Where the Bird Sings Best

by Alejandro Jodorowsky

  “In every town there is a church. I’ll carry the cross for a few miles, no more than ten for sure, and I’ll give it to the first priest I see, explaining to him that I saved it from a fire caused by lightning; that in committing the heroic deed I lost my clothes from being attacked by the immodest flames and ended up naked; that I had to cover myself with Saint Francis’s cassock, which miraculously escaped the fire. Yes, Your Eminence, all the money I had in the world was turned to ash, but what does my misery matter if this most holy Christ was saved? Of course, a bit of help from Holy Mother Church, if willingly given, would not be scorned. And if to those abundant coins or banknotes, whichever pleases your respectable will, could be added trousers and a woven vest, and perhaps also a T-shirt to be worn below it, because wool scratches, and a pair of shoes—socks are unnecessary because I never use them—my thanks would be sincere and my faith solidified.”

  Hope gave him courage, and he carried the weight of the grand crucifix, assuming with a smile the posture of Jesus marching toward Calvary.

  “It is,” he thought, “after all, a comfortable position. Resting the base on the ground helps a good deal. If you keep your spine straight, there’s no need to get melodramatic.”

  After an hour and a half, he entered a village. Disillusioned, he noticed it had no church. He calculated, judging by how few houses there were, that no more than four hundred people could have lived there. He swallowed hard and advanced, sweating, step by step along the town’s only street. The few inhabitants who were at their windows watched him pass with their mouths hanging open. A few children came running out to follow him. An old lady approached and, after giving him two potatoes stuffed with meat, dried the sweat on his brow.

  “Ma’am, where does this road go?”

  “It goes up toward Valdivia, holy penitent.”

  Holy penitent? Now they were confusing him. Better to keep moving in order to find a church as soon as possible. He passed through four more towns. In each, he was given food and wine. As he passed, the men would remove their hats and the women would weep. When night fell, a peasant let him sleep in his stable, preparing a good bed of hay for him near the cows. After kneeling before the cross and praying, with a pail of fresh milk next to him, he gave Jaime a wrinkled banknote he’d been keeping in the lining of his hat: “For when you reach the Sanctuary. Light some candles in my name, Juan Godoy.”

  He heard himself say, sweetly, “That is what I shall do, brother,” before he fell asleep snoring. He left early in the morning, after evacuating the diarrhea caused by so many empanadas, fruits, glasses of wine, and gallons of milk. After four hours of easy walking downhill, he reached the Llollelhue River, which wound its way around a small city, La Unión. In the distance, the steeple of a church stood out, calling the faithful to mass with its bells. As he crossed the bridge, a lady approached dressed in black, carrying a basket filled with cheeses and bottles of chicha.

  Jaime did not need to be asked twice. And while the lady struggled and puffed under the weight of the Christ, he swallowed half a liter of the chicha and devoured a cheese.

  “I have to make this effort. Because of my bestial temperament, I killed my husband. I made him screw me every night until dawn. When his heart exploded, he spit a spurt of blood into my mouth along with his last words: ‘Horny bitch!’ I was right in the middle of an orgasm, and he cut it off. I’ve remained ever since with that lack of satisfaction. I can’t stand it.”

  “How long ago was it that your husband died?”

  “I buried him yesterday.”

  Jaime understood. The woman wasn’t ugly, and under her mourning costume, the bulge of her buttocks was promising. Without saying anything more, they walked into a wheat field, allowed themselves to be covered by the sheaves, and fornicated until the sun began to set.

  “Take this money, holy penitent. When you reach the Sanctuary, light a few candles before the Holy Virgin in my name, Guacolda Verdugo.”

  That was the second time he was told the same thing. He asked, curious but astute and addressing her in familiar terms,

  “Are you sure you know what I am and where I’m going, Guacolda?”

  “Do you take me for an idiot, Pedrito?”

  He had told her his name was Pedro Araucano, just in case this slut became pregnant and tried to find him.

  “Dressed as a Franciscan monk and with a cross on your shoulder, you must be a tremendous sinner. Maybe you killed your own father and have vowed to carry that heavy cross on foot to the Sanctuary of the Virgin of Tirana in the grand north. That kind of penance is very popular in our region. Several before you have tried to carry it out, but the heat of the desert killed them. Look here, Pedrito, I have another banknote! If you like, you can give me a farewell.”

  And the widow kept him prisoner between her powerful thighs for an hour and a half. Jaime did not enter the city. He decided to skirt it. He realized that walking around clean-shaven, dressed in a cassock, and carrying a crucified Christ was good business. He would slowly make his way through the villages being fed by simple, superstitious people, passing himself off as a repentant sinner. Then he’d get to Santiago, plump and with a bankroll.

  That night and all the following nights, it was easy for him to find someplace to sleep. All he had to do was knock at a door and beg for a bed with a martyr’s face. They would give him a bed, dinner, and, if it was a woman by herself, even naked company. Jaime was surprised to discover that holiness was a powerful attraction for female believers. Before leaving, he was in the habit of saying, “If you wish, I’ll light some candles for you when I get to the Sanctuary.” They would always slip a carefully folded banknote into his hand.

  When he passed by a large estate near Valdivia, he saw a long line of trucks carrying peasants. All of them, even if they lacked Sunday clothes, were well combed and had a clean handkerchief tied around their necks. Before they helped them onto the trucks, some well-dressed strongmen gave them a cardboard box adorned with the face of the presidential candidate Don Luis Barros Borgoño. Jaime bent over as if totally weighed down, put on his tragic face, and advanced as if an invisible centurion were whipping him. The driver, the strongmen, and the peasants all crossed themselves. An elegant fat man ran behind him and, helping him lift off the cross, gave him a cardboard box:

  “Pray for us, holy penitent, but right now, because God will hear you better than anyone else. Today is Election Day, and our candidate has to win!”

  Jaime went down on his knees, put his hands together, and, since he knew no prayers, muttered the multiplication tables. He tried to cross himself: he touched his belly, then his head, then his right side, and finally his heart. It didn’t occur to him to kiss his fingers.

  When he saw they were staring at him in an odd way, he said, “Whatever I say or do does not come from me. God has made me insane in order to separate me from men of sin and make me His slave. Don’t try to understand. The snail is also a rose.”

  They were dumbfounded. Jaime went his way toward Valdivia. In the box he found half a chicken, half a liter of wine, half a bar of chocolate, half a pack of cigarettes, and a five-peso note. How little a vote was worth! It saddened him to think about those ignorant people trucked like sheep, selling their freedom for a miserable sum. He passed by the entrance to another large farm. Again he saw a line of trucks carrying peasants. Bribery much like the first case: these too were handing out boxes. The only difference was that the candidate’s picture had changed: now it was Don Arturo Alessandri Palma.

  My father pretended to stumble, fell on his knees, and with crocodile tears began to mutter multiples of five, the ones he knew best. He waited for everyone to make the sign of the cross, carefully noting the movements so he wouldn’t make another mistake. He too made it, and then, trying to improve the business, shouted, “Long live Christ the King!”

  They all responded at the top of their lungs: “Long live Christ the King!”

  Then he added: “Long live the Lion of Tarap
acá, our future president, Alessandri!”

  The reaction was less enthusiastic but more professional. Despite his efforts, they gave him a box and nothing more, asking him to implore their triumph. Then they helped him to put the Christ back on his shoulders. He walked a couple of miles and sat down to rest under a willow tree next to the river. Majestic white clouds were passing through the sky, the wild flowers were offering their nectar to the greedy insects, the birds were singing to celebrate the first heat of spring, and the murmur of the river contaminated the world with its peace.

  Jaime opened the box of the intransigent bourgeoisie and also that of the candidate of the Liberal Alliance. Both Barros Borgoño and Alessandri offered the same menu and the same miserable amount of money. It was clear that the food came from the same wholesale caterer. Jaime, in a terrible mood, put together the two halves of the chicken. They fit together perfectly! Astounding coincidence! He’d been given the two halves of the same chicken. In his hands he was holding the long-sought national union.

  He tried to join the two halves of the chocolate bar, but that did not work. He felt disillusioned. It would have been fantastic if they, too, had fit together. Then he would have been forced to believe in miracles. Finally he settled for having reunited the body of the chicken. He decided not to eat it but to give it a proper burial. He was on the side of the road, digging a hole, when the trucks belonging to the two parties passed in Indian file, a demented worm infecting the calm with its shouts of false enthusiasm:

  “Hurrah for Don Luis!”

  “Boo! Long live Don Arturo!”

  “Boo!”

  When peace was restored and the trail of dust the trucks had left had dissolved, Jaime opened the half liters and drank from both bottles at the same time. Then he put both half bars of chocolate in his mouth and, with his cheeks ballooned out, lit the twenty cigarettes in order to smoke them all at the same time. Then he vomited, shit, and wiped his backside with the two five-peso notes. He wanted to sleep and never wake up.

  No matter what he did, no matter what he searched for, no matter what he found, he’d always end up without roots, living somewhere between heaven and Earth. Despite the fact that he firmly believed that having a nationality meant being sick, that reaching patriotism meant also reaching caricature, that imposing borders on the Earth was a blasphemy, that speaking a single language was a form of mental retardation, he desired desperately to acquire those limits. Jodorowsky. What a hideous last name he’d been given! Jodo, joder, to annoy to a great degree, to fuck, to rob, to walk with bad luck. From then on, he would use only his first name, just Jaime. At least in French and by adding an apostrophe Jaime turned into J’aime, I love. Do I love? Did I love? Shall I love? What does that mean? Of what concept with no basis in reality was being talked about? By naming something, all you create is one thing: a new word, as empty as the old ones, another illusion. He felt like calling the Rabbi. He refrained from doing so. He began to think:

  “If I give him a lot of importance, that freak will end up invading my mind the way he did with my father. Why do I want to see him? So he can analyze this political masquerade for me? He won’t tell me anything I don’t already know. Both the landowning oligarchy and the Liberal Alliance fear the independent development of the proletariat because it could lead to a revolution. Alessandri, a clever demagogue, will take control of the masses, promising the moon and the stars all in order to subordinate them to the economic interests of the bourgeoisie. And the immature poor will sell their rights for a bowl of lentils. Appearances are always deceiving, and words take the place of realities.

  “This crucifix, which is supplying me with a delightful life simply because I carry it, is another falsity. Why do they sculpt Him in such pain? A simple fakir can sleep on a bed of nails and pierce his flesh with needles without blinking an eye. Three or four wounds are going to make a God moan? Absurd. It hurts, sure, but it’s something anyone can stand. His situation is a joke; he’s been sentenced to death, him—he’s immortal. Up above, the Father, the Holy Spirit, and the angels are laughing their heads off. After the farce of dying, barely three days later, he will arise again in full majesty.

  “Nailing him to a cross cannot reduce His power much, not the one who can produce an earthquake with a shout, split the veil of the temple, and paralyze the sun, causing such an uproar that the dead leave their graves to see what’s going on. Why don’t they show a luminous, triumphant Christ in churches? It would be a bad example to the workers. If I, instead of lugging around these hundred pounds, were shooting light all over the place, I wouldn’t get the money, food, and sex I get but instead whippings and a sore backside for being a political agitator.”

  He felt a desire to go to the city to see how the bribers watched over the herd so it would vote correctly. He staggered as he walked. That wine was pure alcohol. He saw an old man sitting on a paving stone.

  “Good day, holy penitent. May God forgive you and help you. Want a piece of my sausage?”

  “No, my good man. The Eternal One has already given me my daily bread and wine. But, tell me, aren’t you going to vote?”

  “I wanted to, but the hen got sick, and I took care of her and missed the truck. They’d already left.”

  “Which trucks?”

  “Either group. It’s all the same to me. As long as they pay me.”

  “Does that seem right to you?

  “Not exactly right. If it were a ten-peso note and a whole chicken, then that would be perfect.”

  “So why don’t you walk to the voting place?”

  “For nothing? Never!”

  “Look here my friend. I’ll buy your vote.”

  “I believe you. You can’t be making fun of me, because the saints don’t lie. How much?”

  “Come with me. When we get there, I’ll give you a whole chicken and the ten pesos you wanted. Deal?”

  “Deal! For whom do I vote?”

  “Luis Emilio Recabarren. I want him to have at least one vote. He deserves that.”

  And they went to Valdivia. Before they entered the city, they crossed paths with the trucks that now carried a flock of drunks. Each one had invested his five pesos in red wine. They no longer cheered the candidates, but they were certainly shouting:

  “Long live my buddy Lucho!”

  “Hurrah for my bay mare!”

  “The Calle-Calle River shall triumph!”

  He made sure the old man voted and didn’t betray him. He then bought him a liter of wine, a chocolate bar, a pack of cigarettes, and handed him the ten-peso note. The peasant, out of pure pleasure, began to dance a cueca that made him shake so much his false teeth fell out. Jaime, disgusted with himself, walked right down the main avenue, intent on crossing the city, all the time thinking:

  “I too behave like a jerk. In truth, I walk around disguised as what I am. I’ve always lived like a martyr, carrying the weight of some unknown guilt. The only ugly thing is that I can’t be myself except by disguising myself. When I take off the mask, I lose my identity. Walking this way, through here, I run the risk of meeting up with a priest. He’ll treat me as a thief, a fraud, a profaner, and he’ll be right. They’ll throw me in jail. Maybe behind bars I’ll find my homeland. Name: 34735870. Nationality: prisoner. Country: jail. Sex: unsatisfied. Special markings: mutilated in the faith.”

  He stopped outside the church. It was locked up. He took off a shoe and threw it against the door with such force that the noise of the impact made the bell vibrate. A priest came out, his face red with rage. He stared at him from the portico. Then he hitched up his cassock and picked up Jaime’s shoe. He poked his index finger through the holes in the sole. He slowly walked down the steps, staggering like a drunk, and threw himself into Jaime’s arms, transformed into a fountain of snot and tears. His weeping was so heartbreaking and his embrace so sincere that Jaime, either out of contagion or shame, also wept. The monk separated himself, went running into the church, and returned with a pot of water, towels, a
nd soap. He began to wash Jaime’s feet, murmuring in a heavy German accent, “This is how I should imitate Christ. So many years sacrifice calls me and I continue clinging to my obligations, which give me excuses for not carrying the cross on my shoulder. You redeem us, holy penitent! If we do not imitate Jesus in His martyrdom, how will we know his infinite pity? Carrying this crucifix along the roads, you transform the whole nation into a temple. If now I cannot abandon my flock and go with you, at least give me the opportunity to follow your footsteps.”

  And the German took off his brand-new boots and put them on Jaime’s feet. The fact is that my father had been suffering because of his worn-out soles and the new boots, solid and fine, made with the love of a blessed shoemaker, gave spirit to his brave walking, but instead of rejoicing because of this gift, Jaime grew sad. He remembered the rancor he held for his deceased father. He too had made a pair of boots, placing his tenderness in the work, and Alejandro, instead of keeping them as a souvenir, sold them to some flea-ridden fool for almost nothing.

  Now those shoes, which he had considered lost, were restored to him in order for him to forgive his father, a man thirsty for holiness, serving his fellow man out of love for the divine work. Whether or not the Creator existed, what difference did it make, the help was the same! Now it was his turn to discover gratuitous love with no other future than the worms of the grave, with no rewards, no harps, no halos, no wings on his shoulders. Even if God were an invention, the greatest devotion to the world was owed Him, in this way, without reason, without moral obligations, without commandments carved in stone.

  As Jaime left Valdivia behind, the priest had the bells rung. The faithful came to their windows to watch him pass. Soon a procession of about two hundred people was following him. They sang hymns and tossed flowers at him. When he reached the river and began to cross a bridge for carts with no guardrail, they waved handkerchiefs, giving him a fervent farewell. Since the cross practically immobilized his head, he twisted around as much as he could, holding in the “I’m a fucking cynic” that filled his mouth, and gave them the blessing they expected. He began to shout, “In the name of the Father, of the Son, and—” but he couldn’t finish, because the stumble he made against one of the arms of the cross threw him off the bridge. He only fell ten feet, and the water served as a mattress, but the thick wood smacked right into his clavicle, throwing it out. The crown of thorns scratched his forehead, and with his face bathed in blood he began to drown. His lungs filled with water. He lost consciousness.