Alejandro Jodorowsky - Where the Bird Sings Best

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 Tarapacá, 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.”