Alejandro Jodorowsky - Where the Bird Sings Best

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 their 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.