The Dreamseller: The Calling

by Augusto Cury

  At first the mourners just looked at one another. Then what happened was incredible. Many of them began relating unique stories that they had experienced with him. They spoke of the legacy he had left. His kindness. His loyalty. His capacity to deal with failure. His unyielding affection. His friendship.

  Others, now more at ease, joked about his mannerisms. There were those who said he loved nature. One friend said, “I never met anyone as stubborn and obstinate.” And in a setting where usually no one smiles, people laughed at the memory, including Antonio and the widow, because they knew how stubborn he could be. A friend added, “But he taught me that we must never give up on what we love.”

  There were twenty incredible minutes of heartfelt memories. People didn’t know how to describe the fascinating emotional experience they had had. Marco Aurelio was alive. At that moment, the dreamseller looked at us, his disciples, and said, whether joking or serious I don’t know, “When I die, don’t despair. Instead, speak of my dreams and my wild desires.”

  Some people laughed at the strange and amusing man who had lifted them from the valley of despair to the peak of serenity. As incredible as it seems, even young Antonio smiled. There, in that room where so many lavished praised on the deceased, the dreamseller sold a dream to the young boy who had lost his father.

  “Antonio, look what a brilliant human being your father was, despite his shortcomings. Don’t hold back your tears. Weep as many times as you desire, but don’t let his loss make you lose hope. Just the opposite. Honor your father by living maturely. Honor him by confronting your fears. Praise him by being generous, creative, affectionate, sincere. Live wisely. I believe that if your father could use my voice at this moment to say something to you, he would implore you: ‘Son, go forward! Don’t be afraid of the journey. Be afraid of missing out on life.’”

  Antonio felt his spirits lift. That was all he needed to hear. He would still cry. Longing would beat mercilessly in his chest. But he would know how to put commas instead of periods in his life when he encountered loneliness, when he came upon sorrow. His life would take on new dimensions.

  The dreamseller prepared to leave, but first he left the mourners with his final thoughts, the same questions that had shaken me atop the San Pablo Building.

  “Are we living atoms that disintegrate and never again become what they were? What is existence or nonexistence? What mortal can know? Who has dissected death to expose its true essence? Is death the end or the beginning?”

  Enraptured, people approached me and asked, “Who is that man? Where does he come from?” What could I answer? I didn’t know either. They asked the same of Bartholomew and, unfortunately, he found himself answering the questions. Honeymouth enjoyed weaving theories about things he didn’t know. Puffing out his chest, he replied:

  “Who’s the chief? He’s from another world. And if you need anything, I’m his adviser on international affairs.”

  Dimas, the newest member of our group, stunned by everything he’d heard, replied honestly. “I don’t know who he is. All I know is he dresses like a pauper but he seems to be very rich, indeed.”

  Sofia, Antonio’s mother, was deeply grateful and bursting with curiosity. When she saw him about to leave without saying anything more, she asked, “Who are you? What religion do you preach? Where do you learn these teachings?”

  He looked at her and calmly answered:

  “I’m not a priest, a theologian or a philosopher. I’m just a wanderer trying to understand who I am. A traveler who once doubted God, but, after crossing a great desert, has discovered that he is the architect of all existence.”

  Upon hearing him, I again fell deep in thought. I didn’t know that the dreamseller had been an atheist like me. But something had changed in him. His relationship with God troubled me; it wasn’t based on religion, tradition or self-pity, but was rooted in an incomprehensible friendship. Who is he, then? What desert had he crossed? Could he have cried more than the people at the wake? Where had he lived, where was he born? Before more questions could bubble up in my mind, he started to leave. Sofia extended both hands to him and wordlessly declared her gratitude. Antonio couldn’t contain himself. He gave the dreamseller a long embrace that moved everyone and asked, “Where can I find you again? Where do you live?”

  “My home is the world,” the dreamseller replied. “You can find me in some avenue of existence.”

  And he left, leaving everyone astonished. We, his disciples, were speechless. For the moment, at least, he quieted our uncertainties. We were beginning to believe it was worthwhile to follow him, little knowing the storms that awaited us.

  We made our way slowly through the gathering. The people wanted to meet him, speak with him, open up some chapters of their lives, but he humbly passed them by. He wasn’t fond of praise. We, on the other hand, were starting to feel important. Dimas and Bartholomew, who had always lived at the edge of society, felt their egos swell, attacked by a virus I knew all too well.

  The Eager Miracle Worker

  THE DAY WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT IF NOT FOR THE surprise awaiting us just around the corner. The funeral home was large, and there were several enormous rooms, each separate from the others so several families could mourn their loved ones at once. When we left the hall where Marco Aurelio was being mourned, we passed through another wake, that of a seventy-five-year-old woman.

  But a man who walked by caught the dreamseller’s attention. He was a young man of about thirty, curly hair, short, navy blue suit and a white shirt. He was good-looking, with a well-modulated voice, imposing. The dreamseller quietly followed him.

  The man approached the old woman’s coffin confidently. Apparently he was some sort of priest. To me, he seemed harmless, but the dreamseller didn’t see it that way. The man positioned himself at the foot of the coffin and made a gesture of reverence. Little by little he revealed his face, and we soon saw his true intentions.

  His name was Edson, but people called him the Miracle Worker. Edson had a penchant for “performing” miracles. Oh, he wanted to help others. But there was always a motive behind his aid: He loved attention. Edson wasn’t the spiritual leader charged with offering words of consolation at the funeral. He was there out of self-interest.

  Incredible as it seems, the Miracle Worker desired to resurrect the old woman. He wanted to put on a dazzling show capable of making the spectators bow at his feet; he actually hoped to awaken the elderly woman from death and be recognized as the bearer of a supernatural gift. Just as Caligula used his power to be hailed as a god on earth, Edson hoped to use his knowledge of the Bible to invoke the supernatural and be treated like a demigod himself—although he never would have admitted it.

  As a sociologist I had learned that there is no power as complete as religion. Dictators, politicians, intellectuals, psychiatrists and psychologists fail to penetrate the minds of others like certain religious figures. Because they represent a deity, these men can achieve a status the likes of which Napoleon or Hitler never could.

  In our wanderings, the dreamseller would tell us that spiritual leaders who represented an altruistic, generous God contributed to the good of humanity. But those who represented a controlling, vengeful God—in effect, a God created in their own image—caused disasters, destroyed freedom and controlled people. The dreamseller always warned us that it’s easy to construct a manipulative God in our mind. He seemed to want to keep us in touch with our humanity.

  But this charlatan we saw at the wake had mixed intentions. At certain times he wanted to contribute to the good of his fellow man and was sincere and caring. At other times he seemed swollen with pridefulness.

  But this Miracle Worker, though ambitious, was no fool. He wanted to create a spectacle but not a scene. He wanted to resurrect the old woman but tried to guard against insulting anyone. Many thoughts swirled in his brain. “What if she doesn’t come to life? What if I tell her to rise and she just lies there? My reputation will be lost.”

  The dre
amseller watched him closely, like a leopard scrutinizing the landscape. We knew the dreamseller took pleasure in dealing with extremely complicated people, but we didn’t understand his true intention that day. Little by little we began to see the kind of show the Miracle Worker was hoping to put on.

  After a moment of reverence, the Miracle Worker approached the dead woman and whispered in an almost inaudible voice, “Rise.” He hoped not to be heard in case his faith failed him.

  The old woman showed no sign of life. Immediately, he repeated in that low voice, “Rise.”

  If she were to have moved in the slightest, Edson would have shouted to the heavens and proclaimed himself a true miracle worker. It would be his most glorious moment. Countless people hungering for supernatural acts would follow him.

  But nothing happened. The deceased remained motionless. Bartholomew, Dimas and I, who were far from saints, were indignant with the Miracle Worker’s trickery. What an arrogant jerk, we thought.

  But he didn’t give up. He filled his lungs and in a louder voice, but speaking between his teeth so no one could understand clearly what he was saying, he declared, “Rise, woman. I command you!”

  The unimaginable happened. The woman moved. But not because of the Miracle Worker. An older man, reeking of alcohol the way Bartholomew did the day I met him, bumped the coffin. But the Miracle Worker, wrapped up in himself and in looking for any signs of life from the old woman, didn’t notice when the deceased’s nephew came staggering in and smacked the coffin, causing the old woman’s hands, gently resting on her chest, to change position.

  The Miracle Worker’s heart leaped with emotion. He thought his moment of glory had arrived, that his supernatural abilities had finally revealed themselves. Overcome with joy, and desperate to take credit for his “miracle,” he yelled out and proclaimed to the mourners:

  “Rise, woman! I command you!”

  This time, everyone heard and was startled by his command. He expected the woman to sit up in her coffin and the crowd to acknowledge his tremendous power. But the old woman showed no further signs of life.

  He figured all he needed was just a little more faith to make the coffin move again. And this time, he gave the order to the body again, glancing at the crowd: “Rise, woman!” he begged the corpse, which would not respond to his appeal.

  The longer the woman remained motionless, the weaker his knees became. He broke into a cold sweat, his mouth dried out and his heart raced. Half dazed, he finally saw the drunk trying to regain his balance by steadying himself on the coffin. The Miracle Worker knew he had made a fool of himself. He felt like a wounded deer amid a pride of lions. But this Miracle Worker still had a few tricks up his sleeve. He raised his voice again and said firmly:

  “Woman! If you won’t rise to live in this evil world, then rest in peace!”

  Several “normals” answered in chorus, “Amen!”

  The Miracle Worker ended his performance by taking out a handkerchief to dry invisible tears and said solemnly, “Poor, poor woman. She was such a good person.”

  A Very Complicated Disciple

  ALL SIGNS POINTED TO THIS BEING JUST ANOTHER CON FOR the Miracle Worker: He used his supposed spirituality to take advantage of others’ naïveté. “Normals” have a strong tendency to listen to leaders without questioning them. After watching the Miracle Worker’s scheme, I looked at Dimas and thought, “Not even Angel Hand would do something that low.” In turn, Angel Hand, knowing something of my nature through Bartholomew thought, “Not even this arrogant intellectual would manipulate other people like that.” Bartholomew, more honest than either of us, said out loud, “Only after two bottles of vodka could I hallucinate like that guy.”

  As soon as my friends and I criticized the Miracle Worker, our legs trembled. We looked at one another and had the same thought: “Why is the dreamseller so interested in this character? Could he be interested in calling him to join the group?” The thought rattled us so much that we said, simultaneously, “I’ll leave!”

  This worried us. We watched the dreamseller’s actions carefully, hoping he would turn and leave, but he went up to the man who had captured his attention. Our hearts pounded. The Miracle Worker met the dreamseller’s gaze and, to our relief, our leader said nothing, merely shaking his head in disapproval.

  The dreamseller may have had his faults, but he never set out to manipulate another person. To him, a person’s conscience was sacred. Freedom of choice should always prevail. His strongest criticism of society was that it surreptitiously sold a nonexistent freedom, a freedom found in the pages of democracy but not in the pages of history. Too many had been enslaved by their troubled minds.

  After disapproving silently, but without exposing the Miracle Worker publicly, the dreamseller made two statements and two conclusions:

  “Miracles don’t convince people. If they did, Judas would never have betrayed Jesus. Miracles can change the body, but not the mind. If they could, Peter never would have denied knowing Jesus.”

  Edson remained silent. He didn’t know how to reply because he had never considered that. Then came the bombshell that rocked me as a professor.

  “The man you claim to follow never used his power in order to control people,” the dreamseller said. “Jesus never used his power to seduce audiences and win over followers. That’s why he, unlike politicians, told his followers, ‘Don’t tell anyone!’ Unless they followed him out of the spontaneous emotion of an unfathomable love, he didn’t want followers. He wanted friends, not servants.”

  These words got me to thinking about our own history. I remembered that in centuries past, atrocities were committed in the name of Christ: People killed, tortured, waged war, conquered, wounded, excluded in his name. They ignored the gentleness of Jesus, who never manipulated anyone, who would not hear of servants. Centuries of opposition and hatred toward Muslims followed, an animosity whose roots are perpetuated even today. In traveling with the dreamseller, I had begun to suspect I wasn’t the confirmed atheist I thought I was. Deep down, my disgust was with organized religion.

  The Miracle Worker was dumbstruck: Never had anyone corrected him without scolding him. The dreamseller, having said all he needed to say, turned and left, leaving several who witnessed the confrontation confused. We were immensely relieved. For how long? We didn’t know.

  The next day, a newspaper report on the recent events appeared in The Times, under the headline, “A Stranger Turns a Wake into a Garden.” A photo taken secretly as we left the wake was on the front page of one section. The reporting wasn’t an attack; instead, it contained many interesting facts. It said that a bold stranger wanted to change the dynamic of wakes, to transform them from settings of despair into platforms for paying homage to the dead.

  The journalist had interviewed people who had heard the dreamseller speak. Some said they planned to write their families to say that, when they died, they didn’t want a funeral marked by despair, loss and self-pity, but one highlighting their best moments. Mourners should instead be revelers, recalling the deceased’s acts of love and kindness, their words, their dreams, their friendships—even their foolish moments. They wanted those saying good-bye to remember that day joyfully, despite the pain.

  The article said that the stranger was the same one who had caused a flurry near the San Pablo Building. And it ended with two questions: Are we witnessing one of the greatest atheists ever, or a man with incomprehensible spirituality? Are we witness to a modern-day prophet, or a lunatic?

  When we awoke the next morning, we found the dreamseller off by himself, deep in conversation. It was the second time we’d seen him carrying on this monologue. He gestured as if he were having hallucinations or questioning his own reasoning. Ten minutes later, he came to us relaxed. He seemed to have cleansed his mind of the day-to-day noise.

  The sky was darkening, threatening a heavy rain. Lightning ripped across the sky. Dimas didn’t fear the police or jail time, but he was terrified of lightning storms. We
were walking along a wide street when the thunder made our usually unflappable friend cower.

  I tried to calm him by telling him that by the time we heard the thunder, the lightning—and the danger—had already passed. But the mind is riddled with traps; he understood my words but they could not calm his irrational fears. I couldn’t criticize him, though. I was no different. I had always valued logic over emotion, but it was no consolation from the esoteric pain of my past. It haunted me.

  The rain soon began to fall. We quickly sought shelter in a large shopping mall. At the entrance was a vast department store. As we went inside, we heard the earsplitting crack of lightning strike. Dimas dove beneath the first table he found. He was like a child who had seen a ghost. I thought to myself, “The dreamseller is right. There are no heroes. Eventually, every giant encounters obstacles that transform him into a child. All you have to do is wait.”

  The last lightning bolt overloaded the mall’s grounding system and the electricity pulsed down the walls of the building. Two painters, cousins, were repainting the store. One of them, who had a stammer worse than Dimas, was working on the walls. When he was nervous, his voice shut down and he couldn’t say a word. The other was on top of a six-foot ladder, happily retouching the steel window frames.

  When the lightning bolt hit, it coursed through the walls and bounced into the window, striking one painter. The noise was deafening. The painter fell off the ladder, writhing in pain. His cousin, terrified, rushed to his aid. We started forward, but before we could get there, someone rushed past us, looking to be a hero. I don’t know where the man came from, but he seemed familiar. When I looked closer, I realized it was the Miracle Worker from the wake.

  Edson saw the painter lying on the floor, moaning in pain and holding his right ankle. He saw that the man’s foot was deformed. He concluded immediately that it was because of the lightning. Wasting no time, he told the other painter, who was attending the injured man, “It’s OK, I’ve got him. I’m an expert in this kind of thing.”