Doña Pancha, as red as a tomato, replied in an intimate tone, “You, Lolo.” And since there was nothing to clean, there being not a speck of dust in the sanctuary, she withdrew to wait in the station wagon.
“Look here, girl, you don’t know how to talk, but I’m sure that you can hear and that you’ll understand what I’m saying. I realize that out of love for Our Lady you have become her servant. That sentiment honors you, and all I can do is accept you since She herself has done so. But there are certain important conditions: you must cease to live on miracles, perhaps by drinking dew and eating only honey. I will bring you fruit, vegetables, and jam. And bottles of water too. You will go on dressed in discreet fashion, in my cassock. You will extinguish the candles and allow me to remove all these flowers. And the honeycombs. I’ll come back later with the proper tools, and we’ll knock them out of the trees. During the three days of carnival, you will blend in with the crowd, and you’ll wear rubber gloves so the scent of your hands doesn’t arouse suspicion. Only in that way will you be permitted to be in charge, and how well you’ve done these past three months cleaning the church. Deal?”
Since the death of her father, Sara Felicidad was accustomed to living hidden away. It was easy for her to nod her agreement. In any case, my spirit had already entered her ovaries, vectoring her inexorably to the meeting that would make me be born. For waiting ten years for the man who would inseminate her, nothing would be better than absolute solitude. Satisfied, the priest handed her the keys to the two locks, and, along with the carnations that immediately began to rot, he drove off in the station wagon, defending himself from the “Lolos” and caresses that Doña Pancha felt she had the right to rain on him.
In Santiago, the disunited Jodorowsky family reached the year 1919. They thought it catastrophic, but you just never know. Some painful slashes today can tomorrow bring fecundity to a tree that was drying out. In any case, they felt like doves kicked by a mule. And they weren’t alone. Every Chilean felt a monsoon falling on his straw roof. In an instant, with the end of World War I, the export of nitrates, raw material for explosives, collapsed, and even though the market recovered in the following years, the workers, who could not see the future clearly, bottled up as they were in mines and factories, felt they were on the edge of unemployment. A malaise spread among the poorer classes in the country.
The rich also suffered their punch to the kidneys: the Red Octopus, not content with sowing chaos in its own territories, dared to found a Third Communist International in order to stretch its tentacles around the entire world, intent on fomenting workers’ revolutions. Of course, the military had the bottom dogs under control, but in any case it was bothersome to dance the Charleston with stones in your patent leather shoes. Could it be that because of this atmosphere of disquiet, the devils were loose in an island country that had never concerned itself with what was going on beyond its borders? Who can guess? If every event, the summation of all causes, is produced by the entire Universe, why ask questions?
The first to take a beating or lesson provided by Destiny was Lola. My aunt had become so thin that the drunks at the bars where she went along with the blind lady from Room 28 called her “The Knife that Sings.” She had big deeply set eyes, an expression of perpetual terror, and the only thing that could have made her attractive was her thick mane of straight black hair. But she insisted on braiding it and wearing it rolled up on her head like a large cone. Her thick lips, like those of a black woman, also tried to proclaim her femininity, but she silenced them with a layer of flesh-colored lipstick. To disguise her womanhood even further, she flattened her bosoms and used round glasses to imitate nearsightedness. Doña Pair — that was the name the blind woman gave herself, “because des-pair comes from hoping too much”—got used to Lola’s company. She took pleasure in teaching her to play the guitar, and they shared her tiny room and the tips the customers gave them. Perhaps out of nostalgia for the songs or because they were the least sensual couple in the world, they always respected both women and never tried to make them drink.
“Tell me Doña Pair, please, how many songs do you know? I’m copying down the lyrics and melodies in this notebook. I calculate more than two thousand!”
“You’ve done a very bad thing, Lola, in writing down those songs. They’re free. That way you make them into prisoners.”
“But if something were to happen to you, God forbid, you’d take a treasure to the grave.”
“I’d be taking nothing, child. I have no memory. My head is empty. There are no melodies inside it. The songs are like invisible birds; they go all over the place, flying. You call one, and it comes to perch on your tongue. If you fix it in a notebook, you kill it. When our Father made the world, along with the animals and flowers, He created songs. Once upon a time, all human beings could receive them, but their ears have been closing up. I think mine opened when I went blind. Aside from music I have nothing. I’m like a hollow reed. The songs can come to me because nothing bothers them. Perhaps one day you too will receive them. There aren’t thousands or millions — there is no limit. Do you think I’m lying to you or mouthing idiocies like a senile old lady? You’re wrong. Even though I’m ninety-two, I’m still young inside. My teacher, who blessed this guitar, is one hundred and eleven. I always divide the money we get in three parts, two for us and one for Carmelita, whom I visit every Sunday.”
“Oh, Doña Pair, how I’d like to meet your teacher! Wouldn’t you introduce me? I could also write down what she knows. Maybe we could make a book some day.”
“But what a stubborn fool you are, Lola! Whatever I tell you goes in one ear and comes out the other. Songs are born, they die, and if they want to come back, they come back. It’s they who decide, not you. And that way, without forcing things, everything works well. Things, when they are as they are, are perfect. There’s no reason to interfere. Look at that puddle. You think it’s filthy, but it’s tranquil. If you put your hand in it, the germs that live there go mad and many bite your fingers. Don’t break the balance, because you can bring us bad luck. Have faith. The world is like a record: everything is being recorded. To recover something all you need is the right needle. Give me the notebook. I’m going to tear it up. All right? Good. That’s how it is. You’ve understood. Tomorrow I’ll take you to Carmelita’s.”
Near Mapocho Station, they took a tram that went along San Pablo to Matucana Avenue. There they got off and continued walking until they turned left onto Andes. Beyond was Manzana de Altos. A square block of two-story houses (they could have been taller, but because of the earthquakes structures had to be smaller), all linked together. There was a legend that the police didn’t go in there because the few who dared enter never came out. Their bodies disappeared. Well, 98 percent of their bodies disappeared, to be precise. The remaining 2 percent, the testicles, were tossed from a window onto the street in a tin can.
The block was a refuge for cardsharps; worn-out whores; pickpockets; drunks with rotten peaches instead of noses; crazy children; unemployed workers; and blurry, perpetually pregnant women. At the center of the block was a patio with an opening like a pit, where everyone threw their garbage and emptied their chamber pots. Right below ran the powerful San Carlos canal. More than one child had fallen in. The current never asked questions and just carried everything away.