Where the Bird Sings Best

by Alejandro Jodorowsky

  Alejandro Prullansky, without knowing it, had been waiting for this Jewish woman his entire life. Even though he had no experience, even though he had known only the love of men, he knew how to possess her, leading her many times to a state of frenzy on the flower-patterned sofa. Exhausted, he fell asleep in her arms. Jashe, observing his handsome, white foreskin with a tenderness that swelled in her like a river, and knowing she was a prisoner of the Law, ran away without leaving her name or address.

  Luckily for the lovebirds, the success of the Imperial Ballet extended the season for several more weeks. My grandfather—first dancer, gold-medal recipient in every competition—was still there, circles under his eyes, desperate, waiting for her. Then Salomón, Jashe’s father, deposited her, pregnant, without luggage or money, right in front of the Municipal Theater. The traitor had been expelled from the village and symbolically buried in the cemetery, for which they filled a coffin with her clothes and personal possessions. Now for a week her family would toss ash on their heads, sit on the floor, and, with torn clothing, drink chicken soup. She would be wept over as if she were really dead.

  Alejandro thanked the icon of the Virgin for such a prodigious gift and married Jashe in an Orthodox church, the bride dressed in white and the groom in black, like any Christian couple. With one difference: the groom wore boots of a gaudy red. When my grandmother asked him why he was wearing such scandalous footwear, she learned that the union of their two souls, which seemed like pure chance, had been in preparation for centuries.

  As her husband told her the family saga that led him to wear red boots, Jashe too sought out the roots of her love. Led by the memory of her mother, she traveled through time and journeyed all the way to Spain, before the fatal year 1492, when because of that evil, ambitious, thieving witch, Isabel the Catholic—may she lose all her teeth in hell, all but one so it will ache eternally—Jews who did not accept conversion were expelled. Sara Luz, in the middle of the nineteenth century, listened to her father, Salvador Arcavi, lament his fate and curse the kings of Castile and Aragon every single day for depriving them of paradise.

  Yes, Spain, before the marriage of those two anti-Semitic monarchs, before the State Police, before the Inquisition, was a paradise for Jews. Muslims and Christians tolerated them. Within the secret zones of their ghettos, free as never before, they practiced their religion. They sought out new paths to satisfy their thirst for that unreachable God. They entered into the text like virulent lovers, and they made it explode, moving vowels around, going mad over numbers, giving an terrible meaning to every letter. They became visionaries, mad men, magicians. They opened interior doors and got lost in the labyrinths of Creation, making their contact with the Torah a personal adventure, assuming the right to interpret everything as they saw fit.

  In those good old days, Salvador Arcavi, the first of a long series of Salvadors—traditionally all his descendants had the same name—though respectful of the Holy Book, decided he was not to going to be a prisoner to its letters. Following the prophecy, Jacob made to his son (“Your hand will be on the neck of your enemy. Your father’s sons will bow down to you. Judah is a young lion.”), he became a lion tamer. His way to draw nearer to God was to study those beasts and to live an itinerant life, giving performances in which his union with his animals surpassed the limits of reality and reached the miraculous. The lions jumped through flaming hoops, balanced on the tight rope, danced on their hind legs, climbed up on one another to form a pyramid, spelled out the name of a spectator by choosing wooden letters, and, the greatest test, accepted within their jaws without hurting it the head of the tamer, then dragged him through the sawdust to draw a six-pointed star.

  My ancestor had a simple method for making the beasts love him: he never forced them to do anything, and he made their training into a game. Whenever they wanted to eat, he fed them, and if they decided not to eat, he did not insist. If they wanted to sleep, he let them, and if they were rutting, he let them fornicate without distraction. He adopted the rhythm of the animals with care and tenderness. He let his hair grow into a mane, he ate raw meat, and he slept naked in the cage embracing his lions.

  One day he found a Spanish girl, Estrella, who, drunk on his beastly aroma, abandoned the Christian religion and followed him so she could give herself to him, lying supine, whenever the animals went into heat. Cubs were born at the same time as human babies. At times, the woman gave her bosom to the tiny carnivores, while her own children crawled toward the teats of the lioness to slake their thirst.

  They forgot Hebrew and used a limited Spanish of only a hundred words. The great cats learned most of those words and in turn taught their trainers an extensive range of growls. When rehearsals or shows ended, after dinner, at midnight, in the intimacy of the great cage, humans and animals would sit face to face to stare fixedly into one another’s eyes. In those moments, the lion was the teacher. It was he who was there, present, concentrating, with no interest in the past or the future, united with totality. In his animal body, the divine essence became palpable. The lion taught the Arcavis about economy of gestures, strength in repose, the pleasure of being alive, authenticity of feeling, obedience of oneself. Finally, seeing the nobility of the beast, his majestic inner solitude, they understood why Jacob compared Judah to a lion.

  The Kabbalist rabbis of Toledo understood that a new form of biblical interpretation had been born. In silence, with the greatest respect, they entered the cage protected by the miraculous touch of Salvador’s hands. They meditated, staring into the lion’s eyes. They asked permission to bring their brothers in study, and with them came handsome old Arabs dressed in white and pale Catholic monks with sunken, burning eyes. The Koran, the Torah, and the Gospels were eclipsed by those imposing beasts, capable of standing so still that fireflies fleeing from the cold dawn rested on their warm skin, transforming them into phosphorescent statues.

  When the first Salvador Arcavi began to die, he asked not to be buried. Instead, his body should be cut into pieces and fed to his lions. Estrella wanted to do it by herself. After the last morsel of her husband disappeared into the animals’ jaws, she went to the river to wash her reddened hands, undressed, stepped into the water, and let herself be carried off by the current. Her son Salvador kept the show going and soon married a good woman. On their wedding day, he changed her name to Estrella, his mother’s name.

  The mystics from the three religions continued meditating opposite the lions. The years passed. The political situation changed. Hordes of fanatics began to burn the ghettos. The mystics stopped visiting. The wagons of the lion tamers passed through cities where converted Jews, sentenced to death by the Inquisition, were burning. The thriving communities became sad streets walked by dark rabbis, as circumspect as shadows.

  An inexplicable instinct made the Arcavis go to Valencia. As they drew closer to the city gates, they came upon hundreds of families, guarded by soldiers, marching along the road in file upon melancholy file. They could carry little, just a few packages wrapped in embroidered cloth, nothing more. Why more, in any case? They’d been expelled from the country because they refused to convert, and when they reached the gates, the state police stripped them of most of their treasure. Ah, what a terrible year 1492 was! God was punishing them for wanting to plant roots in a land that wasn’t their own—these people whose mission was to wander and to plant the holy Word in all nations—by giving them thieves as their king and queen.

  The gold they had honestly saved up for generations would flow into the royal treasury. The only wealth they could remove from the country, without fear of being despoiled, would be the Spanish language:

  Holy language

  It is you I adore

  More than all silver

  More than all gold.

  Though my holy people

  Have been made captive

  Because of you, my beloved,

  It has been consoled.

  They reached Valencia. After painfully handing over thei
r money, the Jews were in no hurry to board ships. As tranquil as a black lake, they slept all squeezed together on the docks and sea walls, ceaselessly praying for the Messiah to come and blast Isabel and Ferdinand. But God’s silence was the only answer they received to their mournful prayers. That multitude could have massacred the few soldiers present, but none of the Jews showed the slightest hint of rebellion. All they did was rock back and forth, chanting their prayers and staring at the heavens: to be humiliated and plundered was normal for them. They had to cut their beards and burn their Talmuds and Torahs. A mountain of burning books sent up sallow clouds.

  The Arcavis, to open a path through the impenetrable mob, released the lions from their cages and walked ahead, leading them as if they were domestic dogs. They reached the dock, where the customs officials were shaving the expelled Jews before allowing them to set foot on the precarious boats. Nearby, in the garbage, lay a venerable old man: the officials thought it useless to cut off his beard because he was dying of fatigue, hunger, or sadness. Salvador recognized him. It was the Kabbalist Abramiel, leader of the group who had followed them throughout almost all of Spain, meditating at night opposite the lions. He brought the teat of a lioness to the old man’s mouth and squeezed in a gush of hot milk. Abramiel swallowed eagerly and then poured out a flood of tears that left white lines on his dirty cheeks.

  “What sorrow, what shame, what despair! Sorrow because everything is gone with the wind. Even though we know our books by heart, it’s terrible to see them burn. Not for the words within, since we will someday write them down again, but for the pages we loved so much. For centuries, we washed our hands before touching them. They were our intimate friends, our real mothers. How can the flames devour those angels? Shame, because of those who chose to convert, to eat pork, to work on Saturday, not to circumcise their sons—those people are losing the meaning of life. Despair, because what we had achieved—peace among the three religions—has been destroyed, perhaps forever. The sacred books will become justification for murderers.”

  The old man opened a pouch of violet leather, then looked right and left. He took out a small package wrapped in a silk handkerchief that was the same color as the pouch, unfolded it devoutly, and revealed a deck of cards:

  “This humble game, which we’ve named Tarot, summarizes, without naming them, the three branches of wisdom—Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. We conceived it in the shadow of your lions. Thanks to their example, we were able to pass through the thicket of traditions to reach the single fountain. Staring at the beasts, who were neither asleep nor awake, we received the first twenty-two arcana. Each of their lines, their colors, was sent to us by God. Then we combined them in a game of fifty-six Arabic cards that we modified according to what was dictated to us. These cards are like your lions: you have to observe them in silence, memorizing trait after trait, tone after tone, to allow them to work from within, from the shadowy region of the spirit. The knowledge they will bestow on you will not be sought but received. Hunting is forbidden; only fishing is allowed.

  “Salvador and Estrella Arcavi: look at the first card, the card with no number. It shows a fool followed by a kitten. This sacred madman walks with the kitten, is sought by it, but he pays it no attention because he’s chasing an ideal located outside himself. Up ahead, on card number eleven, Strength, a woman with a huge head joins a luminous yellow lion. With her mouth closed, she listens, and he, with his jaws open, speaks, transmitting the message that pours into her the Infinite Profundity. The beast—that is, the body—and the woman (that is the soul) become a single being. Knowledge, the vision of God, cannot be found except within oneself. And finally on the last card, The World: just look at the lion crowned with an aureole, which indicates the sanctification of instinct. Which brings us back to the words of Jacob: ‘Judah is a young lion: from the prey, my son, you have gone up.’ This, the man who understands sacrifices his material interests and ascends, lion transformed into eagle, into pure spirit to give himself to the divine hunter and be devoured by Him.”

  The Arcavis did not understand Abramiel’s symbolic language, but as they studied the drawings on the cards they felt themselves invaded by an ineffable feeling that was a mixture of awe and terror.

  “My children, your name is Arcavi, which means ‘I saw the ark.’ Take away with you this last vessel, this temple that will pass through the flood, transporting sacred knowledge through the centuries. Copy the deck. Give it to common people. Scatter it throughout the world. Disguise it as a vice, so that people will take it for a mere game and not punish it. By way of thanks, the deck will supply you with food and keep you away from catastrophe. Always remember you are carrying a Being who, little by little, overcoming ignorance, will allow the union of all human spirits.”

  While Salvador kept the animals under control, Estella hid the Tarot in her bodice. The wise old man climbed up on the back of the lioness who had given him milk and asked that he be taken to the bonfire of books. The beast, docile and followed by the others, carried him to they pyre. Abramiel, his face radiant, walked into the fire and recited a poem in Hebrew as the flames devoured him.

  Every time Sara Luz Arcavi told her daughter Jashe about this sacrifice, tears would pour interminably down her neck. Leaving a dark trail on her starched apron, they would finally fall among the cats, who would gather to lap them up with delight. There was no suffering in her. She would smile sweetly, knowing she was a conduit for sorrow that came from the past, sorrow that would pass through the eyes of countless generations to end up who knew where.

  Perhaps she didn’t weep out of sorrow but out of reverence. When the wise man entered the bonfire, memory broke into fragments and reality mixed with legend. Within the family circulated different versions of the event: Abramiel climbs up the burning books as if he were climbing a ladder, he gets to the top of the pyre, spreads his arms out like a cross and burns, blessing the world, cursing the world, giggling, until he turns to ash, ash that spits flames in the form of eagles that fly in a flock toward Jerusalem. Or, he opens a door in the smoke, walks through it into another world, and disappears. No, he was an alchemist who created an elixir that allows anyone who drinks a few drops to live a thousand years. Abramiel, in his protest, sacrificed several centuries of existence. Before his immolation, he gave his precious drink to the lioness who carried him, which is why the animal went on working for a different Salvador Arcavis without dying. No, Abramiel in reality was the philosopher Isaac Abravanel, who tried to commit suicide. The flames, out of respect for his holy wisdom, refused to consume him. He emerged untouched from the bonfire and sailed with Estrella, Salvador, and the lions on a ship whose crew was made up of Moors who promised to carry them to Morocco. This last version was the one Jashe preferred.

  After paying the price demanded—which, despite the urgent situation, was fair—they stored the cages on the deck, near the poop, with the amiable help of the crew. How many lions were there? My grandmother did not have exact figures. There may have been twelve, like the twelve tribes; or seven because of the sacred candelabra; or four, like the letters of the unsayable name of God. The family never managed to agree on any of this. They all agreed that the lions over time, because of continuous incestuous couplings, began to be born albino. Their red eyes and white fur infused a hypnotic terror in even the most hardened warriors.

  Isaac Abravanel, invigorated by the lion’s milk and his passage through fire, accompanied the Arcavis. Enough families followed him to fill the hold and the rest of the deck. The Moors offered each passenger a glass of tea with mint. The ship set sail, leaving the coast of Spain in its wake. The women sobbed, the men squeezed their lips together, someone took out a guitar and, in a cracked voice, sang a farewell to the lost homeland.

  Soon the passengers calmed down. Some yawned, and a general drowsiness caused everyone to stretch out and sleep while the ship cut through the water, pushed by a pious wind. “Adonai seems cruel,” said Isaac the Wise, “but in the moment of our
greatest pain, He preserves us by making us fall asleep in broad daylight as if it were night. His love is as great as his severity!” Salvador, despite these words, was very nervous. Between him and the lions there never were differences. If they were hungry, he would eat; if they fornicated, he would mount Estrella; when, for no reason, the beasts, possessed by an irrepressible joy, started to roar, he could not keep from shouting at the top of his lungs, made drunk by a similar feeling. So, how was it possible that God sent him sleep but did not make the lions fall asleep? To the contrary, enlivened by the sea breeze, they wouldn’t stop playing. He fought as much as he could until he fell as if struck by lightning next to his wife who, riding on a gigantic scarab, was looking for him in a virgin forest while she snored with her mouth wide open.

  The passengers, thanks to the drug the Moors dissolved in the tea, slept for two days. They woke up in chains. Without their friendly smiles, the sailors showed what they really were: slave traders. The prisoners would disembark in Constantinople, and from there their freedom would be negotiated with some Jewish congregation in Europe. If the ransom was paid, they ran no risk, but if not... A threatening silence ended the sentence.

  Salvador, Estrella, and their lions roared with rage and refused to leave the cage. The Moors got out their harquebuses and swore to kill the beasts if they didn’t. The Arcavis followed orders. The pirates tied up Salvador with his arms and legs open and then put a dagger blade into a brazier filled with hot coals. Laughing and drinking dark liquors, they began to pound drums and dance, pushing one another to Estrella, who defended herself scratching and biting.