From the publisher: The dark years of school education, a very personal memory of his mother, reflections on his own work – the author encapsulates all this in small fictional forms, thanks to which we can discover him anew and look for further clues about his life and works.
Almodóvar wrote the texts that make up the book “The Last Dream” in a drawer for almost fifty years. Fiction intertwines with reality, humor with seriousness, rationality with madness, and logic with paradox. Reading these stories is like watching Almodovar’s films: they surprise, amuse, confuse, move, and make us reflect. And the famous director also turns out to be an excellent stylist with an excellent command of the pen.
The book is recommended by Grażyna Torbicka: “This is Almodóvar. There is sincerity and mystery, madness and peace, the joy of the moment and the sadness of transience, and above all, passion and desire.”
Below we publish the text “Goodbye Volcano” from the book “Ostatni sen” published by Wydawnictwo Poznańskie.
It took me twenty years to look for her in her usual settings, and after I met her behind the small backstage of the Sala Caracol stage, I said goodbye to her for another twenty years – until a very long goodbye under the scorching sun of August in Madrid.
Chavela Vargas turned abandonment and despair into a cathedral that housed all of us. We came out of it reconciled with our mistakes and ready to make more, to try again.
The great Carlos Monsiváis said: “Chavela Vargas knew how to express the despair of the rancheras with the radical nakedness of the blues.” According to the same writer, by giving up mariachi, Chavela rejected the festive character of the rancheras, showing the naked pain and defeat flowing from their lyrics. In the case of Piens en mí (to this time my opinion), a danzón song by Agustin Lara, Chavela changed the original rhythm to such an extent that from a cheerful dance song it turned into a fado or a painful lullaby.
Pedro Almodovar Nico Bustos
No one sang the brilliant Jose Alfred Jimenez like she did. “And if you want to know my past, you have to tell another lie. I will tell you that I come from a strange world, I don’t know what pain is, I triumphed in love and that I have never (I NEVER, she sang) cried.” With the emphasis at the end of her songs, Chavela created a new genre that should bear her name . Jose Alfred’s songs were born on the margins of society and told about defeat and abandonment, Chavela added bitter irony to them, opposing the hypocrisy of the world she lived in and which she challenged by singing. She savored the finales, turned the lament into an anthem, spat it out ending in the face. For me as a viewer, it was a stunning experience: one is not used to having a mirror held so close to one’s eyes – and the despair of the last fragments simply tore me apart. I’m not exaggerating. I suspect there will be someone here who felt it’s similar to me.
In her second life, when she was already in her seventies, Chavela walked hand in hand with time; in Spain she was received friendly, which Mexico refused to give her. And thanks to this, she achieved a peaceful wholeness, her songs gained sweetness, and she developed all the love hidden in her repertoire. “Listen, I want a star with eternal shine, I want a glass of the thinnest glass to toast to the night of love. I want the joy of a returning ship and a hundred bells of glory, let them ring to toast the night of love.” In the 1990s and for part of the new century, Chavela experienced a night of eternal and happy love in our country, and I – like every viewer – think that this she experienced the night of love with me.
I announced it in dozens of cities, I remember each of them, the minutes before the concert in the dressing room; she quit drinking and I quit smoking, and in those moments we were like two walking withdrawal syndromes, she telling me how good a glass of tequila would do to warm up her voice, and I telling her that I would eat a pack of cigarettes right now to calm down; eventually we burst into laughter, holding hands and kissing. We kissed a lot, I know her skin well.
Years of triumph in Spain made Chavela sing in the Paris Olympia, an honor only the great Lola Beltrán had previously achieved. Jeanne Moreau was sitting next to me in the audience, and sometimes I would translate a verse to her until Moreau muttered to me, “You don’t have to do that, Pedro, I understand her perfectly.” And it wasn’t because she spoke Spanish. That dazzling performance at the Paris Olympia allowed Chavela to open the door that had been slammed against her the hardest, the door of the Bellas Artes theater in Mexico City, another of her dreams. Before the recital in Paris, a Mexican journalist thanked me for my generosity towards Chavela. I replied that it was no generosity at all. , only selfishness, I received much more than I gave. I also told him that while I did not believe in generosity, yes, I did believe in pettiness, and I had in mind the country whose most ardent ambassador was Chavela. It is true that since started singing in the 1950s in small bars (what I wouldn’t give to visit El Alacrán, where she made her debut with the exotic Tongolele dancer), Chavela Vargas was a goddess, but a marginal goddess. She told me that she was never allowed to sing on TV or in the theater. After Olympia, the situation changed dramatically. That night, during the performance at Bellas Artes in Mexico, I also had the pleasure of announcing her. Chavela fulfilled another dream of hers and we went to celebrate it and share our joy with the person who deserved it the most, Jos Alfred Jimenez, at the Tenampa bar in Garibaldi Square. We sat under one of the murals dedicated to the great José Alfred, drank and sang until dawn (she didn’t, she only drank water, but the next day the local press had headlines on the front pages: “Chavela looks into the glass again”). We sang until we were tired. throats of all who were lucky enough to accompany her that night, although she sang mainly Chavela and one of the mariachi we had hired for the occasion. It was the first time we listened to her with a typical rancheras lineup. And it was a miracle, one of many that we experienced at her side.
During Chavela’s last visit to Madrid, for an intimate dinner with Elena Benarroch, Mariana Gyalui and Fernand Iglesias, three days before her performance at the Residencia de Estudiantes, Elena asked Vargas if she never forgets the words to her songs. Chavela replied, “Sometimes, but I always end up where I’m supposed to.” I would have that phrase tattooed in her honor. How many times have I watched her end up where she’s supposed to. That night, at the bar that defies description, Chavela Chavela ended the night, where she should have been, under the image of her beloved party companion and in the company of one of the mariachis. The songs that she once performed in an incredibly excruciating way, accompanied by two guitars, once again became as joyful and festive as they should have been. El último trago became a wonderful night a hymn to the joy of having already drank everything, of loving without restraint and of being alive to sing about it. Abandonment turned into a celebration.
The book ‘The Last Dream’ by Pedro Almodovar mat. promotional items of the Poznań Publishing House
Four years ago I went to visit her where she lived, in the Tepoztlán valley opposite a mountain with an unpronounceable name: Chalchitépetl. The Magnificent Seven, the American version of Kurosawa’s The Seven Samurai, was filmed in these valleys and mountains. Chavela told me that the mountain will open its gates when the Apocalypse comes, and only those who take refuge in it will survive. She showed me a specific place on the mountainside where the outline of these gates can be seen.
There are many legends about nature, space and spiritual matters in this part of Morelos. In addition to the mountains with rocky peaks, Chavela also has a volcano with the sonorous name Popocatépetl as its neighbor. This active volcano in the past was a man in love who fell dead next to the dead body of his beloved. I listen to the names flowing from Chavela’s lips and I admit that I have difficulty pronouncing the ending “petl”. She says that there were times when women were not allowed to pronounce these letters. Why? Simply because they were women, she replies. One of the most irrational forms of machismo (all of them are irrational) in a country that is not ashamed of it.
During that visit she also told me: “I am calm,” and then she repeated it in Madrid. In her mouth, the word “calm” sparkles with all the meanings: she is balanced, she is not afraid, she does not feel anxiety, she has no expectations (or has them all, but there’s no way to know). Is calm. She also told me, “I’ll stop one night,” and the word “I’ll stop” sounded heavy and light at the same time, seemed final and accidental at the same time. “Slowly,” she continued, “alone. And I will be happy about it.” That’s what she said.
Goodbye, Chavelo, goodbye, volcano.
Your husband in this world, as you liked to call me,
The text comes from the book “The Last Dream” by Pedro Almodóvar, transl. Agata Ostrowska, Katarzyna Okrasko, Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2023.
Source: Gazeta
Bruce is a talented author and journalist with a passion for entertainment . He currently works as a writer at the 247 News Agency, where he has established himself as a respected voice in the industry.
