The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [14]
“After all, who deserves more applause, an unknown garbageman or a Hollywood actor? Whose mind is more complex? Whose story is more complex? There is no difference. But ‘normals’ think this heresy.”
As the crowd kept prodding to know what had happened on top of the building, the dreamseller, seeing me withdraw, changed the topic. Instead of trying to discreetly shift the focus, he raised his arms calling for silence, which came only after a prolonged moment.
I thought: “Here comes another speech.” But the dreamseller was more eccentric than I imagined. He asked everyone to form a large circle, which was difficult given the tightly packed crowd. And to everyone’s surprise, he went to the center and began dancing an Irish jig. He crouched, kicking his legs into the air and sang euphorically.
I couldn’t stop thinking: “An intellectual wouldn’t act like this, and even if he felt the inspiration, he wouldn’t have the courage to do it.” Damn my prejudice. A little while ago, I had almost killed myself, but prejudice was still alive and well. I was a “normal” in disguise.
No one really understood the dreamseller’s actions, least of all me, but some started to join in. They couldn’t believe that just a few minutes ago they had nearly witnessed a tragedy, and now they were dancing with joy. Joy is contagious, and they had been infected with the dreamseller’s euphoria.
The circle widened. Those who knew the dance or those who risked dancing it without knowing the steps began hooking arms and whirling in circles. Those at the edge of the circle eventually got into the spirit and started clapping to the rhythm. But many remained farther away, among them several well-dressed executives. They didn’t want to be anywhere near that band of maniacs. Like me, they preferred to hide their madness.
People kept jumping in and out of the circle to show off their dance skills, each one leaving to wild applause. I felt just fine on the outside of the circle, protected. But suddenly the dreamseller grabbed my arms and thrust me into the center of the circle.
I was embarrassed and just stood there. The others went on dancing around me and urging me on, but I was paralyzed. A few minutes earlier I was the center of attention, and now I just hoped no one would recognize me—certainly not a colleague or student from the university. I didn’t fear death, but I was deathly afraid of being embarrassed. God, I was sicker than I thought.
I was usually discreet, reserved and spoke in measured tones, at least when I wasn’t annoyed. I never showed joy in public. I was infected with the virus of most intellectuals: a stiff formality. The crowd waited for me to let loose, but I was paralyzed by my shyness. Suddenly, another surprise. The penniless drunk, Bartholomew, hooked his arm in mine and spun me into a dance.
The man had awful breath and, still drunk, he could barely stay on his feet, much less dance. I had to hold him up. Seeing how stiff I was, he stopped dancing, looked at me—and planted a kiss on my left cheek. “Lighten up, man. The leader of the E.T.s saved you. This party’s for you!”
My pridefulness took a direct hit. Seldom had I seen or heard so much liveliness and spontaneity in so few words. And I started to understand. I thought of the parable of Jesus Christ and the lost sheep. I had read it once, years ago, through the eyes of a scientist and thought it ridiculous to abandon ninety-nine sheep to go looking for a lost one. Socialists sacrificed millions of people for an ideal, but Christ took it a step further. He was wild with grief at losing one soul, and wild with joy when he found it.
I had criticized how Christ romanticized that moment, but now the dreamseller was showing the same joy. Only after the loopy drunk kissed me did I realize the dreamseller was celebrating for me. The drunk was more sober than I was. I was thunderstruck; I had never thought it possible for a stranger to place so much importance on someone he didn’t know. I was lost then found, “dead” then brought back to life. What more