Alejandro Jodorowsky - Where the Bird Sings Best

To keep despair at bay, Estrella mentally reviewed the seventy-eight cards, which she knew by heart. She swam for two days without stopping. Finally, they washed up on a Crimean beach. Salvador left the water with a thirst for God. He went down on his knees in the sand and tried to pray, only to realize he knew no prayers, that money was occupying Adonai’s space. There was nothing Jewish left in him. He had no definition, no race, and the world was fading away around him to such an extent that his penis was nothing more than a useless bit of skin: he’d been with his wife for more than ten years without a child resembling him being born. Recognizing his sterility, he wept so passionately that he seemed to vomit his liver.

Estrella, tossed among some rocks after her monumental effort, almost dying of fatigue, saw her husband drowned in himself, scrutinizing himself with the anguish of a castrato, not even bothering to find out if she was alive. She used a remnant of energy to extract the violet leather bag from between her bosoms and throw the Tarot, with perfect accuracy, at Salvador’s head. The jolt restored him to reality. He compassionately ran to his wife, his homeland, his identity. He took her in his arms, licked the sand off her face, kissed her hands, caressed her icy body. She did not try to react. She let herself slip, sighing with relief, toward death.

“Now that you have been saved, Salvador, understand that I have to die. God made me enter your life with the sole purpose of showing you how deeply you’d sunk. You were an absurd repetition, a bone without marrow, a man without traditions. Study, seek the Truth, and when you find it, you will see next to it the woman who befits you, the mother of your children.”

He buried the voluminous dead woman right there and with her what little money he had left. Without knowing why, he traveled on foot, to Lithuania, as if pulled by a magnet, begging for food in Jewish communities. One dark night, covered with dust after having walked hundreds of miles, he knocked on the door of Gaon Elijah of Vilna, a great teacher of the Talmud and of Kabbalah.

No one opened the door. He waited five minutes and knocked again. No answer. For half an hour more he knocked. A strong wind was blowing, rustling the leaves of the trees with a metallic whisper. Salvador could hear through all that noise another murmur, also continuous, coming from within the school. It was the sound of human voices lamenting. He pushed the door, which opened easily, and made his way along a frozen corridor. The lamentations grew louder. He passed through several rooms with clean hearths, as if no one, despite it being winter, wanted to use them. The collective sobbing became intense. He went up a staircase and entered a vast salon with pews arranged in synagogue style, where a hundred or so rabbis, seated with their bare feet submerged in pails of icy water, were praying, weeping, tearing their black vestments. In the center of the classroom, so cold that vapor clouds came out of every mouth, on top of a pedestal made of books, there was an open coffin where the body of the great master reposed, as if in sleep.

While they were moaning, the disciples enumerated again and again the merits of the Vilna Gaon or sage:

“You who were a teacher starting at the age of seven.”

“You who in order to study more only slept two hours a day.”

“You who in order to obviate laziness never lit a fire and kept your feet in a pail of icy water.

“You who protected us from the Hasidim, that lying sect that believes in ecstasy and visions, you who studied seven thousand books and taught us to reason.”

Salvador, without anyone’s stopping him, made his way to the dead man; echoing in his ears was not the desolate chanting of the students but Estrella’s last words: “When you find the Truth, you will see next to it the woman who befits you.” Next to Elijah Ben Solomon Zalman, wearing a dress so white it seemed silver to him, was his daughter. Once and for all, even beyond the day of his death, his pounding heart revealed to him, repeating it myriad times, the girl’s name: Luna, Luna, Luna, Luna. Queen of night, essence of all the Estrellas, from woman to woman, the Salvadors had moved toward her, and now, he, face to face with the incarnate dream, could do nothing but give thanks to God for leading him to the end of the road. He walked toward her, clasped her hands and removed them from the casket to draw them to his chest, which was bursting with each heartbeat. Luna immediately knew his name, and when she said it, erasing the pain caused by her father’s death, there arose within her a tremendous joy that brought heat for the first time to that cold world: “Salvador!” In a single glance, they fused their souls, and that meeting, sought after for a thousand years, made the world change.

Another chorus of voices flooded in from outside, bringing with it a jubilant song mixed with laughter and ecstatic shouting. More than two hundred Hasidim, smelling of alcohol and tobacco, followed by robust women and their children, made their peasant boots echo in the lecture hall. The glow from their torches chased away the shadows, and the gray walls became golden. A warm air dissolved the clouds emanating from the open mouths of the rabbis, who were paralyzed by this sacrilege.

The euphoric horde was led by a small but muscular old man crowned with a huge fur hat. Smoking a pipe and staggering, he stopped opposite the Vilna Gaon, waved his arms around, guffawed so loudly the pews shook, rolled back his eyes, and, leaping up, made a kick that sent several of the coffin boards flying.

“Enough with this comedy, Elijah! Through my mouth the voice of Israel Ben Eliezer, the Baal Shem Tov, he who knows the secret name of God, speaks to you! I can do nothing; he can do everything. Riding on me, his mount, he has come to show you that you’re mistaken.”

This possessed man raised his hands: the coffin rose in the air and stuck to the ceiling. The peasants applauded, but a painful sigh shook the rabbis. The chief of the drunken mystics paid no attention whatsoever to them and went on hectoring the dead man.

“You anathematized us by having the horn wail as you put out the candles in your school so that our spiritual life would be extinguished along with them. You decreed us cursed by day and night, when we retired and when we got up, when we entered and when we left. You asked God not to pardon or know us. You asked Him to erase our names from the Earth. You forbade people to speak to us or write to us, to help us, or to live under the same roof with us. You insinuated that we should be denounced to the Christian authorities so they could eliminate us. You forgot that we were brothers. You locked the windows and submerged yourself in cold and sleeplessness. You murdered the language of dreams. You gained intelligence, but you lost love. For a month now, you’ve been lying here pretending to be dead. You don’t rot because you are alive but overcome by boredom. Breathe again! Awaken and come dance with us! Joy! Joy! Joy!”

The coffin fell from the ceiling onto the floor and shattered. The Vilna Gaon opened his eyes, looked at his audience, suffered an attack of laughter, stood up, and ran to give his daughter a long embrace, gave Salvador another, blessed them both, danced with the old man and his Hasidim, dragged the rabbis by the beard and made them join in the round. Violins and tambourines were played. Vodka moistened throats. The women brought a white veil and the men a tent and a velvet hat. They covered Salvador’s head with the hat and Luna’s with the veil. The Gaon, seconded by the drunken old man, paused in front of the couple and offered the Bible to the future groom.

“I cannot deny the feelings consuming my daughter. Show us you’re worthy of the bonfire. Tell us what you see in the seven words of the first sentence of Genesis.”