Original subtitles

Let's start with where I'm going.

At my age, it's more interesting for everyone

to ask where I'm going, not where I've been.

It will make your documentary more impactful.

So tell us, where are you going?

We can start whenever you're ready.

Well, you might think it's corny,

but not everybody knows your story.

Ask me anything you want.

Greetings to all the women.

I send all my love and respect to all the women of the world.

All my love.

My name is Chavela Vargas.

Don't forget it.

We won't forget it.

Can I ask a question? How old are you?

- Honestly? - Yes.

Seventy-one.

I remember seeing you on TV as a kid,

this lady with a long braid "singing like a man," as people used to say,

with her bottle of tequila and her poncho.

And a guitar.

And a guitar. That was Chavela Vargas.

But now I'm more intrigued by your life.

At the beginning, where did you sing? In bars? Cabarets?

In what places?

At the beginning of my career I sang at El Cuid,

the most elegant club in Mexico.

I worked at the Greek Tavern.

I performed for seven years at the very famous club Catarí.

And I also worked at The Echo.

They called it Chavela Vargas's hideout, where the high society used to go.

At first I dressed like a woman, with long hair, makeup and high heels.

But it didn't work.

Dressed like a woman, I looked like a transvestite.

Really.

I'm telling you about a time in my life when I dressed as a woman...

...in a strapless dress.

How could I sing like that?

I raised my hand, looked down and I was naked!

I had to walk down the steps.

I thought, "This isn't going to work, but I'll try."

I rehearsed, like, 80 times, and when the time came,

I fell down in front of everyone.

But suddenly I dressed differently, and things took off.

And everyone wanted to know, "What's up with Chavela Vargas?

She doesn't dress like a woman,

style her hair or wear makeup like a woman."

Time stood still.

"What's up with this woman wearing pants before the 1950s?"

When women didn't wear pants.

If you wore them, people would yell at you on the street.

- "Butch." - "Butch."

- "Dyke." - Horrific, no?

But I wore pants...

And the public was stunned.

Both women and men were into me. Everyone!

Seeing her on TV was a big event,

because she broke the mold of the traditional ranchera singer.

Chavela said no to earrings.

No to dresses full of ribbons.

No to braids. No to shawls.

No to hoop skirts or jewelry.

Or to flirting the way girls did in classic Mexican movies

where they put their hands on their hips and moved their little heads like this,

to say, "Long live rice milk!"

Or hibiscus tea.

And, "We're happy to be on display."

But Chavela had such

a strong, serious presence.

And she sang so differently.

Hers wasn't a sweet, crystal clear voice.

She wasn't a little fountain.

She was more like this...

tremendous canyon.

And she always sounded like she'd been torn apart.

As if she'd been born with the wounds of life and death.

She only needed two or three guitars...

two or three guitars and her voice.

Chavela would linger for a while, raise her arm like this,

and then start the song.

Sometimes she would sing it.

Other times she would speak it.

She would strip...

all of the happiness of Mexican music

and synthesize it into what it's really about.

It's the music of desperation.

That's what José Alfredo Jiménez composed.

She got rid of all the embellishments

and turned it into music of the soul.

The wounded soul.

The tragic end of love.

Okay, talk to me. I'm rambling on like a crazy woman.

No. We came to hear you.

When did you start singing?

- What do you mean? - Singing for real.

- When I was young? - Yes.

I've been singing since I was eight years old.

That's how I entertained myself at home.

I'd sing at school, church, everywhere.

I was born singing.

I was born on April 17, 1919,

at the end of the world. In Costa Rica.

I never played with dolls.

I wasn't the playful little girl with lots of friends.

I was a dreamer.

I was the girl who got up in the middle of the night without permission

to follow the music of the serenades,

to look at the moon and wonder about what was beyond my world.

I was a very sad little girl. A lonely girl.

One who didn't have her parents' true love.

So I grew up alone.

I was very alone.

Her own parents saw her as a strange girl.

They realized she was a boyish girl.

Her movements, her hands and her body language

were manly.

I grew up in a typical family of the times.

They were very religious and very prejudiced.

They had a lot of fear about fitting in and what people would say.

And they wound up with a rebellious daughter.

Chavela experienced many cruel moments.

She told me a really sad story once.

When she was about seven,

she walked into church, and in front of everyone, the priest said,

"That girl can't come in here. Get her out right now."

And at home, her parents hid her when they had guests,

so people wouldn't see her.

They hid her like she was a rabid dog.

My parents were separated, then divorced.

I was sent to live with my aunt and uncle.

I never saw my mother. I didn't even know where she was.

I didn't see my father. I didn't see anyone.

And I started feeling...

Not fury or hatred.

But every artery and vein in my body

started to fill with a rage that was so strong,

I swear I could have ripped the walls off

that house with my bare hands.

I became obsessed with leaving.

Morning, noon and night: "I have to leave."

It was a very strange journey.

I was still a child, very young.

It seemed like an eternity.

I was anxious to get to Mexico.

Something was calling me. Someone was waiting.

That mysterious being called "art" was waiting for me.

Mexican actors were hugely famous

because of the black-and-white movies

of the golden age of Mexican cinema.

And Chavela fell in love with Mexico.

This is a country...

you can't help being seduced by.

Everyone dreams of Mexico.

Everyone says, "Mexico!"

Mexico draws you in with its music.

I dreamed of a paradise called Mexico.

Mexico taught me to be who I am.

Not with hugs and kisses, but with punches and slaps.

Mexico grabbed me and said, "I'm going to make you a woman.

"I'm going to raise you in the land of men.

"I'll teach you how to sing. You want to sing?

Then you will have to confront the best in Mexico."

My mother went to a cabaret

called The Afro.

And that's where she saw Chavela Vargas.

My mom said, "I think she would sing José Alfredo's songs beautifully."

My father was on tour, and when he came back,

my mother told him, "Let's go see this woman I saw with my uncle

who sings so beautifully."

The first time I met José Alfredo was...

in a bar.

They introduced us and I said, "Nice meeting you, sir.

I admire you very much."

My father had won Composer of the Year,

and his songs were very famous.

So Chavela obviously knew who he was.

They were both very happy.

And that's how their friendship started.

José Alfredo is ranchera music

but in the deepest form of pain.

"The day she left, she abandoned me."

"I loved you so much, but you ignored me."

In his songs, he would say...

His woman would leave him, and he'd say,

"I hope everything goes well for you. I hope your grief disappears."

He never condemned the woman.

She's the best interpreter of José Alfredo's music.

She sang him like no other.

Since she knew him,

she must have known the story behind each song.

And the reason for each song.

He said, "It's as if she has learned to live in my songs.

She sings them as if she's living the lyrics."

He was very handsome, with light blue eyes.

Jose Alfredo, he was blue eyed.

He made all the ladies fall for him.

I sang to them while he seduced them.

We would come on Saturday and leave Monday.

We would drink everything. Whatever they had.

People would ask, "Can't we have a drink?"

The owner of Tenampa would say, "No, you can't. There's nothing left."

The owner of Tenampa was afraid of them.

He'd say, "They're going to empty the place out!"

Because they would stay two or three days.

All they asked for was straight tequila.

Whenever we got drunk, we'd fall down.

We'd hear, "Clunk!"

What's-his-name just fell down. This other one just fell down.

But I had a lot of fun. I enjoyed myself.

I would get wasted, and I loved it.

He would stay a week, then disappear for a month.

He would come back for 15 days, then disappear for another three months.

Chavela would say that was the way they liked living.

And it was the only way they knew,

going from party to party, singing.

And conquering hearts.

Chavela created her persona

in a very macho world,

a misogynist world

where a lesbian had no place.

To become Chavela,

she had to be stronger, more macha and more drunk

than any other singing cowboy around.

You spend all your time whining.

I'm not a whimpering woman, and I don't let anybody step on me.

She constructed a black legend around her.

The Chavela Vargas who had as many women as she wanted.

She would ride a white horse

and scoop up every pretty woman in her path.

Go ahead, shoot!

She had to be the most macha of all the machos.

She was the first one to openly dress like a man.

But she never said it was a sexual preference.

Everyone knew she was homosexual,

but she never said it.

You didn't say those things.

It wasn't socially acceptable.

Mexican society is deeply hypocritical.

You can do whatever you want, as long as it's not in the open.

Onstage it doesn't matter, because there, anything goes.

But only onstage.

Offstage, no.

Being gay for real, no.

If you're a lesbian, you're marginalized. Period.

We live in a patriarchal society.

You must respect it because you're part of society.

Respect it and make people respect you.

I can't expose myself. People who work like I do have to be careful.

I can't walk around with a sign saying I'm lesbian.

That's awful.

You know, I can't. To be...

You have your own way of saying it.

Onstage.

I have opened doors and paths, but I've suffered a lot.

- Lots of pain. Many insults. - Exactly.

People say, "Is Chavela Vargas coming to sing?"

"No, we don't want her here, because she's this or that."

"She's going to discredit us."

So horrible.

She was booked by very small, bohemian places

where she had a strong following.

But she only performed on big stages

as part of an ensemble.

She was the filler. Never the main act.

A painter friend of mine said,

"There's a party tonight at Frida's house. Want to go?"

So I went.

There were so many people there.

We sang and danced all night long.

Everyone was drunk.

She was like a vision.

When I saw her face, her eyes,

I thought she was from another world.

Her eyebrows together were a swallow in mid-flight.

I wasn't a woman yet.

I was still very much a young girl.

Yet, I knew I could love this person

with the most devoted love in the world,

the most ardent love in the world.

I would sing in the morning.

Perhaps not for her, but for my own freedom in love.

She loved my singing.

When I said I would leave her one day,

my words probably hurt her deeply.

But she said, "I know.

"It's impossible to tie you down to anyone's life.

"I can't bind you to my crutches or my bed.

Leave."

And one day, I opened the door and never returned.

My debut in Acapulco was at Hotel Mirador,

at a little club called The Pearl, where all of Hollywood went.

It was the time of people like Elizabeth Taylor, Rock Hudson,

Clark Gable, Lana Turner.

In Acapulco, they could walk around and no one asked for their autographs.

They were elegant, beautiful people.

My memories are of nights at the marina. Nights by the cliffs.

I was at Elizabeth Taylor's wedding.

Everybody went to bed with someone. I woke up with Ava Gardner.

I was on the beach.

I had come because I needed to have a nice little getaway.

And I'm sitting down there and this really nice-looking woman comes up to me

and says, "Are you all right?"

So she said, "Well, do you have a boyfriend?"

I looked at her and said, "No, I don't have a boyfriend!

I don't like boys, and they don't like me."

And that's what did it.

So we started talking. She didn't like boys, either.

I didn't know anything about her, really.

But people in the hotel when I got there told me that she was a famous singer.

It was very hot there at that time.

So, then she said, "Would you like to go up

into the mountains where it's cooler?"

And I said yes,

thinking all the time I always promised my mother

I would never ride on motorcycles.

She was very sure of herself

and, uh, she could be a little abrupt,

but that didn't bother me.

And the nicest part of all was she kissed me.

It was wonderful.

But I didn't ever really think

it would matter to her if she ever saw me again.

The few times that I ran into her in Mexico City,

she always had a really, pretty, pretty woman with her.

And I was just ordinary.

Chavela was a very seductive woman

who had lots of lovers, lots of affairs.

Mostly with people who preferred to keep their identities hidden.

Very famous, well-known people.

The wives of politicians and intellectuals.

Chavela would fall in love

with the wives of officials who came to see her.

Everybody wanted to see Chavela.

Rich people, politicians.

Chavela would seduce their wives

because she was a very attractive woman.

She would never mention

the names of her lovers

because she wanted to protect their identities.

But everybody knew she slept with all of Mexico.

It's just that she was so beautiful. Chavela was beautiful.

I get the impression that you fell in and out of love a lot.

- No, no, let me tell you... - No?

Really, Chavela? But the way you sing love songs...

Of course you did.

Yes, I've fallen in love a lot.

Because if you haven't loved, you haven't lived.

Do you believe in eternal love?

No, that doesn't exist, dear.

We all have to live in the present.

Don't think about yesterday or tomorrow. Today.

Why would anyone swear eternal love?

Seems corny to me, don't you agree?

That's old-fashioned, right?

- It's not real? - What do you think?

Chavela was a solitary person.

Deep inside, she was a lonely woman.

She said that solitude was her most loyal companion.

I don't think anyone

should ever expect love to resolve their problems.

Don't bet your life on love.

Love exists, but it's fleeting.

Love is so brief, and yet forgetting takes so long.

He tried.

He stopped drinking for almost two years.

But eventually, he went back to hard liquor.

His beautiful blue eyes turned yellow.

They were dim.

Not like the pretty color we were used to.

We had to hospitalize him.

He died nine days later.

He died in the morning.

Chavela showed up that night, crying.

With a bottle.

She sat by my mom for a long time in one of the armchairs there.

Then she walked over to where the coffin was,

up on a little step, and sat there.

She started singing.

And drinking. And drinking.

Chavela always talked about him.

She said he left a huge hole in her heart, that it was hard.

She missed him terribly.

She was drinking too much.

In fact, she was becoming famous for performing drunk.

It was getting ugly.

The stage terrified her.

So before going on, she needed a few shots of tequila.

And people kept buying her more.

She had no idea how many drinks she'd had,

and she would fall down, wasted.

That's why people stopped booking her.

That's why she stopped singing. It was the alcohol.

Alcoholism is a sickness.

It's more an emotional dependence of the soul than of the body.

Of course, it affects your body and kills your brain.

But it's more of a psychic illness,

one of loneliness and abandonment,

of being surrounded by people and feeling nothing.

She lived in a little room

with her dog, Vicenta.

Some days there was no money for food.

She would only eat if friends invited her.

If not, she would just drink.

Chavela was broke. She was alone.

She was never paid well for her records. They stole a lot from her.

She had a huge fight with Orfeón, her record label.

Chavela was literally blacklisted by Azcárraga.

According to Chavela, it was because she stole his girlfriend.

So how...

How was he going to let her keep singing for Orfeón

when she had stolen his girlfriend?

I'm not afraid to say it,

but record companies are a bunch of thieves. Period.

Everyone buys my records, and I get paid nothing.

I never thought I could live off my records.

Never.

People thought she was dead.

They thought she had died in obscurity.

One day I came over

and she was sitting with a man and a bottle of tequila.

He had papers for Chavela to sign

to make him her agent.

So I stayed while they drank the whole bottle.

In the morning, I called a friend of mine who's a lawyer.

Patria Jiménez calls me,

"Chavela needs a lawyer."

I said, "You have to come because something's wrong here.

"They're going to make Chavela sign something,

and she doesn't even know what it is."

"I'm on my way."

My friend was very pretty with blue eyes.

When she came through the door at Chavela's house,

the sunlight behind her turned her hair golden.

So when Chavela turned around and saw her,

she made a gesture like,

"Where did this vision come from?"

The Señora had already had a few, to say the least.

And she just stared at me.

You remember her big hands? She had impressively large hands.

She held them out like this.

"Would you marry me, Nina?"

How do you even respond to that?

"Whatever you want, Señora. But first, let's take care of this guy."

"I'll take care of it."

She wanted to get her pistol, but I said, "No, wait, Señora.

Don't worry. We'll handle it without the gun."

I told the man, "No, she's not signing anything.

She already has legal representation.

That's me. That's why I'm here.

So please... leave,

because I don't know how long I can restrain the Señora."

That was a day I will never forget. September 2, 1988.

From then on, it was something...

magical.

She always called me Nina.

Except when she was angry with me.

Then she called me by my complete name, Alicia Elena.

Nina in Portuguese means "little girl."

So I was her little girl.

And I called her Señora.

Yes.

But capitalized.

Not just any señora, but: Señora.

Chavela was much more than a great love. So much more.

She was a vital experience

that transcended everything.

Also, she was a very complex person.

Fun, magical.

Chavela depended on me a lot.

At some point, I needed her too.

It was...

everything at once.

Yes. Everything at once.

She loved walking up and down Tepoztlán.

She loved the village celebrations.

And people treated her

as if she were the prima donna of Mexico.

She would come Sundays and Wednesdays,

when the market was open.

She would always come with a bag.

She never bought anything.

It was obvious she didn't have any money.

I owned a restaurant for 25 years.

I was very young when I started the business.

That's where I met Chavela.

She identified a lot with me.

We were both feisty, gutsy women who never gave up.

They became good friends.

My mom was young and liked to party.

Chavela also loved to party.

And they had tequila in common. Heh.

They drank the rivers dry in Tepoztlán.

That's why it's so dry around here.

Between the two of them, they drank it all.

I would say, "There's a party going on. Come.

Let's go to this gathering. Come on."

We would leave the bar at 6:00 in the morning.

Then we would walk around town getting into trouble.

I didn't know it was such a problem for her.

We would come, eat and drink one tequila, then another and another.

It was normal. Just another Saturday night.

The truth is Señora drank so much.

There was no way to stop her.

Sometimes I would find her

sitting with a bunch of construction workers

drinking beer or soda with rubbing alcohol.

That was all they could afford.

"Señora, you're going to get sick. Come on. Let's go inside."

"No, no, no. A little while longer, Nina.

Just one more and I'm done."

Her alcoholism was severe.

Very, very severe.

Beneath her shirt,

her liver literally felt like a papaya.

That's how swollen it was.

"If you keep drinking, you're going to die, Señora."

"But that doesn't matter." "It doesn't matter? Of course it does!

It's important how you die."

"No, that doesn't matter."

I have faith in the Mexican gods.

I believe in Cihuateteo, the goddess of life and death.

In Mictlantecuhtli, the master of death.

They prepare you for your departure.

I think death is beautiful.

One day, she said, "Come with me."

I told her, "Not yet. Don't take me yet."

Life said, "Leave her with me for a while. Lend her to me.

"I still need to talk to her.

I'll give her back to you. When she's ready, I'll help her go."

Chavela always spoke of mysticism.

At one point, she went to be with the shamans.

During her most difficult times, someone took her.

That's when Chavela changed.

I left.

When I came back, I stopped drinking.

Chavela always said that the shamans cured her.

That must mean I'm a shaman. Thank you!

But that's not how it happened. That is not how it happened.

It wasn't just the two of us.

It was my kids, her, myself.

She was part of my family.

My son was six years old.

She would always ask, "The boy?

"Where's that boy?

Don't make him a faggot."

"No, Chavela. He'll be whatever he wants to be."

"We have to teach him how to use a gun."

"No, Chavela, I would rather not." "But he'll be a faggot."

"No, Señora. No gun, no gun."

We were visiting Cuernavaca.

Suddenly, I couldn't find the Señora or the kid.

There was a huge garden,

and I spotted my son's pants.

I yelled,

and he jumped up.

"Chavela is teaching me how to shoot spiders with a pistol."

My heart sank to the floor.

The Señora got up babbling.

"I'm training this little boy."

Holy Mother of God.

I must've sounded so angry,

because it was the only time my son instantly obeyed me.

And I said to her,

"If you don't stop drinking, you'll never see us again."

She kept calling at 2:00, 3:00 in the morning for a whole week.

"Nina, I need you."

"As long as you're drinking, I'm not coming."

Until one day someone knocked at the door.

Chavela says, "Nina, I swear

in the name of what I love most in this life,

you and your kids, that I will never drink again."

And we went back to our loving, fun, magical relationship.

Our bartender is bored of making rum and cokes.

- So order something else. - But they're the cheapest!

He's getting a headache from boredom.

When we opened El Hábito,

we wanted both singers from the past

and younger ones.

One day, someone said, "Chavela Vargas is sitting right there."

We said, "That's impossible. She's dead!"

"No. She's right there."

Tonight we are honored to present an artist

who hasn't been on a Mexican stage for many, many years.

I don't need to go into why she's been away.

But it's a miracle. The Doña Chavela Vargas is on our stage.

At first she said no,

but then she agreed to give it a shot.

We looked for a couple of female guitar players

to rehearse with her and see if she could still sing.

People told us, "You're crazy.

"Chavela will ruin you.

"She can't sing anymore, and she's always drunk.

She'll look like a fool, and you will too."

But we decided to try it. We had nothing to lose.

She came to rehearsal,

leaned against a column

and started singing.

She sang for a full hour, crying the entire time.

She was very fragile. Almost torn apart.

And she kept crying, as if releasing something deep inside.

We were deeply moved and shaken by it.

Finally we announced her performance. The place was packed.

As we were about to start, Chavela was incredibly nervous.

So she asked Liliana for a tequila.

- It was a difficult moment. - Yes.

Because she was desperate and anxious.

We were in a bar, and everyone was drinking.

You go to a bar to drink.

She said she had never sung without drinking.

"I need a drink!"

But Lili said, "No."

She turned to me and said,

"Tell everyone we're canceling the show."

Chavela said, "But how? All these people are here!"

"If you're going to drink, we'd rather cancel it.

It doesn't matter."

We went back and forth until she took a big breath,

jumped onstage and had an incredible night.

Now... Yes?

- Sing "La China"! - "Pepe Luna"!

I'll sing "La China."

All of the songs. All of them!

How long has it been since you've been in front of an audience?

- Twelve years. - Twelve years?

Having an audience is the most beautiful thing in the world.

How does it feel?

It's very exciting. It's an incredible adrenaline rush.

The audience and I share the feeling.

An audience that has waited for 12 years and then responds like that?

Even in the street a woman asked me,

"Chavela Vargas, where have you been?" And I said, "I've been around."

So where have you been?

Where haven't I been?

And the person who I was with...

she betrayed me.

She betrayed me. She wounded me.

But, hey... whatever.

I swear, nobody abandoned her.

All I did is distance myself.

Because we were going to come to blows.

I'm telling you about the good parts, but she was...

Sometimes she would hate me with the deepest hate.

Sometimes she treated me like a goddess.

She could be violent, even when she wasn't drunk.

She didn't need any alcohol to be violent.

One day I tried to lock the box

where she kept her gun, so she couldn't use it.

She yanked my hair and ripped off a piece of my scalp.

That's how difficult Señora was.

At some point I had had enough.

I was going to start fighting back.

"Señora, I think it's time for you to follow your own path,

"and I'll follow mine.

If we stay together, we'll kill each other."

I just broke up with someone, and that's how it goes.

People stop loving you. Period.

What can you do? Nothing.

I'm not angry at her. I don't feel anything.

I was in pain before.

But I got through it by working.

I offer my pain to people who come to see me.

And it's beautiful.

The people who went didn't believe

they were actually going to see her onstage.

The word spread,

until a Spaniard heard her and invited her to Spain.

Manolo Arroyo brought her.

It was his idea because he had heard her in Mexico City

when she had just started singing again after being retired for a long time.

He was a very important publisher.

Had never done anything with musicians.

But he just wanted other people to hear her

and for her, thought it would be good for her and for the public

if she came to Spain.

Manolo called me and said,

"Chavela Vargas is performing at Sala Caracol."

I said, "Chavela Vargas?

She's still alive?"

He said, "Yes, she's alive, and she'll sing at Sala Caracol."

When the women from Caracol called

to tell me Chavela was singing again,

I was in shock.

I knew she was coming,

but I wasn't sure if I wanted to see her.

Twenty years is a long time,

even for a woman like Chavela Vargas.

During those 20 years...

Chavela's voice has made me cry many times.

In her voice, I've found one of my best collaborators.

And a faithful reflection of myself.

When I include her in my films,

Chavela's voice becomes part of the script.

She's completely organic to the moment,

as if the character is still speaking.

Her lyrics reflect the essence of what's happening in the film.

One of her songs says,

"I desired you without knowing of your existence.

Before I met you, I knew you."

It's like she's always been an old friend.

But the first time I met her was backstage,

at her Spanish debut in 1992.

She was particularly strong

in talking about loneliness and abandonment,

and it was so powerful

that it made you experience all those feelings from their very core.

And though that's tremendously upsetting,

there's a feeling in the end of catharsis.

And, uh, in the end, joy.

She was like a priestess.

She established a deep dialogue, like she was speaking only to you.

She asked you what no one else would.

In your most profound romances, have you made mistakes?

It's good that you made mistakes. It's worth it.

It's the most important thing that ever happened to you.

She absolved you of your sins.

Then she encouraged you to commit them again.

You got the sensation that right now,

singing this song, she was going to die.

She gave so much emotion that she could die.

Her heart could stop.

When the song ended, you would sigh.

Another song would begin, and she would dive into the darkness again.

Without shame nor fear.

In the silent darkness

of any stage in the world,

I stop being myself and become what I am doing.

A musical note, a cry of pain

or a harrowing silence that tears apart your soul.

The silences in my songs

come from emotions that render me mute.

I don't forget the words.

I get quiet to gather the strength for the next phrase.

It is eternal suffering.

I bring baggage that I open up onstage.

That's where my solitude deepens.

No one was prepared in that first concert, no.

It really caught us off guard.

It was so...

Um, we were not expecting that.

I don't think she was, either.

The faces we had. Like we had been rattled.

You know how your face looks after therapy?

Cleansed from all the crying.

That's how our faces looked.

From that moment on, we chased her every time she came.

That's when I started a relationship full of love...

and hate.

Relationships with Chavela were always love and hate.

With Pedro, it was absolute love.

- With me too. - Not with me.

With me it was love, hate,

passion, everything.

She said I had asked her to marry me,

and she was seriously considering it.

She called me her husband on this earth.

Here on this earth.

She would say about our relationship,

"If I had been a man, you would have been my perfect woman."

She said we would have been lifelong lovers.

Even though Chavela didn't drink,

she was intoxicated by the drinking of others.

She understood that if she wanted to enjoy life,

she had to follow the rules

that would give her more days.

Chavela's time in Spain was full of happiness.

She was very, very happy.

She started a new career here,

and it was stunning.

Her show at Caracol was huge.

Then she jumped to bigger theaters, and it was marvelous.

It was the first time I set foot in a theater in my life.

It's so different being in a theater than on a cabaret stage.

You must know how to move

onstage and not look ridiculous, not overact.

You must not lose strength.

As soon as I stepped on the stage,

I was grounded like a bullfighter.

People seemed to need her.

When she came, all her shows sold out.

She was reborn as a singer and as a person.

She found marvelous friends

who embraced her and helped her.

She felt loved and protected in this country.

Isabel, the name my mother gave me,

that's the person I love.

She's always with me.

Chavela is a bitch. Chavela's a real bitch.

When did Chavela come to be?

Chavela appeared in 1942.

A bull came out to charge against life.

Goring and kicking.

I would fight like a bull and march on.

I feel like diving into the water, so I'm jumping in.

Do it!

Let's do it.

Give me your hand.

Be careful, Chavela.

She fought for freedom and equality

in music and sexuality.

She found that these things were not questioned in Spain.

The people in her social circles

didn't question those things.

It doesn't matter...

if I'm homosexual.

Let's leave that aside.

Human beings love, and that's all that matters.

Don't ask them who they love or why.

That's the beauty of it.

She stopped rejecting the word people had used to insult her.

She was called "a fucking lesbian."

She was a beautiful artist and a big celebrity,

but they called her a lesbian to put her down.

That's why she was scared of the word "lesbian."

When she finally said, "I'm proud of being a lesbian,"

she put all her cards on the table.

You have to be courageous and face challenges.

Don't be ashamed of anything.

If you choose to be open, that's how you are.

That's how you were born.

One doesn't study at a university

to be a pure, decent, respectful and brave homosexual.

You can't study that!

The first woman in Mexico who dared

to sing to a woman was me.

I have to say it like it is.

I won't contradict the composer or myself.

I can't betray myself.

Chavela is the woman...

I'm talking for the lesbian community,

Chavela is the most important woman in Mexican history.

The woman who opened the door for all of us.

She opened a path for us

from the moment she started singing in Mexico.

We all knew of her.

There isn't a lesbian in Mexico who doesn't know Chavela Vargas

and who doesn't love and adore her.

When we learned about her dream,

or her obsession to perform at the Olympia,

I immediately called the manager.

He said, "But, Pedro, we don't know her in France."

I told him she was a very important woman.

We made a deal with the condition

that I would do a full week of media promotion.

And they would get paid, whether we sold tickets or not.

Of course, Chavela didn't know any of that.

We didn't need to tell her.

But as the days passed, we weren't selling any tickets.

We arrived in Paris the day Chavela

was performing at the Olympia.

Pedro told us to sit in the first row, which was as far as she could see,

because the rest of the theater would be empty.

I called everyone I knew

to invite and even force their friends to buy tickets.

I've never worked so hard in my life to get people to buy tickets.

Ten minutes before 8:00 p.m., the theater was completely packed.

We were both very nervous.

I had just stopped smoking, and I was in withdrawal.

We were both going crazy.

I could've smoked a whole pack,

and she could've drunk an entire bottle before she went on.

When I saw Paris at my feet,

I told myself, "I made it."

Yes.

I was terrified that no one would understand me,

but they did,

because afterwards everyone went to get drunk.

Four hours earlier, nobody knew of me.

But after the show, all of Paris was talking about me.

Life doesn't offer you many opportunities to share moments like that

with an artist like Chavela.

When you get the chance, you have to do it.

Whenever she talked about her past in Mexico,

she sounded... not resentful, but embittered.

She said she had never performed in big theaters.

I was astounded.

It was clear Chavela was an artist like no other.

Even in a country with such great music and so many great artists.

But it was still outrageous.

My dream was to sing in Bellas Artes.

Here I am.

Has it been a long or short journey?

No. 40 years.

40.

In order to get here...

it has taken 40 years of work, 40 years of experience.

As I approach the end,

I'm given this gift.

Now that I am close to a beautiful ending, I get Bellas Artes.

Finally, at Bellas Artes in Mexico City.

Finally, Chavela Vargas!

Chavela sang for 20 more years.

One more over here, please.

Another wave or another kiss?

- A kiss! - Both!

It was impressive to see her strong and singing...

until the very end.

At the National Auditorium of Mexico,

she was still walking everywhere.

Very slowly, but she could still walk.

The auditorium is gigantic.

From the entrance to the stage, it's a trek.

So I brought a wheelchair.

I said, "Chavela, since we're not doing so well,

let's save all our strength to sing."

She said,

"Nobody is going to see me in a wheelchair, honey.

My public will never see me in a wheelchair."

She comes onstage and after the third step,

she opens her arms like a dove.

María Cortina, who's standing next to me,

says, "So elegant. Look at how she opens her arms."

Actually she did it because she couldn't make it to the microphone otherwise.

She finally got to the microphone.

She sang the entire concert without drinking a single drop of water

because she couldn't move.

On the 20th song, she says very quietly,

"My feet are killing me. Bring the chair, honey."

When the wheelchair appeared in her life, it was difficult.

She refused to accept the limitations of being bound to a wheelchair.

She didn't want to look unattractive.

Chavela was extremely vain.

She always wanted her picture taken and to look good.

Make way, please!

Doña Chavela Vargas is coming through. Make way!

For a long time, she refused to accept that she was losing mobility.

But she didn't want anyone to live with her.

She didn't want anyone to control her

or tell her what to eat, drink or do.

It was very difficult.

When she couldn't take care of herself anymore, it was really hard.

She didn't want anyone to help her or even touch her.

She had lived alone her whole life.

Solitude always surrounded her.

She always said that solitude gave her freedom.

- Would you like a cookie? - No. Thank you.

Her last years gave her

a certain kind of peace.

Although Chavela couldn't live peacefully, not entirely.

Whenever she spoke of her childhood, she was in pain.

You could imagine her in a place

where she felt totally unloved.

When she spoke of her mother,

she still couldn't accept that she never loved her.

It hurt her until the very end.

Of course it did.

That mountain is called the Chalchi.

I talk to the Chalchi. It's the mountain of jewels.

Here I finish my dialogue of love with the earth.

Waking up before the Chalchi is a dream.

Now I dream of leaving for good.

I'm packing my bags to leave forever.

Chavela lived in a continuous state of farewell.

She was always saying good-bye.

It was always the last concert, and she might not return.

But it was never the last concert.

She couldn't conceive of life without the stage.

She needed it in order to keep breathing.

She wanted to come back to Madrid

before dying to sing.

If she decided she wanted to come, there was no stopping her.

She was full of energy when she arrived, and there were great days.

Tell Laura how long you're staying.

The rest of my life.

The day of the concert, she got sick.

But she-- You know, she made it.

It was very powerful for everyone.

She... was clearly saying good-bye to her audience, to her friends.

Everyone was very aware of how frail she was

and that it was her last trip.

And she was happy.

She did the last thing she wanted to do before dying.

She wanted to die here.

She tried as hard as she could to die onstage.

That was her dream.

She wanted to go down in history

as the woman who died singing.

When she couldn't be ill onstage...

and die there,

we had to take her to the hospital.

At the hospital, she told me...

"I'm not going to die in Spain. I'm going to die in Mexico.

Take me quickly

because Death came around last night,

and she wants to take me.

Hurry up and send me back."

How beautiful to be born a woman, don't you think?

- Yes! - What a privilege, right?

- It's a very lovely privilege. - Isn't that right?

It's a blessing from the universe, from the cosmos,

that they made you a woman.

It's the most beautiful thing.

My song is dedicated to all women of the world.

Mothers, daughters, sisters,

wives, friends and lovers.

One's truth always prevails.

When you're true to yourself, you win in the end.

You're going to make it.

With your truth, you'll get through.

It costs a lot. You suffer a lot. But you prevail.

Chavela! Chavela!

My name is Chavela Vargas.

Don't forget it.