The Dreamseller: The Calling

by Augusto Cury

  Even students defending their masters and doctoral theses weren’t encouraged to take risks. Some of my colleagues tried to encourage them, but I held them back. Only after meeting the dreamseller did I come to understand that it was often our youth who brought about our greatest discoveries.

  Bartholomew’s Dream

  A MAN ABOUT THIRTY-FIVE YEARS OLD, WEARING A BEIGE polo shirt, with well-trimmed black hair and a frown, bluntly told the dreamseller, “My great dream is to strangle my wife.”

  He wasn’t joking. He actually seemed ready to kill. The dreamseller didn’t answer right away, waiting for the man to continue venting his anger. “Who deserves a wife who betrays her husband?” the man said.

  Instead of calming the man down, the dreamseller added fuel to the fire. “Are you a betrayer, too?”

  The man reared back and hit the dreamseller so hard that he knocked him to the ground and bloodied his lip.

  Several onlookers came at the man, but the dreamseller quickly calmed them: “No, don’t hurt him!”

  The dreamseller dusted himself off and explained to the man, “We may not betray with our sexual organs, but we betray in thought, in action. If we don’t betray those we love, we betray ourselves. We betray our health, our dreams, our peace of mind. You mean to say you’ve never betrayed another or betrayed yourself?”

  The man silently nodded his head, confirming that, yes, he, too, was a betrayer. He betrayed himself daily with thousands of morbid thoughts. His aggressive nature was only the tip of the iceberg. The dreamseller continued:

  “Is your wife your property? If not, why do you want to destroy her or destroy yourself because of her? Who said that because she betrayed you she is no longer a human being, a person who has cried, loved, been angered, known frustration? If you’re incapable of forgiving her and winning her back, why don’t you simply say, ‘I’m sorry, it’s over’?”

  The man walked away dazed. It was hard to tell if he would manage to win his wife back or allow himself to be won back by her, but he would no longer kill her. I was impressed by the dreamseller’s approach. It seemed like he provoked the man, so, in hitting the dreamseller, the man would get just a glimpse of what his murderous rage could do. And maybe that opened the man up to considering another alternative. The people nearby stared at the dreamseller as if watching an action film.

  As if that incident weren’t enough, the dreamseller turned to Bartholomew and asked him what his greatest dream was. I thought it was a bad time to open up such a question. Honeymouth had a way of turning any serious situation into a joke.

  He looked at the dreamseller and spoke so enthusiastically that he almost fell to the ground:

  “My great dream, chief? Russian vodka! Oh, oh, and to take a bath—” Everyone appeared heartened at this desire, because he certainly needed it. That is, until he finished. “—to take a bath in a vat of Scotch whiskey.” Then he fell into a sitting position. He was penniless and seemed in ecstasy at the thought of that singular bath.

  I couldn’t hold back. I started laughing at the sight of that poor clown and the dreamseller. But I was surprised at my sarcasm, and that deep down, I found pleasure in another’s misfortune. I thought to myself, “Let’s see how the dreamseller handles this one.”

  Before the dreamseller could answer, Jurema appeared with her cane and threatened to give Bartholomew another whack. She had overheard his dream and was indignant. This time she didn’t call him a pervert but a host of other names. “You inveterate alcoholic! Dreg of society! Insolent wastrel!”

  Honeymouth, who apparently had little schooling, thought they were compliments. “Thanks for the kind words, but a barrel of Brazilian rum or Mexican tequila would also be fine,” he said.

  The man was incorrigible. His drinking had been out of control for twenty years. For the last ten he had wandered from bar to bar, street to street, lost in the drink. I was certain that the dreamseller would never be able to teach that drunk anything. I was sure the dreamseller would dismiss him and quickly be done with him. But, to my surprise, he praised the man’s sincerity.

  “Well, congratulations on your honesty.”

  I cleared my ears to make sure I was hearing right. There’s no way the dreamseller was praising this drunk. Between the alcohol swimming in Bartholomew’s brain and the dreamseller’s praise, the man was euphoric. Feeling a self-esteem that he hadn’t known in years, he looked around at the mob that was jeering him just minutes earlier and yelled, “Aha! You see! I’m environmentally friendly. I run on alcohol.”

  Then he crossed his fingers and said, “I’m like that with this guy. He’s the man. Hey, can I take a ride in your spaceship, E.T.?” Then he tripped against a couple of people and almost fell again.

  I, who had always been intolerant, thought, “Ship the guy off to the loony bin.” The dreamseller looked at me, and for a second, I thought he was reading my mind and taking my advice. But, to my amazement, he said something that almost made me fall over. He touched Bartholomew’s shoulder and told him in a firm voice, “Come, follow me. And I’ll inebriate you with a drink unlike any you have ever known.”

  I was horrified. I shook my head to see if I understood what I’d heard. The drunk, who was weak both from dancing and from years of running on alcohol, immediately replied, “You say there’s a drink I don’t know about? I doubt it. Is it high-proof vodka?”

  I was embarrassed by the alcoholic’s naïve irreverence. But the dreamseller, finding it humorous, smiled. He was always able to relax in these tense situations. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I specialize in the complicated ones.”

  I thought about running right then and there. Following this social outcast was one thing. Following him side by side with a witless drunk was too much. Who knew what risks lay ahead?

  The World Is My Home

  THE DREAMSELLER, BARTHOLOMEW AND I TURNED TO BEGIN our journey. As we were leaving, the crowd applauded. Some people even took photos. I had hoped for a discreet escape, but that idiot Honeymouth posed for pictures. I tried to lead him away without causing more of a scene. The last thing I wanted was to babysit a drunk. A few nearby reporters looked on and took notes.

  We hadn’t walked three blocks before I started wondering, “What am I doing here? Where are we going?” But my new companion wasn’t thinking at all. He was just happy to be part of our merry band of men. Me? I was worried.

  I looked ahead and tried to relax. The dreamseller watched me with a half-smile; he seemed to hear my doubts. I imagined we were heading to his humble home. Judging by his clothes, he seemed to be poor, but surely he must have a rented house or apartment. Maybe it wasn’t much to look at, but he was so insistent that we join him, I figured there must be enough room for his guests, Bartholomew and me. The thought of sleeping in the same room with that drunkard turned my stomach.

  Maybe the room where I’d sleep would be simple but comfortable. Maybe the mattress would be worn but decent. Maybe the sheets would be old, but at least they’d be clean. Maybe his refrigerator wasn’t packed, but I imagined there would be something healthy to eat. After all, I was hungry and exhausted. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . I thought, but I wasn’t sure of anything.

  Along the way, he waved at children and adults, helped a few people carry heavy bags. Bartholomew said hi to everyone, even trees and lampposts. I waved, too, but only not to seem out of place.

  Most people responded with a smile. I wondered how the dreamseller knew all of them. But, of course, he didn’t know them. It was just his way. He treated any stranger as an equal. And, in fact, to him, no person was a stranger. He greeted them because it made him happy. I had never seen such a lively, good-natured, sociable person. He didn’t just sell dreams, he lived them.

  We walked for blocks, then for miles, but never seemed to be any closer to his home. A long while later, when I couldn’t walk any further, he stopped at an intersection and I let out a sigh of relief. We’re here, I thought to myself. Yes, he said, we had arr
ived.

  I looked to the left and saw a row of identical, white, low-income homes with small porches. I scratched my head and thought, “The houses look really small. They can’t have three bedrooms.”

  Then the dreamseller looked down the other street. Behind a bridge was a tall apartment building that looked to have about eight rooms per floor, like a pigeon coop for people. It looked even more cramped than the row houses.

  Remembering my own students, I said to myself, “I’m not going to complain. It’ll just be a tough night and that’s that.” The dreamseller saw the look on my face and said, “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of room.”

  Trying to disguise my worry, I asked calmly, “So what floor is your apartment on?”

  “My apartment? My apartment is the world,” he said calmly.

  “I like that apartment,” Bartholomew said.

  Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?”

  He explained:

  “Foxes have their dens, the birds of the sky their nests, but the dreamseller has no fixed address to lay his head.”

  If I was nervous before, I really worried when he started quoting Jesus Christ. Did this man think he was the Messiah? Could he be having a psychotic break? Or would he have one later? I mean, he seemed highly intelligent. And he speaks of God in a secular way. But I couldn’t help wonder who this man was. And what I was getting myself into.

  “Don’t worry,” the dreamseller said, “I’m not Him. I only try to understand Him.”

  “You’re not who?” I asked, not following.

  “I’m not Jesus Christ. Like I said, I’m just the least of his brethren. I just try to understand him,” he replied calmly.

  “But who are you?” I repeated anxiously, seeking a fuller explanation that never seemed to come.

  He said emphatically, “I’ve already told you who I am. Don’t you believe in me?”

  Bartholomew should have kept quiet just then, but he didn’t have it in him. He tried to correct me by saying, “You don’t believe he’s the alien commander.”

  This time I couldn’t hold back.

  “Shut up, Trashmouth,” I shouted.

  “Trashmouth? You second-rate snob!” he shouted and struck a karate pose. This would be the first of many arguments among the dreamseller’s ragtag band of disciples.

  The dreamseller gently corrected me, that warm smile and calm demeanor more effective than any physical punishment.

  “Julio, you’re a smart man, so you know that no artist owns his work. It’s he who interprets the art who gives it meaning. If Bartholomew thinks I’m the leader of an alien race, so be it. You shouldn’t worry. Generosity, not obedience, is what I want. Be generous to yourself.”

  Back then, I thought he misspoke and meant that I should be generous to Bartholomew. But during this journey I would discover that a man who isn’t generous to himself can never be generous to others. One who demands much of himself is a tyrant to others.

  Generosity was one of the most important dreams that he wanted to share with the world. The “normals” living in their cages, isolated in their own little worlds, had lost the indescribable joy that comes from giving, embracing, offering a second chance. Generosity was a word found in dictionaries but rarely in mankind. I knew how to compete but not how to be generous. I knew how to point out the ignorance and shortcomings of others, but not how to accept them. Seeing others fail pleased me more than my own successes. I was no different from politician who wanted to see the ruling party fail.

  After that careful lesson, I calmed down. But there was still the question of where we would be staying. Then the dreamseller pointed to the shade beneath the bridge and said, “This is our home.”

  I felt dizzy. Suddenly I began to miss the San Pablo Building. There were several torn mattresses strewn under the overpass and only filthy rags to cover us. There was one jug of water and we all would have to drink straight from the bottle. I had never seen such poverty. I thought, “This is the man who saved me?”

  It all looked so destitute that even Bartholomew protested. Now I was starting to like the guy. He scratched his head, rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating and said, “Chief, you sure this is your house?”

  The alcohol was wearing off and Bartholomew had begun to see reality. Even he had slept in better places. He slept in a friend’s tiny efficiency, in the back of bars and even in homeless shelters, but never under a bridge.

  “Yes, Bartholomew, this is my house. And we have a long night ahead of us.”

  Because everything the dreamseller said had another meaning, he wasn’t predicting a bad night’s sleep. We were in for more of the dreamseller’s eye-opening world.

  For dinner there was some stale bread and old crackers. I had hated fast-food hamburgers, but now I started to fantasize about them. After taking a few bites of the crackers, I decided to lie down. Maybe tomorrow I would wake up and find it was all a nightmare. I lay down on the lumpy mattress, rolled a piece of cardboard into a pillow, and rested my head—but not my racing mind.

  Trying to relax, I told myself, “OK, stay calm. You’re a sociologist. You like to study eccentric groups, don’t you? Now you’re part of one. It’ll be good for your academic career. At the very least, you’ll have one hell of a story to tell. Remember, ‘Victory without risk is a dream without value.’”

  Still, I couldn’t imagine what I was getting myself into. I had left the safe microcosm of a college classroom to live in the underbelly of society, a place completely foreign to a theoretical sociologist like me. My spinning mind wouldn’t let me sleep.

  But then I tried something else. I started remembering all the lessons I had learned next to the dreamseller, reliving each experience. I tried to think about everything that had happened hours earlier. The experience of following this stranger was so powerful that I thought less about the top of the building and more about my home under the bridge, less about suicide and more about my journey.

  And then it hit me. Everyone should set out like this, without a goal or a destination, at least for a day, searching for the lost pieces of themselves. These thoughts relaxed me, the anxiety passed and sleep approached.

  I learned that night that what determines how soft a bed feels depends on the anxiety inside our heads. One only sleeps well when he can find peace within. I was beginning to think like the dreamseller. I ignored whatever worry lay ahead. For the moment, that tattered lump became the most comfortable of mattresses.

  A Band of Misfits

  IT WAS FOUR IN THE MORNING, COLD AND WINDY, WHEN I awoke to a desperate cry.

  “The bridge is gonna collapse! It’s gonna collapse!” Bartholomew screamed. He was panting, terrified.

  My heart was racing. I had never been so afraid. I leaped up, trying to run.

  But the dreamseller took my arm and urged me to stay calm.

  “Calm, how? We could die!” I said, looking at the construction and seeing old cracks, in the darkness, as if they were new.

  Calmly, he told me, “Bartholomew is going through alcohol withdrawal.”

  My survival instinct had kicked in, even though a few hours earlier I had wanted to end my life. My drunken companion had led me to one of the greatest discoveries of my life: Even those who plan their death don’t want to die; they want to kill their pain. I took a deep breath, tried to relax, but my heart was racing. I looked at Bartholomew, who was in a state of terror.

  He was in a state of delirium tremens. Because he was addicted, and his body craved alcohol, he was suffering shortness of breath, accelerated heart rate and excessive sweating. The worst part was that his already confused mind shut down, and he was starting to hallucinate.

  After imagining that the bridge was falling, he started having other wild visions. He saw spiders and rats the size of automobiles scurrying along the ground, threatening to devour him. His face was dripping with sweat, his hands shaking. His entire body was hot with fever. As the dreamseller always said, you can run fr
om the monsters outside but not those within. And it’s incredible how the human mind tries to create phantoms to frighten away those demons. Even in our digital world, these primitive feelings still exist.

  Bartholomew tried to fight the beasts attacking him from within. He screamed in agony, “Chief, help me! Help me!”

  We tried to calm him and sat him down on an old crate. But he jumped to his feet with a new nightmare, and, another time, he ran down the street in fear. There were millions of alcoholics in this country, but I never imagined how much they suffered. I just thought they were happy drunks. Fearing Bartholomew would be run over, the dreamseller suggested we take him to a public hospital three blocks away.

  That’s the day I began to give a little of myself to others without asking anything in return. Of course, there’s always self-interest in the things we do, but as the dreamseller said, there are interests that go beyond financial gain and public recognition, such as those linked to the fulfillment of contributing to the well-being of others. It was a system of trade unforeseen by capitalism or socialism, a world alien to me.

  I began to understand that selfish people live in a prison of their worries. But those who work to ease the pain of others ease their own pain. I don’t know if I’ll regret taking this path, I don’t know what awaits me, but selling dreams, even with its risks, is an excellent “business” in the marketplace of emotion. Bartholomew’s suffering was so great that, at least for the time being, it made the countless issues in my life, the worry in my mind, seem smaller.

  I thought of all the trouble the dreamseller went through to rescue me. He hadn’t asked for money, recognition or praise, afterward. But what he received was an immeasurable dose of joy. He was so happy that he danced in public. All he asked of me was that I do the same.