by Augusto Cury
We weren’t happy with his response.
“It’s a privilege to carry him,” the dreamseller said.
Bartholomew, even intoxicated, felt validated. “You heard the chief. I’m not worthless!” he said almost incomprehensively but clear enough to raise our tempers.
“It’s better to carry than to be carried,” the dreamseller said. And he added something that once again flew in the face of my atheism:
“The god constructed by man, the religious god, is merciless, intolerant, elitist and prejudiced. But the god who hides behind the scenes of existence is generous. His capacity to forgive has no limits. It inspires us to carry those who frustrate us as often as necessary.”
While the dreamseller was speaking, I started to doubt him. I remembered my sociological analysis of texts from the Old Testament, which portrayed a rigid, aggressive, intolerant god. “Where is the generous god, if he accepted only the people of Israel?” I asked myself. As if reading my thoughts, the dreamseller said:
“God’s generosity and forgiveness was shown by Jesus when he called Judas his friend, amid the act of betrayal, and when Jesus called out from the cross, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ He protected those who hated him, he loved his enemies and that love made him intercede on behalf of his torturers.”
His words exposed my own lack of generosity. I had never known how to forgive. I had never forgiven my son for using drugs. To me, he had taken his excellent upbringing for granted. I had never forgiven my wife for leaving me. To me, she had left one of the best men in the world. I had never forgiven my father for killing himself. To me, he had committed the greatest of crimes in having abandoned me while I was still a child. I had never forgiven my faculty colleagues who betrayed me after they had promised their support.
Now, with the dreamseller’s guidance, I had the chance to forgive by carrying a childish, confused, irresponsible alcoholic. How could I do that without complaining? It was incredibly difficult for me. But I was actually coming to love that clown. Bartholomew had what I’d always wanted: authenticity and self-esteem. Sociologically speaking, irresponsible people are happier than responsible people. The problem is that the irresponsible depend on the responsible to carry them.
The next day, we saw the consequence of Bartholomew’s interview. Plastered across the front page of the major newspaper was a photo of the dreamseller under the headline: “Psychotic Calls Society a ‘World of Madness.’”
The journalist wrote that there was a lunatic who claimed that mankind was on its way to becoming a gigantic worldwide insane asylum. But this time—according to the lunatic—that asylum wasn’t some gloomy, ugly, stinking, dark place like the psychiatric hospitals of the past, but a pleasant, colorful setting full of sophisticated machines, a perfect place to indulge our madness without being inconvenienced by it.
He gave speeches in public places, with the intention of changing the mind-set of people. No one knew his origins, but to deceive people he called himself by an attractive name, “the Dreamseller.”
The article included photos of onlookers hypnotized by him and went on to say the guy was stark raving mad but charismatic and provocative. His power of seduction was unrivaled. Even intelligent businessmen fell into his trap, the article said. A gang of misfits followed him. The story said that the dreamseller didn’t work miracles or consider himself a messiah, but not since the time of Jesus had the world seen a lunatic so boldly trying to reproduce his steps.
The reporter made no mention of the dreamseller’s provocative ideas. He said nothing about the need to dialogue with one’s self, the sleep of unawareness to which computers are eternally condemned, the excesses of society that cause us to die prematurely in our minds. He concluded the piece by saying that the dreamseller’s followers were a band of anarchists who put democracy at risk and who might commit terrorist acts.
The article burned our real story to the ground, devastating our project and our true intent. We were profoundly depressed and discouraged. We couldn’t go on, I thought. Once again, the dreamseller tried to ease our minds:
“Remember the swallows,” he said, calming us. “It’s not our calling to be myths.
“Never forget that it’s impossible to serve two masters: Either we sell dreams or we concern ourselves with our image in society; either we remain loyal to our conscience or we fall prey to what others think and say about us,” he said.
And once again he gave us the option to leave:
“Don’t worry about me. You have already brought great joy to me and to many others. I’ve learned to love you and admire you the way you are. I don’t want to put your lives in danger. It’s better that you go.”
But where would we go? We wouldn’t any longer succeed as “normals,” servants to a system wracked with tedious social routine, slaves complaining about life as we waited for death. The selfishness of the past still lived inside us, but was slowly losing ground to the pleasure of serving others.
We decided to stay. After all, if the person most defamed by the story felt free, why should we chain ourselves?
That very day, we saw the article had backfired. The story, instead of killing the movement, added fuel to it. People couldn’t take more news about murders, accidents, rapes, robberies. In a city marked by sadness, the dreamseller became a social phenomenon.
People were hungry for something new, even if it were clothed in madness. The dreamseller became that novelty, made into a local celebrity, which was precisely what we most feared. From then on, he began to be followed by paparazzi.
Upon realizing his growing fame, he warned us:
“To create a god, all that’s needed is a bit of charisma and leadership in a climate of social stress. Be careful, the system gives but also takes away, especially our humanity.”
I understood the dreamseller’s warning. The most cultured people on earth, a people who had won Nobel Prizes in the early twentieth century, enthroned Hitler in a period of social crisis. Times of crisis are times of change, for better or for worse. Recalling the risks of power, the dreamseller said:
“The majority of people are unprepared to assume power. Power awakens phantoms—blackmail, vanity and a hunger for power—which are hidden beneath a cloak of humility.
“Power in the hands of a wise man makes him into an apprentice,” he continued, “but in the hands of a fool turns him into a tyrant. If you acquire great power one day, what demons will you face?”
His question shook me. When I took over as chair of the department, I became hard, inflexible, demanding. I came to understand that we cannot judge a person by the mildness of his voice, the kindness of his acts or the simplicity of his attire, but only after he has been given power and money.
The dreamseller spoke in a way that intrigued me. He gave the impression of someone who had tasted real power. But what power could someone so poor, with no home and no identity, have had?
Some religious people began to hold his ideas in great esteem, but others were concerned about the attention he was gaining; God was their personal property. They were the erudite theologians, experts in divinity. A penniless man who lived under bridges wasn’t qualified to talk about God, they said. Some religious radicals wondered, “Couldn’t he be a prophet of evil? The Antichrist foretold centuries ago?” He had become an emblematic figure. He wanted to move about unnoticed, but it was impossible for him to hide.
People began asking for his autograph everywhere we went. But, looking them in the eye, he said to their surprise:
“How can I give an autograph to someone as important or more important than I am? It would take decades to get to know you a bit, to understand some of the pillars of your intelligence and unveil some of the phenomena that make up the construction of your thoughts. I’m the one who feels honored to meet you. Please, give me your autograph.”
They would leave his presence speechless and reflective. And some even bought the dream that there are no celebrities or “
ordinary” people, only complex human beings with different places in society.
The Superiority of Women
IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, IT WAS ALL BLUE SKIES FOR US. No social trouble. No rejection. We were enjoying prestige, attention and recognition. Not bad for someone who challenged the powerful system and resided in inhospitable places. But we had no idea what lay ahead.
Just as everything was progressing in perfect harmony, the dreamseller challenged us once again. He invited us to the most charming of all temples, the temple of fashion. In the southern part of the city an exquisite fashion show of famous designers was taking place. The powerful Megasoft Group was again represented by their worldwide chain of feminine apparel called La Femme, which encompassed over ten international designer labels and had two thousand stores in twenty countries.
We found the dreamseller’s invitation bizarre. It seemed like a strange place to sell dreams. After all, we believed that at least in that environment self-esteem had found its most fertile ground.
“What’s the dreamseller looking for in a place like that?” we wondered. “How would he respond to it? Who could he possibly approach?” We were hoping he’d be discreet and not cause a scene, but, at this point, we knew better.
Just getting into the event would be a problem. After all, if we hadn’t succeeded in getting into the computer show, how would we get into the fashion show—especially looking the way we did?
That day, the dreamseller was wearing a faded, patched black blazer that he’d gotten in a secondhand store and was a size too large. His faded black pants were hemmed oddly and the back pockets were patched with blue cloth. He was wearing a wrinkled moss-green shirt with a few pen stains.
I was wearing a polo shirt and beige pants that I had been given by a traveler who had found his dreams. We were all disheveled, but Bartholomew’s clothes were the funniest and the most ridiculous. A widow who lived near the Europa bridge had given him clothes that belonged to her husband. His yellow pants ended well short of his ankles. His left sock was navy blue and his right sock baby blue. His white T-shirt boasted an eloquent slogan that faithfully reflected his personality: “Don’t follow me. I’m lost, too.” There was no way this ragtag bunch would ever be allowed into the show, I thought.
As we approached the immense hall of the fashion show and carefully watched the exquisitely dressed people, the dreamseller once again scrambled our thinking. He neither gave a speech nor criticized the world of fashion. He said with assurance:
“I’m thinking of calling a few women to sell dreams. How do you feel about that?”
Our roving bachelor pad was rocked. We were an eccentric, admittedly weird group, but we had adapted. We had our differences, but we were adjusting. Our arguments away from the dreamseller were heated but capable of being overcome. Calling women to join our brotherhood seemed like too much. How could it work?
I immediately posed the question: “A woman? I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” he asked.
Luckily, before I could reply, Honeymouth came to my defense. “They won’t be able to bear this lifestyle. How will they stand to sleep under bridges?”
“What bathroom will they use? What mirror will they use to comb their hair?” asked Solomon. But the dreamseller replied:
“Who said they have to leave their own homes to follow us? After all, everyone should sell dreams, whether to himself or to others, wherever he—or she—is.”
For the first time, his words brought us no relief. We didn’t believe a woman could participate in the group. We considered ourselves revolutionaries, protagonists of a fantastic sociological experiment. We didn’t want to share our macho glory. Infected by discrimination, we thought that women would diminish our boldness.
“Following you, Dreamseller, is for . . . real men, and good ones. Besides, women talk too much and act too little,” Angel Hand said with conviction. Then he realized his arrogance and tried to backpedal. We had taken over the dreamseller’s project and given it a masculine feel.
The Miracle Worker also was against the dreamseller’s proposal. He used his knowledge of theology in an effort to dissuade him.
“Dreamseller, Buddha, Confucius and Jesus all had men as disciples. Why would you want to call women to follow you? Look at history. It’ll never work.”
For the first time, the group was unanimous in showering praise on the Miracle Worker. We began to think he could make interesting contributions. Nevertheless, the dreamseller had an answer for our theologian.
“When Jesus called his disciples, where did he put them, at the periphery or at the center of his plans?” he asked.
“The center, of course,” the Miracle Worker replied without hesitation.
“And women?” he asked, testing him.
Edson thought, reflected and rubbed his forehead. After a prolonged moment of analysis, he answered shrewdly:
“I can’t say at the periphery, because they provided material support, but they weren’t at the center of his work, because they weren’t active participants in his project.”
Wow,” I thought to myself. I had always thought Edson wasn’t much of a logical thinker, but he was proving me wrong.
Then, the dreamseller looked at him and then at all of us.
“Wrong,” he said, then fell silent.
Because I had studied these sacred texts, I thought Edson was right. I waited for the dreamseller’s arguments, but suspected this time he wouldn’t convince us.
“They were always at the center of the project. First, according to Scripture, God didn’t choose a caste of Pharisees, Greek philosophers or priests to raise the young Jesus, but a woman, an adolescent uncontaminated by the ruling class, someone outside the system.”
“Second, the first person who talked about Jesus was a female, the Samaritan woman. She had lived a promiscuous life, been with many men, but his words were enough to satiate her hunger. She gathered her people and spoke of the man who had moved her.” After uttering these words, he stopped to take a breath and took ours away by adding, “A prostitute was more noble than the religious leaders of his time.”
Bartholomew came out with a phrase that broke the tension hanging over us. I don’t know how he came up with such imagination.
“Chief, I’ve always thought women were smarter than men. The problem is, the credit card was invented . . .” And he started laughing. Ironically, he’d given the impression that he was the one who had supported the women in his life. In reality, they had supported him.
The dreamseller, unhappy with our prejudiced masculinity, attacked even further. He asked our acting theologian:
“Tell me, Edson. In the most important moment in Jesus’ life, when his body was withering on the cross and his heart was weak, where were the men, at the center or at the periphery of his plan?”
Edson, paling, was slow to answer. And our faces were flushed. In the silence, the dreamseller said:
“His disciples were heroes when he was shaking the world, but they were cowards when the world came crashing down on him; they kept quiet, fled, denied they knew him, betrayed him. But even then, he loved. Men, I say again, are more timid than women.”
“But don’t men make war? Bear arms? Don’t they start revolutions?” the sociologist in me blurted out.
“The weak use weapons; the strong, their words,” he answered and asked the question we feared most:
“Where were the women when he was dying?”
Humbly, because we were familiar with the Bible, we muttered, “Near the cross.”
“More than anything, they were at the epicenter of his project. And do you know why? Because women are stronger, more intelligent, more humane, generous, altruistic, supportive, tolerant, faithful and sensible than men. Suffice it to say that ninety percent of violent crimes are committed by men.”
We were stunned by so many favorable adjectives about women. The dreamseller didn’t seem like a feminist, nor did he appear to be trying to
cast words into the air in an effort to compensate for millennia of discrimination against women. He seemed totally convinced of what he was saying.
To him, the system that controlled humanity was conceived in the hearts of men, although its creators could never imagine that one day they would become the victims of their own creation. It was time for women to come into the picture and sell dreams. Lots and lots of dreams.
The Temple of Fashion
THE DREAMSELLER GAVE US FAIR WARNING. HE REMINDED us that the most cultured of Jesus’s disciples, Judas, betrayed him. The strongest, Peter, denied knowing him. And the rest, except John, ran in fear. After demonstrating masculine fragility and feminine greatness, the dreamseller revealed why he was in the temple of fashion.
He told us that in the past, the male-dominated system had subjugated women, burning them, stoning them, silencing them. In time, they freed themselves and partially reclaimed their rights. He paused and, out loud, said the number “one.” This numerical citation in the middle of a speech made me uneasy. I’d seen how that movie ended.
The dreamseller noted that women had begun to vote, to excel in the academic world, to increase their numbers in the corporate sphere, to occupy the most varied social areas. Women had become more and more daring. They began to change vital sectors of society, to introduce tolerance, solidarity, affection and romanticism. But the system was unforgiving about their audacity.
It set for them the most cowardly and underhanded trap. Instead of extolling their intelligence and obvious sensitivity, it began to exalt the female body as never before in history. It was used tirelessly to sell products and services. They started to feel special. It seemed as if modern societies were trying to make up for millennia of rejection and intolerance. The dreamseller paused to take a breath.
Staring at the immense, colorful temple of fashion, he became outraged and in a loud voice began inviting people to talk about what was so great about the latest fashions. Nothing could be odder for someone dressed like him. But, since the fashion world makes room for the eccentric, they all thought he represented some designer rebelling against conventions. We felt out of place seeing such finely dressed people around us. Some of them recognized him.
