Alejandro Jodorowsky - Where the Bird Sings Best

“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.