The Dance of Reality: A Psychomagical Autobiography by Alejandro Jodorowsky

with a swollen belly, waddling like a duck, turned into a vulgar wench? Never! It is not my plan to have children. We have enough cripples between my mother and my sisters and brothers. Do not be afraid, Don Jaime. Raquel will continue being what she always has been. Far be it from me to besmirch such a sacred maiden.”
     
    Jaime was quiet a good while. I imagine that his face grew purple. He pushed his future son-in-law out the door, slamming it with a bang and a frenetic yell of “lying bitch!” Then he burst into tears of rage.
     
    The wedding was opulent. They bought me striped trousers, a black jacket, a shirt with a stiff collar, and a gray tie. I felt ridiculous thus attired, but none of the three hundred guests noticed me. Sara, putting on a show of fake happiness for every guest, making sure that the roasted chicken was not dry, that the stuffed fish, liver pâté, and egg salad were fresh, testing the quality of the sweet and salty beet soup, and lastly giving advice to the twenty-piece orchestra, had no time to think of me. Jaime, uncomfortable in his rented tuxedo, hid in the smoking lounge sipping one vodka after another. The guests, Jewish merchants not tied to the couple by any sort of true friendship, had cleared out the buffet before the ceremony even began. A hunchbacked rabbi yelled out the Hebrew text rather than sang it. The bride and groom said their “I do’s” beneath the ceremonial awning. Saúl, trembling, stomped on a glass that would not break at the first, the second, or the third try. At the fourth attempt he succeeded, finally allowing the orchestra to burst into a freilaj, a type of saraband to which young and old alike danced stiffly, all feeling guilty for shaking their legs in view of the baleful immobility of the Gross family. Raquel tossed her bouquet of paper roses at the two sisters, who fought over it like a pair of furious hippopotamuses, tearing it to shreds. (A month later, Berta threw herself naked into the sea near Valparaiso. She was found on the beach with the word “Ugly!” written on her belly, her legs spread apart, her crotch covered with scars from cigarette burns.) Suddenly, while the women and children were devouring huge pieces of cake, the men ran to a corner of the great hall and forming a close group around Jaime took him into the dressing room. I approached them. “What’s wrong with my papa?”
     

     
My sister, Raquel, Hollywood style
     
    “It’s nothing, son, it’s nothing. Jaime isn’t used to drinking, and the alcohol and happiness together have gone to his head.”
     
    I could hear snippets of my father’s voice. “Let me out of here, I’m going to break that thief ’s face! He’s not worthy!” Then a few grunts; tense hands were covering his mouth. Then silence. The party continued. Sara rose to offer a toast, but instead of speaking uttered theatrical wails. Jashe took her in her arms and comforted her. Fanny gave three cheers and shouted, “That’s enough; it’s a wedding, not a funeral!” She called for another freilaj and rescued Jashe, pulling her in to dance with her, followed by the three hundred guests, paying no heed to the distress—real or feigned—of her sister. Everyone moved without restraint now, because the group of cripples had gone home, as had Raquel and Saúl. After jumping around for another half hour, the guests, bathed in sweat, began departing. The only ones remaining were Sara, munching on silver sugar balls—the last remnants of the huge wedding cake—at one end of the devastated table . . . and I, at the other end, leaning over, my tie swinging like a pendulum. Jaime’s snores accompanied the orchestra’s final paso doble.
     
    This marriage spelled the ruin of my father. He was furious for months, begging manufacturers for deferments, borrowing money from loan sharks, trimming costs. For a while our principal nourishment was bread and cheese and café con leche. Then, as if by a miracle, Jaime’s