by Augusto Cury
Our results couldn’t have been more mixed. We were taken for thieves and kidnappers. We were rejected, ridiculed, threatened. Several pairs had to explain themselves at the police station. But in spite of everything, we had spectacular experiences. We enjoyed ourselves and learned so much. It seemed as if we were traveling in another society, that we had entered a completely different world, the world of “the other person.” Everyone said they felt totally insecure without money or credit cards. Sometimes we felt like a wandering people with no home, no country and no protection, wondering how we would survive from day to day. We were just humans and nothing more. The dreamseller’s sociological experiment proved that we were concealing our true humanity behind concepts like ethics, morality, titles, status and power.
Honeymouth, with Dimas as his partner, set off to sell dreams in the places he knew best, bars and nightclubs. He was met with countless hassles. Some threw vodka in his face, others humiliated him, some cursed him, and still others simply threw him out. “Get outta here, you drunk!” He lost his patience five times and threatened to punch two alcoholics. He began to realize just how difficult a calling this would be.
Despite the setbacks, he helped alcoholics to their feet, listened to rambling conversations and consoled them. Many told him they drank to drown out the pain of losses, betrayals, financial crises and deaths in the family. He had no magic solution, but he lent his ear. At the end of the first day, he went up to a middle-aged man sitting by himself at a table and said, “Sir, I don’t mean to bother you. I’d just like to know how I can be of service.”
The answer was swift: “Get me another shot of whiskey.”
He said he had no money. The alcoholic shoved him rudely.
“Then get out of here or I’m calling the police.”
Bartholomew was a husky man. He grabbed the alcoholic by the collar and was about to shake him when he remembered the dreamseller’s counsel.
“Oh, if this had happened a couple of months ago . . .” he said angrily. Dimas was also indignant.
The drunk put his hand on his head, quickly regaining his composure. Even with his judgment impaired, he saw he had been rude. He apologized and asked them to sit with him. Then, without explanation, he sobbed for twenty solid seconds.
When he regained his composure, he introduced himself. He said his name was Lucas and he was a failed surgeon. He had made a mistake that didn’t threaten his patient’s life, but the patient’s lawyer used that mistake to take him to the cleaners. He was sued and lost everything he had built up in twenty years of practicing medicine. Deep in debt, he couldn’t make his mortgage payment and was about to be evicted. He couldn’t meet the monthly payment on his car, and that was about to be repossessed soon, too.
“Don’t cry, my friend. You can live under bridges,” said Bartholomew, which only depressed the man even more.
Dimas jumped in. In an effort to console the doctor, he told part of his story, a story Bartholomew didn’t know. He said his father had served twenty-five years for armed robbery. His mother soon took up with another man and abandoned the boy, just five years old at the time, and his two-year-old sister. They were sent to separate orphanages. She was adopted and they never saw each other again. Dimas wasn’t adopted and grew up without a father, without a mother, without a sister, without schooling, without friends and without love, until he aged out of the system.
Bartholomew tried to console his friend:
“Mi amigo, I always thought you were just a crook and a cheat. I didn’t really know you,” he said, putting his arm on Dimas’s shoulder. “You’re the most normal one in the whole crazy group.”
Dr. Lucas was moved by his story. The effects of the alcohol had started to wear off. They became friends, chatting for more than three hours. They left arm in arm and singing, “For Lucas is a jolly good fellow, for Lucas is a jolly good fellow . . .” They felt the pleasure of a true friendship. They understood that living outside the cocoon has its undeniable risks but also irrefutable charm.
Bartholomew and Dimas slept in a guest room at the doctor’s house. His wife had heard of the social movement of “dreams,” and she made them a delicious spaghetti dinner. The next day, she thanked them. It had been six months since she’d seen her husband motivated to face his life.
Dimas and Bartholomew continued their journey. At the end of the afternoon of the second day, they found another alcoholic in a pitiful situation, slumped over the counter of the bar. Bartholomew appeared to know him. When he turned his head, he recognized him immediately. It was Barnabas, his best friend from bars and nightlife. He was well under six feet tall and weighed 242 pounds. He was always boozing and eating. Alcohol hadn’t succeeded in taking away his appetite. They called him the “Mayor,” as he loved to give speeches, argue about politics and come up with fanciful solutions to society’s problems. He and Bartholomew were two peas in a pod.
“Honeymouth?” Barnabas yelled, almost in code because of how badly he slurred his words.
“Mayor, how good to see you!” And they embraced.
Dimas and Bartholomew took him to a park near the bar. They stayed together for hours until the alcohol had worn off. After Barnabas became a bit more lucid, he told Bartholomew:
“I’ve seen you in the papers. You’re famous now. You’re tending bar. No, no, sorry, you’re playing Santa Claus, distributing free gifts, right? Cool,” he said, his voice slurring. “You’re one of the good guys, now. Not one of us sloppy bohemians.”
“I am still the same. I just slightly changed my way of looking at things,” Bartholomew said. And he took advantage of being among friends to tell a story of his own. Like Dimas, he had been in an orphanage in childhood, but for different reasons.
“My father died when I was seven, and cancer claimed my mother two years later. I was taken to an orphanage on the outskirts of the city. I stayed there till I was eighteen, then I ran away,” he said.
Dimas looked at Bartholomew in surprise and said:
“Wait, don’t tell me you’re ‘Goldfoot.’” That was Bartholomew’s nickname at the orphanage because he was such a great soccer player. Bartholomew hadn’t heard that name in a long time. He really looked at Dimas and recognized him, too. They both had felt they knew the other from someplace but could never quite place the face. As children, they had known each other for a year, and now, twenty years later, they had found each other again.
“That’s great. A family reunion. I guess I’m the only one who doesn’t have anybody,” said Barnabas, feeling suddenly dizzy and holding his head in his hands, his elbows on the table.
Bartholomew felt sorry for his friend. He looked at the clock and saw they were late for the meeting with the dreamseller. He asked Dimas to go on ahead. He wanted to chat a bit with Barnabas about the new family.
Jurema and I went to speak to students in a university across town from mine. I tried to challenge their thinking. I urged them to develop the Socratic method, to develop their own social experiment and to expand the world of ideas. Everyone was impressed by Jurema’s eloquence. She had more vigor and drive than they did. The students were weary, apathetic, discouraged.
Suddenly I saw two professors I recognized coming toward me, and my face immediately flushed. They were colleagues from my university who were teaching a course in that same building. They approached us, laughing. I could read their lips, saying to each other that the authoritative head of the sociology department had lost his mind.
Jurema told me, “It’s time to face them. It’s time to leave the cocoon.”
That was the price I had to pay for being such a tyrant. One of the professors who hadn’t kept up to date, a guy I thought had been a terrible teacher and thought I was too hard on him, didn’t hesitate to open with, “So, how goes the life of a crazy person?”
I wanted to turn and run. But Jurema took me by the arms and tried to ease my mind.
I got myself under control, looked him in the eye, and replied:
“I’m trying to understand my madness. When I used to hide behind intellect, I thought I was completely healthy, but since now I’m a wanderer in search of myself, I know I’m sicker than I ever imagined.”
They were astonished. They saw that I still had my rapid power of reasoning, but they had never seen me acknowledge an error, never seen me with any semblance of humility. They began to sheathe their swords.
I tried to explain myself, not really expecting anyone would understand.
“Do you know the essence of who you are? How many moments of real pleasure have you had today? Have you had time to relax? Have you invested in your personal projects or have you buried them? Have you behaved like intellectual giants isolated in your brilliance, or have you been men without borders who know how to share your pain? Have you been teaching machines or have you been agents who mold thinkers?”
They felt the crazy man who had wanted to commit suicide had become a better debater than the professor they had once known. One of them, Marco Antonio, a professor of sociology who was the most erudite in the department, but whose teaching methods I had always criticized, praised me:
“Julio, I’ve been following your work through the press and through our students. I am truly impressed by the courage it must have taken to break from your life and to reorganize it. Sooner or later everyone should take such a break to try to find himself, to rethink his story.”
I told them about the dreams project. I said that it wasn’t a motivational, self-help project, but one of forming humane thinkers. It was a project to mold “a man without borders.”
Professor Marco Antonio thought for a long time and confessed that he was bored with social conformity and weary of the pernicious paradox of “personal isolation versus mass interaction.” I asked him to explain the paradox, as I didn’t understand the full extent of his idea.
“Human beings choose to live on islands when they should be on continents. And other times, they are on continents, when they should be on islands. In other words, they should be sharing ideas and experiences to help everyone overcome frustrations. But we should be islands—individuals—when it comes to taste, lifestyle, art and culture. Television, fast food, the fashion industry all have served to homogenize our tastes and styles. We’ve lost our sense of individuality.”
I thought to myself, “This professor’s thoughts are very close to the dreamseller’s.” Then, he asked us how he could get acquainted with the sociological experiment of being a person without borders. And I was happy to tell him.
All the pairs returned flushed with enthusiasm. They had encountered unforeseeable tribulations but had experienced notable deeds. Deeds that did nothing to increase our bank account or our social standing but brought us back to our origins.
Some of the pairs brought with them friends whom they’d met along the way. Monica brought five model friends of hers. They were excited about parading on unfamiliar runways. Jurema and I brought two professors and two students. Dimas brought Dr. Lucas and his wife. Solomon brought his old psychiatrist, who specialized in anxiety disorders but was constantly depressed. He had been infected by his patient’s happiness and wanted a dose of this social antidepressant.
Everyone spoke to each other about their simple but meaningful experiences. They spoke euphorically about the joy it had brought them to really know people who might otherwise have been just anonymous extras in the movie of life. They discovered the indescribable pleasure of contributing to someone else’s story and the anonymous solidarity that came with it.
All told, thirty-eight new “strangers” were added to the group. Among them, two Orthodox Jews and two Muslims. Suddenly we noticed the absence of the most vibrant person in our group, Bartholomew. Dimas told us he was with his friend and would be along shortly.
We were so excited that we improvised the first of the project’s many festivities to come. There, rich and poor, intellectuals and illiterates, Christians, Muslims, Jews and Buddhists ate, danced and spoke free of the world’s prejudice. Our only goal was to share a bit of each other.
Not even Robespierre in his philosophical delirium could have imagined that the three pillars of the French Revolution—Liberty, Equality, Brotherhood—would be lived so richly by people who were so different from one another. The dreamseller, seeing our joy, told us:
“We are all different at our core: in the intrinsic fabric of our personalities, in the way we think, act, see and interpret existence. The dream of equality grows only when we respect each other’s differences.”
But not all the pairs had been successful. My friend Edson returned with two black eyes. He appeared to have fallen down or been punched a couple of times. We were curious to hear the story.
He told us that, after succeeding in winning over people with his selflessness and kindness, someone had offended him. He said:
“A fifty-year-old man asked me if I was familiar with the Sermon on the Mount. I said I was.” Edson’s voice caught in his throat. He was a little ashamed. Trying to encourage him, I asked, “But isn’t that a good thing?”
“Yes, but the problem is that he asked me to recite some of the words from the sermon, which I did enthusiastically because I knew the text by heart.” Edson paused again. He started to turn red. His silence provoked Dimas’s question: “But isn’t that wonderful?”
“Yes, but when I got to the part where we’re supposed to turn the other cheek, he asked me if I believed in that. Without batting an eye, I said I did.” He fell silent and blushed as the dreamseller listened closely.
“But that’s wonderful, Edson,” Monica told him. Edson lowered his voice.
“Yes. I mean, no. At that moment, he slapped me on the left cheek. I’ve never felt so much pain, or so much anger. My lips trembled, and I wanted to strangle him. But I held back.
“Congratulations,” said Professor Jurema. “That was truly a miracle.” But our friend’s clothes were torn, his cheek was bruised and the dreamseller was suspicious.
“Why’s your right eye black, too?” asked Solomon.
“After he hit me on the left, he asked me to turn and offer my right cheek. I didn’t want to, but before I realized it he slapped me again. I wanted to grab the guy by the throat, but I remembered everything we’ve been through together. I remembered the gentle Jesus of Nazareth and the dreamseller’s project. I held back. I don’t know how, but I held back. He had heard of our project and he called me a ‘nonsense seller.’”
People started clapping, but he asked them to let him finish his story. Because he had failed. Finally, he finished explaining what had happened:
“Then he asked me for my right cheek again. I was dripping with rage. I knew that Jesus had said to turn the other cheek, but not to turn the same cheek twice. I looked toward heaven, asked for forgiveness and started pounding the guy. But he was stronger, and he beat the hell out of me.”
It was no time to laugh, but we couldn’t hold back. Even the dreamseller, who didn’t approve of violence, was fighting back a smile. Then he gave us an unforgettable lesson.
“Being a human being without borders doesn’t mean risking your life unnecessarily. Remember that I didn’t call you to be heroes. Don’t provoke, much less confront, those who offend you. Turning the other cheek isn’t a sign of weakness, but of strength. It’s not a sign of stupidity, but of great vision.”
He paused to allow us to assimilate his ideas, then continued:
“Turning the other cheek is a symbol of maturity and internal strength. It doesn’t refer to the physical cheek but to the mental one. Turning the other cheek means trying to do good to someone who disappoints us, it means having the grace to praise someone who defames us, the altruism to be kind to someone who hates us. It means walking away from those looking for a fight. Turning the other cheek prevents murders, injuries and lifelong scars. The weak seek vengeance; the strong protect themselves.”
Edson soaked in these words like rain to dry earth. That episode helped him take a
major emotional leap forward, polished his wisdom and expanded the frontiers of his mind. He contributed greatly to our movement.
The dreamseller’s words penetrated all of us like a bolt of lightning. They had such an impact that the Orthodox Jews and Muslims who were present turned and hugged each other. I looked at my friend, Professor Marco Antonio. I remembered that I had come down hard on my enemies at the university. I never learned that those who turn the other cheek are much happier, much calmer and sleep soundly at night.
Jurema whispered in my ear, “I taught for more than thirty years. But I have to admit that I produced many aggressive, vengeful, heartless students.”
And I thought to myself, “So did I. Without realizing it, in the structured confines of universities, we produced dictators in the making.”
A commotion broke out as I was deep in thought. Bartholomew and Barnabas had finally appeared—completely drunk. Bartholomew had been so happy at finding his old friend that he let down his guard. He knocked back a few drinks to celebrate and got drunk on vodka again.
They had their arms around each other. Their legs got tangled up as they walked, and to keep from falling down, each clung to the other. They showed up singing a Nelson Gonçalves song:
Bohemia, I’m back again, begging to rejoin you.
Crying for joy, I’ve come to see the friends I left behind.
As if his bingeing weren’t enough, Bartholomew looked at the group and yelled out his favorite phrase: “Oh, how I love this life!”
“Shut up, Bartholomew!” we called out in chorus, laughing.
But he didn’t shut up. Instead, almost falling over, he called out the dreamseller and questioned his project. His face flushed, and emboldened by everyone watching him, he said:
“Listen, chief, this whole deal about being ‘humans without border,’ that’s old news. Real old, you know?” He tried, and failed, to snap his fingers to emphasize his point. He continued, “Alcoholics have known about that for years and years and years . . . No alcoholic is better than any other. They all kiss each other, they all hug, they all sing together. We don’t have a country or a flag. You get what I’m saying?”