by Augusto Cury
I watched the dreamseller. He had invested so much of his time in training us. He had had the patience of Job, and now, as his dream was becoming a reality, he had to deal with this mess. But the dreamseller just walked up to them and hugged them. And jokingly, he said, “Some people can live outside the cocoon forever. Others need to come home now and then.”
And instead of being disappointed, he seconded Honeymouth’s idea.
“It’s true, alcoholics are human beings without borders, especially when they’re not aggressive. Why? Because in certain cases the effect of alcohol blocks the memories that hold our prejudices and our cultural, national and social barriers. But it’s better and safer to achieve that goal while sober, through the difficult art of thinking and choosing.”
And he began to dance among us, filled with energy. He understood that one person could not change another; it has to come from within. He knew, better than any of us, that the dangers of living outside the cocoon were many and unforeseeable.
Watching the dreamseller lovingly coach his “students” who had strayed completely, I was convinced that the greatness of a teacher lies not in how he teaches his perfect students, but in how he teaches the most difficult ones. How many crimes against teaching had I committed? I had never encouraged a rebellious student or helped one who was struggling.
I took Jurema aside and told her, “I’ve buried students in the basement of the educational system.”
Jurema, examining her own history, had the courage to confess:
“Unfortunately, so have I. Instead of encouraging creative rebellion, intuition and thoughtful reasoning, I demanded only the ‘right’ answers. We molded paranoid young predators, desperate to be number one, and not peacemakers, tolerant individuals who feel worthy of being number nine or ten.”
It felt like we were leaving behind our sociological infancy and entering into childhood. The celebration lasted till the early hours. We were drunk with joy. Barnabas was invited to join our team of dreamsellers, and he and Bartholomew became the most eccentric pair in the bunch. We didn’t know whether they had been reformed or whether they would make us even crazier than we already were. But it doesn’t matter. We, too, were learning to love this life.
The Living Dead
THE DREAMSELLER’S FAME WAS GROWING EACH DAY AND was starting to seep into the world of finance. Businessmen and executives had heard about this unusual stranger, and because they were always eager to learn new inspiring leadership styles, they asked me to invite the dreamseller to give a lecture. They wanted to meet this man who was setting society on fire.
In my experience, the elite were only interested in three things: money, money, money. I almost told him immediately that the dreamseller wouldn’t accept the invitation, but not wanting to be presumptuous, I passed along the news.
However, I was in for a surprise. After thinking about the invitation for a while, the dreamseller said he would talk to them, but in a setting of his choosing. And he gave me the address. It was a location I had never heard of. I didn’t know the size of the amphitheater, whether it had air-conditioning and comfortable chairs. I only knew that his audience was used to luxurious accommodations and to getting their way.
I was told the audience would consist of close to a hundred businessmen and executives, of whom only five were women. There were entrepreneurs, bankers, owners of large construction companies, of supermarket networks, of retail chain stores and other sectors. They represented the richest and most powerful people in the state.
They were delighted that the dreamseller had accepted the invitation. But since I had always been suspicious of these people, I wanted to scare them, to tell them they had no idea what awaited them. I said that the dreamseller was so radical, he would make Lenin the communist seem ordinary. My jibe made them squirm, but I only doubled the threat. I told them that the dreamseller might call them capitalist vipers who lived to exploit the poor. They were not amused. They seemed to be rethinking the invitation, but even so, they wanted to hear this man’s fascinating ideas.
The leaders received their invitations, and some found it strange that they didn’t recognize the address, since they were used to attending events at the city finest venues. The night of the meeting, the dreamseller set off ahead of us. He seemed to want to meditate before the event. “Could he be preparing for battle?” I thought. “Was he asking God for the wisdom to be able to rattle these elite individuals? This is his golden opportunity to break the backs of the financial elite,” I thought. But I was wrong. I had no idea that what was about to happen would leave me at a loss for words.
We didn’t know the address either, so we asked around as we walked. We were nearing the address, but couldn’t find the location on the dimly lit street. Eventually, we came across another group of people who seemed lost, the businessmen and executives. They thought I’d given them the wrong address. But I assured them that it was the address the dreamseller had given me. Still, I thought they might be right. Maybe he had mistakenly given us the wrong address, since he didn’t run in these high-society circles and didn’t know exactly where the city’s amphitheaters were.
The business leaders thought they’d been fooled. But we decided to go a bit further up the street together in search of the site. Suddenly, we found ourselves at the entrance to a huge, gloomy cemetery. It was the famous Recoleta Cemetery. We checked the street number the dreamseller had given us and the numbers matched. I thought to myself, “If people thought the dreamseller was crazy before, they’re sure of it now.”
“I don’t mind confronting my mental demons, but this is too much,” Solomon said. “I hate cemeteries, especially at night. Let’s get out of here.”
I took his arm and asked him to stay calm. The elite participants were beginning to arrive in their luxury cars and to gather around the gates. Everyone was confused. For the first time, I humbled myself in the presence of that group, apologizing for the mistaken address.
Suddenly, just as we were about to leave, the gates of the cemetery swung open, their hinges creaking. Honeymouth clung to Angel Hand.
“I’d need a couple of bottles of vodka in me before I went in there,” he said trembling.
No sooner had Bartholomew said this than a strange, terrifying figure appeared. We couldn’t see its face in the inky night. But it clearly was gesturing for us to step through the gates. Inside, under gas lamps throughout the cemetery, we saw the face of tonight’s speaker, the dreamseller. The address was no mistake.
All of us, disciples and businessmen alike, moved slowly and apprehensively toward a wide open area where everyone could stand. We looked at one another for answers, all thinking the same thing: “What am I doing here?” This would be the first time in history a leadership conference had been held in a cemetery. And it was appropriate. Because it would be the first time that the hurried world of the living would be discussed among the dead.
As we gathered around, the dreamseller used his deep, vibrant voice to greet the participants in an unusual manner:
“Welcome, all of you, the future rich residents of the cemetery. Please, make yourselves at home.”
The businessmen’s legs weakened. They were used to great competitive battles, to taking phenomenal risks, but they had never faced a challenge like this. They had been knocked out in the first round by a stranger. I didn’t know what to say or how to react, and those around me were frozen. Recoleta Cemetery is imposing. It’s a cemetery for the wealthy. Its mausoleums are truly works of art.
Seeing us deep in thought, the dreamseller continued to let his ideas flow.
“The notable men and women of society lie here. Dreams, nightmares, secret feelings, visible emotions, anxiety attacks, moments of rare pleasure made up the lives of each human being who rests here. Their stories sleep here, forever. And other than their loved ones, no one ever thinks about them.”
We didn’t know what the dreamseller was getting at, whether the conference had begun or even if there
would be a conference. We only knew that his words were taking us on a journey through our own stories. That in the past of those buried here we might see our own future. His talk, which seemed intended to cause fear, began to take on an unexplainable tenderness. Then he made a request of all of us:
“Take ten minutes to read the gracious epitaphs on the front of the mausoleums.”
I had never taken the time to do anything like that. Despite the failing light, we began moving through the cemetery’s passageways, reading the engraved messages that celebrated the existence of people now departed. So much longing! So many inscriptions! So many words laden with noble sentiments! Some messages said, “To my kind and gentle husband, who will be greatly missed by his loving wife. May God grant him peace”; “To our beloved father: Time stole you from us, but it can never steal the love we feel for you”; “Dad, you are unforgettable. I will love you forever”; “To my irreplaceable friend: Thank you for having lived and having been part of our lives.”
I don’t know what happened to me when I read those messages, but I became lost in emotion. I began to remember the ones I had lost. I never wrote a plaque for my father. Nor even thanked him for giving me life. His suicide blocked out my feelings. Not even for my brave mother had I written a message, other than the one I carry silently in my mind: “I love you. Thank you for having put up with my rebelliousness.”
I looked to the side and saw that my friends and the businessmen were moved. They had traveled through time, opened the doors of their subconscious and encountered their excruciating frailty. They were men who ran companies with thousands of employees, but now they were simply mortals.
At that moment, I saw that the dreamseller had stripped them of their pridefulness, shut off their defense mechanisms, removed the security they took in their financial status. When he opened his mouth, he said something every businessman hates to hear, “Where are the proletarians of today, and who are they?”
I thought to myself, “These businesspeople won’t stand for this.” No one answered. The question, though seemingly obvious, was not. Then he stood the theory of utopia on its head.
“You’re today’s proletarians,” he said.
I thought: “What’s he saying? Doesn’t he know the audience he’s talking to?” I thought the dreamseller had no idea what he was saying. But he quickly threw my thinking into a tailspin.
He said that Karl Marx (1818–1883) had left his native land and gone to Paris, where he met Friedrich Engels (1820–1895). The two refined their ideas, joined socialist groups and initiated a lifelong collaboration. To them, the manner in which goods are produced and wealth distributed are the forces that shape all aspects of our lives: politics, law, morality and philosophy. Marx believed human history was governed by the laws of science and rejected all religious interpretations of nature and history. He thought these laws would help people, especially the working class, make their own history.
But this dream never materialized, he said. When a group of socialists seized power, they became ruthless, crushed their opponents, silenced dissenting voices, infringed on human rights and crushed the freedom they had preached. The working class did not construct its own history, rather, the ones in power wrote the history books. Religion was replaced by the cult of personality of those leaders.
“Their revolution was extreme,” he said. “Unlike them, my dream isn’t to destroy the ruling political system in order to rebuild it. I don’t believe in change from the outside. I believe in change that begins from within, a peaceful change in our ability to reason, to see, to critique, to interpret social phenomena and, especially, to reclaim pleasure. My dream lies within people.”
After he showed that he knew what he was talking about, he said that when Marx launched his ideas, the project failed not because the ruling class didn’t distribute income, but because they used political and financial power to oppress the working class. A small minority lived like princes while the majority lived like paupers.
Today, he said, this separation of the classes remained. Social inequalities hadn’t been eradicated. In fact, with the advent of globalization, the system had created a new class of exploited people: “You!” he emphasized again.
Again I thought, “But aren’t they the privileged ones? Don’t they live in the lap of luxury? How can they be called an exploited class—the proletarians of this millennium?”
But to ground his ideas, the dreamseller crushed a popular saying of ours:
“In past centuries, before the system developed, it took three generations for a family’s fortune to disappear. So the old saying held true: rich grandfather, lordly son, poor grandson. But these days that saying doesn’t hold up. A solid business can vanish in five years. A successful industry can be out of the market in a short time. Several fortunes over can be lost in a single generation.”
After that initial shock, the businessmen began to agree with this mysterious thinker.
“For your companies to survive, you can never stop competing. To stay ahead of the competition, you are forced to find ways to reinvent yourselves each year, each month each week.”
And he asked a basic question that everyone got wrong:
“Does the system crush companies that show weakness?”
Unanimously, they answered yes. But he said no.
“The system doesn’t crush the companies. It crushes their leaders.”
He saw that doctors, lawyers, engineers, journalists—people of all professions—were being crushed in the same way. These masters of finance began to realize they weren’t as rich as they thought. These proprietors of power began to understand they weren’t as strong as they imagined. Some in the audience were still skeptical. But the dreamseller loved skeptics. He could pin them down with the sharpness of his ideas. So he left no doubts:
“Ladies and gentlemen, the time of slavery has not been expunged from the pages of history but merely changed its form. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to be completely honest. Anyone who isn’t will have to answer to his own conscience. Tell me: Who has migraines?”
People were a bit embarrassed, but one after the other they raised their hands.
“Who has muscle aches?” Again, the vast majority raised their hands, this time more quickly.
Then he began asking countless other questions:
“Who wakes up fatigued? Whose hair is falling out? Who feels his mind is always racing? Who worries about problems that have yet to happen? Who feels like he’s always hanging by a thread? Who loses his temper over the tiniest of problems? Who has wildly fluctuating emotions—calm one minute and explosive the next? Who’s afraid of what the future will hold?”
Most never lowered their hands. They had all the symptoms. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I rubbed my eyes and asked myself, “Aren’t these society’s elite? How can their quality of life be this terrible? Aren’t they the ones who drink the best wines and champagnes? Don’t they dine at the best restaurants? Why are they so gravely stressed?” I was shaken.
My mind wouldn’t reconcile the two images. The rich traveled in luxury cars, but they were paralyzed by their stress. They would go to their beach houses, but their emotions didn’t surf the waves of pleasure. They slept on soft mattresses but lacked the mental comfort to sleep at night. They wore the finest suits but stood naked against the worries in their lives.
“What insanity!” I thought. “Where is the happiness the system promised these people who’ve reached the top of their professions? Where is the peace for those who’ve accumulated riches? Where is the reward for competence? They take out insurance on their homes, their lives, their businesses, even against kidnapping. So how can they be so insecure?” The system, it turned out, crushed its leaders.
Midnight in the Garden of
Broken Dreams
THE DREAMSELLER’S QUESTIONS IN RECOLETA CEMETERY sent our heads spinning. I had attacked the business elite for years on end in my classroom, but I reali
zed I needed to reexamine a few concepts. I began to understand that the system betrayed everyone, especially those who nurtured it most. It even affected celebrities, not just because they lost their private lives but because their success was fleeting. In this society, it was easy to become insignificant overnight.
In the name of competition, the system sucked out their last drop of mental energy. They expended more energy than many manual laborers, and were constantly fatigued from an overload of thinking. They were victors, but they didn’t carry away the ultimate prize.
The stress was even greater for companies who specialized in production. There was an international price war, distorted by government subsidies that contaminated the value of products, and could crush companies on the other side of the globe. Now, add in the taxes on products coming in and out of the country, the disparity of wages paid to workers in different countries and the fact that some firms lowered their prices below the cost of production to corner the market. Survival was a hellish art.
It took its toll on everyone involved. Thirty-five percent of them had heart problems or were hypertensive. Fifteen percent had cancer, and some of those wouldn’t live to see the New Year. Thirty percent suffered depression. Ten percent had panic attacks. Sixty percent had marital problems. Ninety-five percent exhibited three or more mental problems and most of those had as many as ten different mental issues.
Yes, the proletariat were still being exploited across the globe. But in developed and emerging societies, where labor laws were just and human rights were respected, the ones who were exploited were the those engaged in intense intellectual work, like managers, directors, business magnates, professionals, professors, journalists.
