know if she followed the advice or not, but what I do know is that the abscess burst, leaving a huge hole, so deep that one could see the bone. We immediately brought her to the house of Pachita, who, as Brother, said in her masculine voice, “I have been waiting for you, my child, I will give you what you want. Come . . .” The healer took her by the hand like a child, led her to the bed, and surprisingly, began to hum an old French song as she moved the knife back and forth before the patient’s wide eyes. It seemed to me that she had hypnotized her. Then she asked, “Tell me, my dear, why did you want them to cut off your breasts?”
To which Henriette, who spoke Spanish, answered in a childlike voice, “To not be a mother.”
“And then, my dear child, what do you want them to cut out?”
“The ganglia that swell up in my neck.”
“What for?”
“So that I won’t have to talk to people.”
“And what next, my child?”
“I would like them to cut out the ganglia that will swell under my arms.”
“What for?”
“So that I won’t have to work.”
“And what next?”
“I would like them to cut out the ganglia that swell around my crotch, so that I can be alone with myself.”
“And what next?”
“The ganglia in my legs, so that I won’t have to go anywhere.”
“And what do you want after that?”
“To die . . .”
The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography Page 30
