Alejandro Jodorowsky - Where the Bird Sings Best

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, and 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.

He awoke late at night with his shoulder bandaged, stretched out on a grave in a cemetery. A gentleman with calloused hands offered him hot coffee in a clay cup.

“I’m the cemetery guard, the gravedigger as well, and in my free hours a bone setter. I fix up twists, breaks, dislocations and give massages for stiff necks. Luckily for you, you got only a dislocation. I fixed it up perfectly. Eleodoro Astudillo, at your service.”

“Many thanks, Don Eleodoro. How much do I owe you?”

“Saints don’t pay. Pray for me, that will be enough.”

“I certainly will. Could you tell me where and with whom you learned your trade?”

“I learned it here, and my teacher’s name is Don Pepe. Don Pepe, come over here!”

A gray cat came running through the graves and rubbed itself, purring, against the gravedigger’s legs.

“He taught me everything. Consider this: if you touch your joints carefully, without allowing yourself to be distracted by any thought, you’ll understand how the animal has been set up by God. A small pressure here, another there, and after a few more, he comes apart. See?”

The gentleman, not causing Don Pepe any pain, disjointed his legs and neck. The feline was left stretched out on the gravel path like a rug, purring even more loudly.

“In the same way, digging graves is nothing for me now. Before, yes, it was hard, and that was even when I was young. But little by little, I set pride aside and let the Earth be my teacher. She showed me her hard spots, her soft spots, her empty places. If you take a good look at where and how you sink in the shovel, the ground opens and in you go like a knife through butter.” In a few seconds, he reassembled the cat’s neck and legs, and off the animal dashed, chasing a nocturnal butterfly. “Do you understand the language of things? Look carefully at that small refuge.”

Jaime realized that Don Eleodoro was enjoying himself immensely talking to him. Perhaps it was the first night in many years he had company like this, drinking coffee under the moonlight. In any case, he turned to look in the direction the knotty finger was pointing. At the end of a branch, a nest glowed.

“What does it say to you?”

“It looks pretty, like a magic fruit.”

“It may be true but that is what you create; pretty or ugly comes from you, not from the nest. The truth is that the little house is built at the end of a fragile branch. The bird calculated by instinct the weight of the branches that crisscross and the weight of the little birds that nest there in order to construct his work at the limit of the bearable. One gram extra and the branch breaks or it bends, causing the chicks to fall. If it constructs its nest on a thick, safe branch, the cats will come to eat everything. As it is, no feline will dare come close. So I understand that sometimes it isn’t good to seek security, because it leads to death. Sometimes it’s better to live in uncertainty. But you know these things because you’re a saint. What work it has cost you to purify you soul. I saw it on your body. You’ve been beaten, had ribs broken. You’ve had to fight against many wills. You feel your parents didn’t love you as they should. All that weighs more than the Christ on His cross. If you like, I’ll lighten you. Memory is like a corset. Your memories stick to your chest, your back, all over your skin, and they form an invisible shell that separates you from the world.”

The gravedigger stripped him and began to scrape him with a bone knife, inch by inch, with intense dedication, as if he had to pull off a label glued to each part. He began with the soles of Jaime’s feet, using the scraper with such skill that he felt no tickles. Then he went up, along his legs, sex, and anus to his chest and back, not forgetting the arms, neck, and finally Jaime’s entire head. When he finished, dawn was beginning. Since Don Eleodoro had undone the bandage so no part of his body would not be scraped, Jaime had a pain in his shoulder that seemed light because of the joy the rest of his body was giving him.

He felt that he’d taken off many, many years of suffering. His body breathed like a huge lung. Each pore, transformed into a tiny mouth, sang a hymn to freedom. All his fears had been removed: fear of dying, getting sick, being abandoned, being invaded, failing, losing, suffering, being bored, having no meaning, being unnoticed, growing old. For the first time, he enjoyed his matter, and the flesh was no longer an executioner allied with Time taking away his life in little bites with its seconds, but a paradisiacal garden where his spirit danced like a formless angel.