Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Spiritual Journey of Alejandro Jodorowsky - The Creator of El Topo

“Who do you think you’re dealing with? I have my sources. Your wife, Valerie, wants success as an actress. You are her sun; she orbits around you. If you promise her a good role, with her name in huge letters on the marquee, she’ll do anything you ask of her.”

“Anything but divorce. And I don’t want that either.”

“Nor do I! Don’t you get it? The whole thing from A to Z will be fake. When we announce that the great avant-garde theater director is divorcing his wife for the vulgar Tigress, the newspapers will eat it up. During the rehearsals, your wife will fake a suicide attempt. You and I, in our extravagant compassion, will help her out of her depression by offering her the role of a witch, the enemy of Lucretia. And we can count on people’s morbid curiosity to fill the theater; they’ll want to see our tormented triangle acted out on stage. We’ll rake in the profits as you’ve never imagined!”

“When should we announce it?”

“Next week, in a big hotel on Reforma Avenue, all the journalists will be celebrating Press Day. Because the hotel offers free dinner and drinks in exchange for the publicity, all the scroungers are bound to be there — reporters, editors, photographers, critics, TV and movie stars, athletes — in short, the cream of the shit of the Mexican media. Right in the middle of the festivities, we’ll drop the bomb!”

Valerie and I went over the Tigress’s plan point by point. The first obstacle we had to overcome were the doormen, five guerillas who absolutely demanded a photo ID of every guest. The Tigress had obtained one for herself and one for me, because we were known artists. Valerie, however, was still unknown, and had no access to Parnassus. We decided to hide her in the trunk of the limousine. The plan was for her to lie there for an hour until the time was right. This was made even more difficult by the Tigress’s insistence that Valerie wear a plaster cast on her leg to appear with a limp.

Inside, obscure reporters wandered around with a bored air. For once, they instead of “stars” were the ones being honored. Nevertheless, there was a constant clicking of hidden cameras, like a chorus of crickets. The stars were there, walking around with a false ease, aware constantly of being reduced to images.

When the Tigress and I entered together, hand in hand, they all froze for a minute then got on with their farce, trying to hide their curious glances at us behind a ridiculous air of indifference. No one seemed to notice us, but we knew we were center stage in their minds. I was dressed in a very sober black suit, but my companion wore a brazenly transparent chemise; leather spike heels eight inches long, her naked legs sporting her hairs, dyed bright silver for this occasion; and a skirt covered with green, white, and red sequins — the color of the Mexican flag. The skirt was so short that every swishing step she made revealed her crotch. In order to hide the intimacy of her real vagina, she wore a specially made shell covered with what seemed to be pubic hair. Glued to her vulva, it suggested that any possibility of penetration was forbidden. This detail inspired a cynical explosion of flashbulbs.

We took our seats in the most distant corner. This was Press Day and the tacit agreement was that no journalist was supposed to try to interview us. Nevertheless, they walked back and forth in front of us like hungry dogs. An hour passed. Only the bones of the banquet were left on the table. Cheap rum had replaced the good drinks. The guests were now beginning to weave and stagger as if on an ocean liner in heavy weather. The sound of voices, which had been clear before, thickened into a gelatinous rumble. This was the moment the Tigress had chosen for Valerie’s entrance.

She duly appeared with her leg in the cast, holding two crutches. Her dress was ordinary and full of stains, her hair was greasy, her face was without makeup, and her eyes were full of artificial tears. She seemed plunged into deepest sadness. Like a wounded crow, she made her way across the room, directly toward us. In an instant, the alcoholic fog lifted. As Valerie arrived at our table, she let a crutch fall. In the deadly silence, it bounced loudly on the floor. Then she took me by the hand and began moving her lips. Her voice was so low no one could hear what she said (in reality, she was reciting multiplication tables), but everyone believed she was imploring me. I moved my lips in reply, gesturing with my hand toward the Tigress. Of course they interpreted this as my telling her that I loved the other woman. Valerie collapsed onto a chair. I gathered her crutches, helped her up, and accompanied her to the door, and she exited the scene. Then I came back to my chair next to the Tigress and pretended to break into tears. Still showing her crotch, she took my arm and left with me, practically dragging me along. Hardly had the door closed when we heard a deafening uproar of voices break out behind it.

Just as predicted by this clever scheme, the entire Mexican press, from the most abject rags to the most “serious” journals, announced the event in headlines. On that day alone, tickets sold out for the next three months of performances.

Events were now happening rapidly. In two hours of concentrated work, I managed to concoct a medley of situations that could have come from the lowest-grade novels and films, added some songs, and finally arrived at an erotico-musical tragedy that the Tigress demanded to sign as coauthor. I brought together a troupe of respectable actors, found a high-quality stage designer, a very talented musician, an excellent choreographer, and a very fashionable Argentine singer for the important role of Julius Caesar. In ten days, rehearsing twelve hours a day, I fixed the style of the actors’ interpretations, the décor, the dances, costumes, and musical accompaniments. And I accomplished all of this without the presence of our Lucretia, whom we had decided would prepare her songs separately. When she finally was to appear in rehearsal, we were waiting with great enthusiasm and impatience, eager to see the creation of the complex character of the poisoner. I was confident that, with intense work, I would be able to present her to the public transformed into a great actress. Rehearsal time was set for nine in the morning, but the Tigress did not show up. Five hours passed. We left to eat some cheese crepes. When we returned, she was still not there. At six o’clock the stagehands evicted us, because they had to set up for the 7:30 performance of Nana . Worried, I asked Gloria if her cousin was sick. She only shrugged, dashing my hopes.

“That’s the way my boss is. She doesn’t like rehearsals. She’s very tired when she finishes performing. She sleeps late and then has to deal with the press, her makeup, and so forth, and the day just goes by.”

“But what are we going to do if she doesn’t rehearse?”

“Trust her! On opening night, right in the middle of your strict scene, she’ll improvise everything. And don’t worry about her memorizing the text; she has these little electronic devices to wear in her ears, and a prompter will be whispering her lines to her.”

I paled. I was about to protest, but Gloria changed the subject.

“How is your wife doing? Are the rehearsals going well for her? No problems?”

“None. She is a responsible individual. Her sorceress will be a true creation.”

“I must warn you to beware. In my boss’s mind, though these press stories are of course instigated by her, what the media say is more real than the truth. This morning, she sent me to a pet store to buy a black cat, and she also had me buy silk ribbons and beeswax. I’m sure she’s preparing a curse to separate couples. With the beeswax she’ll make two dolls, a man and a woman. After painting them with her menstrual blood, she’ll pin photos of you and Valerie on the head of each doll. Then she’ll fasten them to two boards with black, white, and red ribbons woven together, and throw the boards in two gutters, very far away from each other. . I repeat: Beware! Don’t drink anything she offers you. She’s planning to sacrifice the cat, and she’ll try to get you to drink a bit of its blood, which could be mixed with anything. Also, she’ll keep the severed head of the cat in her refrigerator, and in its mouth will be the names of you and Valerie, written on a bow of ribbons stolen from a cemetery. The head will remain in the refrigerator until the day you separate.”