The Dreamseller: The Calling

by Augusto Cury

  He quickly began a discourse about his controversial ideas:

  “When women came to feel they occupied the throne of the male-dominated system, the fashion world locked in on the most subtle stereotype.” And he recited the number “two,” deeply saddened.

  I didn’t know where the dreamseller was heading with this. I knew that stereotypes are a sociological problem. The stereotype of the crazy person, the addict, the corrupt politician, the socialist, the bourgeois, the Jew, the terrorist, the homosexual. We use stereotypes as a vile standard to brand people with certain behaviors. We don’t evaluate the content of their character; if they show certain characteristics, we immediately imprison them behind the bars of a stereotype, classifying them as junkies, corrupt, unstable.

  But what does the beautiful world of fashion have to do with stereotypes? The women were free to wear whatever they wanted, to buy any clothes they fancied, and have the body they desired. I didn’t understand why the dreamseller was so concerned. Nevertheless, the more he spoke, the more I was impressed.

  “What a crime that what the fashion world has stereotyped as ‘beautiful’ is nothing more than a genetic accident.”

  Bartholomew wasn’t sure what the dreamseller was talking about.

  “Chief, is that stereotype expensive?” he asked, thinking it was some kind of clothing. The dreamseller told him:

  “Its implications are extremely expensive,” he explained. “To maximize sales and create an ideal image for women, the fashion world began using the bodies of uncommonly thin young women as the epitome of beauty. One young woman out of ten thousand with a very thin body and exceedingly well-formed face, hips, nose, bust and neck became the stereotype of beauty. What consequences that had for the collective consciousness . . .”

  More and more people were gathering around. After a brief pause, he continued:

  “The genetic exception became the rule. Children looked to their Barbie dolls for direction, and adolescent girls turned runway models into an unattainable standard of beauty. That process engendered a compulsive quest for the stereotype, as if it were a drug, in hundreds of millions of women. Women, who were always more generous and supportive than men, turned on each other without realizing it. Even Chinese and Japanese women are mutilating their anatomy to come closer to the beauty of Western models. Did you know that?”

  I didn’t know that, but how could he? How could someone completely outside of fashion be so well informed about it? Suddenly, he interrupted my thoughts by uttering the number “three,” and a moment of sorrow washed over his face.

  He continued by saying that such a distorted model of beauty had sunk into the collective unconscious, imploding women’s self-image and committing an act of terrorism against self-esteem. In the past, stereotypes didn’t have serious collective consequences because we weren’t yet a global village. And just when women thought they liberated themselves, the system clipped their wings with the “Barbie syndrome.”

  A male designer challenged him tensely, “I don’t believe any of that. That’s ridiculous.”

  “I wish it were. I would love for my ideas to be foolish.” And he spoke the number “four.”

  At that moment, a young woman, confused, asked, “Why do you count while you speak?”

  The dreamseller turned and stared at me silently. It seemed like some great force was dragging him into the hearts of families who were losing their sons and daughters. His eyes swimming with tears at the thought, he turned to the crowd and said:

  “Lucia, a shy but lively young woman—creative and an excellent student—weighs just seventy-five pounds, despite being five feet, five inches tall. Her bones stick out under her skin, forming a repulsive image, but she refuses to eat for fear of putting on weight. Marcia, a smiling, extroverted young woman, an enchanting girl, weighs seventy-seven pounds and is five-foot-three. Her cadaverous face drives her parents and friends to despair, but even so she refuses to feed herself. Bernadette weighs less than ninety-five pounds and is five-seven. She used to like to talk to everyone but has isolated herself from her boyfriend, her friends and lives in chat rooms on the Internet. Rafaela weighs one hundred and five pounds and stands six feet tall. She played volleyball and liked going to the beach and running on the sand, but now she’s starving to death.”

  He paused again, looked attentively at his audience, and said:

  “In the time you’ve been listening to me talk, four young women will have developed anorexia. Some will survive their troubles, others will not. And if you ask these young women why they don’t eat, they’ll answer, ‘Because we’re obese.’ Billions of cells beg them to be fed, but these woman have no compassion for their bodies, which lack the strength to exercise or even walk. This desperation to reach this ideal body type, this stereotype of what is beautiful, has managed to suppress a vital instinct living things have never managed to block out naturally: our instinct to eat.”

  And he stated that if those individuals lived in tribes where the stereotype wasn’t so powerful, they wouldn’t be sick. But they live in modern society, which not only propagates an unhealthy thinness but places excessive value on a certain type of eyes, neck, bust, hips, the shape of a nose—in short, a world that excludes and discriminates against anyone who doesn’t measure up to the standard. And the worst part is that all this is done subtly. He emphasized:

  “I don’t deny that there can be metabolic causes for eating problems, but the social causes are undeniable and unforgivable. There are fifty million anorexics in the world—as many as the number of deaths in World War Two.”

  Suddenly the dreamseller put aside his somberness, changed to a more pleasant tone and climbed on top of an armchair beside him and called out:

  “The social system is clever: It shouts when it should keep quiet and keeps quiet when it should shout. Nothing against the models and the intelligent and creative designers, but the system forgot to shout that beauty can’t be standardized.”

  Various people, international models and famous designers who were passing by, were attracted to the eccentric man showcasing his ideas. There were already people across the world fighting those stereotypes in society, but their voices were but a whisper compared to the monstrous system. Drunk with indignation, the dreamseller once more turned to his incisive Socratic method:

  “Where are the heavier women in these shows? Where are the young women with less shapely hips? Where are the women with prominent noses? Why, in this temple of so-called beauty, are there no young women with saddlebags or stretch marks? Aren’t they human beings? Aren’t they beautiful, too? Why is the world of fashion, which came about to promote well-being, destroying women’s self-esteem? Isn’t that a socially acceptable rape of self-esteem?”

  Listening to this indictment, I began to feel disgusted with the system. However, just when the dreamseller had taken us to the heights of reflection, along came Bartholomew to once again wreck the mood. He raised his hand and clumsily attempted to second the dreamseller:

  “I’m with you, chief. I don’t discriminate when it comes to women. I’ve dated every type.”

  The audience burst into laughter. But we were so nervous already that we hushed Bartholomew.

  “Pretend you’re normal, Bartholomew!”

  The people were split by the dreamseller’s ideas. Some were enthralled, their mouths agape; others hated the ideas down to their last thread. Paparazzi began taking photos, eager to record the scandal of the year.

  As the buzz from the crowd died down, the dreamseller lowered his voice to make an emotional request:

  “I implore you, the brilliant designers, to love women, all of them, to invest in their mental health by using not just these unattainable body types to express your art. You may not make as much money as you otherwise might, but you’ll realize immeasurable gains. Sell the dream that every woman has a unique beauty.”

  Some people applauded, including three international models to my right. Later we learned that models
were exposed to a host of mental conditions. They were ten times more likely to be anorexic than the population as a whole. The system both enthroned and incarcerated them, and after a short career, it discarded them.

  Three people booed the dreamseller. One of them threw a plastic water bottle at him, opening a cut over his left eyebrow, which bled profusely. We took him by the arm and asked him to stop talking, but he wasn’t intimidated. Wiping away the blood with an old handkerchief, he called for silence and continued. I thought: “There are many who hide their thinking for the sake of their public image; here’s a man who’s faithful to his ideas.” Then he offered a proposal that made our skin tingle:

  “Most women in modern society don’t see themselves as beautiful. So in every clothing store and on every label there should be a warning, like on packs of cigarettes, that reads: ‘Every woman is beautiful. Beauty can’t be standardized.’”

  These words got quite a reaction from the press. At the very moment he said them, a paparazzo photographed him from an angle that caught the upper half of his body and, in the background, the logo of the international clothing chain of the Megasoft Group.

  His ideas about discrimination in fashion reminded me of when he told us: “Discrimination can be constructed in a matter of hours, but can take centuries to dismantle. A full century after Abraham Lincoln freed African-Americans from slavery, Martin Luther King Jr. was on the streets of major American cities, still fighting discrimination.” I kept asking myself, “Who is this man who makes these revolutionary proposals? Where does his knowledge come from?”

  The dreamseller told the crowd that our existence can never be standardized. All of us experience life differently, from sex and the taste of food to our appetites, art, even beauty.

  “What’s the normal frequency for having sexual relations? Every day? Every week? Any classification would generate serious distortions. What’s normal if not that which satisfies each person? Isn’t being satisfied enough?”

  A stunningly beautiful international model named Monica, deeply moved by his speech, interrupted him and had the courage to say publicly:

  “My whole life, all I knew how to do was strut, strut, strut down a runway. My world was the runways. I’ve been photographed by the best international photographers. My body has been on major magazine covers. I was raised to the top by the fashion world, but the same world that praised me cast me aside when I gained ten pounds. Today I have bulimia. I eat compulsively, then feel so guilty about it that I have to make myself throw up. My life is a living hell. I can’t even bear the taste of food. I don’t know who I am or what I love anymore. I’ve tried to kill myself three times.”

  There were no tears in her eyes, none left to cry. The dreamseller, seeing the model’s suffering, took two deep breaths. He thought it better to remain silent, realizing that Monica’s experience spoke more eloquently than his words. But first he wanted to see her smile. He switched from reflection to humor.

  “When women are in front of the mirror, they say a famous phrase, even unconsciously. What is it?” The women present answered in unison, “Mirror, mirror on the wall: Who’s the fairest of them all?”

  “No,” the dreamseller said. “They all say, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall. Who’s got the most defects of them all?’”

  The crowd smiled. Monica laughed a beautiful laugh; it had been five years since she laughed like that. That was what he wanted: to sell her the dream of happiness. It was an admirable sociological experiment. It was the first time I’d ever seen humor grow out of such despair.

  Bartholomew told the dreamseller, “Chief, I don’t see any defects when I look in the mirror. Have I got a problem?”

  “No, Bartholomew. You’re simply beautiful. Look at your friends. Aren’t they marvelous?”

  Honeymouth took a long look at the group of disciples.

  “Don’t push it, chief. The family’s kinda shabby.”

  We broke into laughter and headed for the door. We’d never felt so beautiful.

  Calling a Model and a Revolutionary

  WHEN WE LEFT, MONICA CAME OUTSIDE TO EXPRESS HER profound gratitude. She hugged the dreamseller affectionately and gave him a kiss on the cheek. The rest of us were green with envy.

  The dreamseller looked at her and suddenly took the most extraordinary attitude:

  “Monica, you shone on the fashion runways, but I want to invite you to parade down a different runway, one harder to cross, one tougher to keep your balance on, but definitely more interesting to experience. Come sell dreams with us.”

  Monica didn’t know how to answer. She had read several stories about the dreamseller but had no idea where this would lead. When we heard the call to the enchanting model, we, who had rejected letting women into the team, changed our position immediately. We agreed with the dreamseller that women were not only more intelligent than men, they were also much better to look at.

  Noting our enthusiasm, the dreamseller moved on to talk to another person. He left it up to us to explain to the newcomer the fascinating world of selling dreams. We’ll surely convince her, we thought. We tried to explain, then explain our explanations. But we stumbled over one another and over our words. We were like a pack of stray dogs in mating season.

  Seeing that Monica looked far from convinced, the Miracle Worker withdrew to pray. He didn’t want to fall into temptation. Angel Hand was euphoric, unable to articulate his words, but nevertheless he tried to invent a poem to attract the model:

  “A life without . . . dreams, is . . . is . . . like a winter without . . . snow, an ocean without . . . waves . . .”

  Monica had never seen such a band of lunatics—dirty, poorly dressed, weird—trying to win her over at all costs. She grew more doubtful. After all, we were like a swarm of bees around the queen. While we were speaking, Monica glanced to the side and several times saw the dreamseller listening attentively to the person with whom he was talking. After half an hour, the model looked like she wanted to get out of there. Unfortunately, that was when Honeymouth went into action.

  “Monica, hon, selling dreams is the craziest experience I’ve ever had. Not even when I was soaked in vodka was I so delirious,” he said, scaring the girl.

  “Pretend you’re normal, Bartholomew!” we all said again.

  But he didn’t know how to pretend; he was what he was. Then something unexpected happened. When Bartholomew spoke of the craziness of the project, she took heart. She wanted something more exciting than the world of fashion runways. But she was still undecided about this sociological experiment.

  When the dreamseller returned, Monica asked him, “Sir, I know the man you were talking to.”

  “Really? He’s a fascinating person,” he said effusively.

  “He’s a deaf-mute and doesn’t know sign language,” the model replied, suspicious of the dreamseller’s motives. If the deaf man didn’t know sign language, it wasn’t possible for them to communicate. We fell silent. It was clear she wouldn’t follow him.

  “I know,” replied the dreamseller. “That’s why it’s rare that anyone pays attention to him to free him from his loneliness. I heard the words he didn’t say. Have you spent any time trying to understand him?” She fell as silent as the deaf man.

  Monica agreed to join the journey, but at the dreamseller’s request she would sleep at her own home. She didn’t know about the sleepless nights that awaited her.

  The next day, the dreamseller was in every major daily newspaper in the city and on all the television morning newscasts. His ideas were spreading. Some papers were already calling him by the name he liked: “Dreamseller.” They said he had turned the fashion world upside down.

  Some journalists, extremely concerned with the eroding self-image of today’s youth, wrote about the Barbie syndrome and came to conclusions that expanded on what the dreamseller had said. They said he had shouted that because of the unrealistic standards of the fashion industry many adolescent girls lose a grip on reality and are perpetu
ally dissatisfied with their bodies, finding defects in their faces and constantly complaining that their clothes didn’t fit.

  Young people who didn’t like to read newspapers clamored for the articles. Some took it to school, where it spread from hand to hand. Many boys and girls breathed a sigh of relief when they read the articles because they so often had agonized about the “anatomical defects” they saw in themselves. Soon they began laughing at their “paranoia.” They felt the story covered conflicts almost never discussed at school. From that point on, a rebellious streak started forming within some of the students. They began criticizing the social system and wanted to learn firsthand the ideas of that mysterious dreamseller.

  Monica met us that afternoon and told us about the waves the article had created in the fashion world. She said that some of her designer friends as well as some stores had bought into the dreamseller’s ideas and were beginning to spread the view that beauty couldn’t be standardized.

  Seeing the model more enthused, we decided to tell her about the countless adventures we’d had in the last several months. A week later, the dreamseller told us he wanted to invite another woman to the group.

  The way Monica looked, we felt he could invite not one or two or three, but ten women. “How we’ve changed our stance,” I thought. I, who had always criticized politicians who were enemies one day and the best of friends the next, began to understand that such fluctuation was a sickness inherent to the human mind. It all depended on what was at stake.

  Convinced of the wisdom of his new plan, the dreamseller looked upward and then to the sides, placed his hands on his chin and began moving away from us. He was lost in thought again. I heard him ask himself in a low voice, “Which woman should I call? What characteristics should she have?”