The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [15]
I was “normal,” and like many normals my madness was hidden, disguised; I needed to be spontaneous. I let go. The dreamseller had emphasized that the heart needs no reason to beat. The greatest reason for staying alive is life itself. At the university, I had forgotten that the great philosophers often discussed the meaning of life, the pursuit of happiness and the art of beauty. It was the first time I had ever danced without a head full of whiskey. It had been years since I’d felt this good.
The “normals” were so starved for joy that when this dreamseller gave them permission, they frolicked like children. Everyone was dancing. Men in ties. Women in long dresses and miniskirts. Children and teenagers joined in.
A little old lady danced by with her cane. It was the same woman Bartholomew had fallen on. Her name was Jurema. She had lived eighty good years. Anyone who thought she should be hobbling around at her age was in for a surprise. She was in better shape than me, though she showed a slight shiver of Parkinson’s. But she could dance like a star. The dreamseller liked her immediately. They danced together, and I rubbed my eyes to see if it was all real.
Suddenly, she broke loose from the dreamseller’s arms and bumped into Bartholomew at the center of the circle. She tapped him on the head with her cane, and joked sweetly, “You pervert.” I couldn’t hold back. I rolled on the ground with laughter. She did what I’d have liked to do when he gave me that smelly kiss on the cheek.
The dreamseller turned to the old woman and said, “You’re a thing of beauty.” Then, taking her by the waist, he spun her around and she danced like a twenty-year-old.
For a moment, I thought the dreamseller had been patronizing here. But then I thought, “Who’s to say she isn’t beautiful? What does it really mean to be beautiful, anyway?” Just then, Bartholomew sidled up to the woman and started pouring on the flattery: “Yes, beautiful! Wonderful! Delightful! Marvelous!”
Then the old woman whacked him with the cane.
“You hopeless pervert! Cheap Don Juan!” she said, feigning anger. Bartholomew ran for cover before he saw she was joking. Her heart melted. It had been fifty years since anyone had called her beautiful or anything of the sort. She took the dizzy drunk by the arms and danced with him, happy as could be. I was in awe. I had known the power of criticism but was new to the power of praise. Could it be that those who use that power could live longer and better lives? My head was spinning. I had never witnessed so much craziness in a single day.
During this short time, the dreamseller had taught me that small gestures can have more impact than great speeches, that our actions and moments of silence can be more effective than all the world’s PowerPoint presentations. I knew he had a great many secrets. But I didn’t dare ask, worried that he’d again strip me bare with his Socratic method. He had become an expert in making life a celebration, even when there were ample reasons to weep with sorrow.
He would always tell us, “Those who can laugh at their foolishness have found their fountain of youth.”
I detested fools who gave simple answers, but deep down, wasn’t I a fool myself? I had so much to learn about laughing at myself. I had so much to learn about simplifying my life—an unknown art in any university.
How many students had I sent to commencement without teaching them to look at themselves, to detect their own stupidity, to let go, to cry and to love, to take risks and escape the prison of routine? And to dream. I was the most feared of professors. I drowned my students in criticism, but had never taught them to enjoy life. But how could I? No one can teach what he doesn’t know himself. My life, to this point, had been worthless.
I was proud of being just and honest, but I realized I had failed to be just and honest with myself. Fortunately, I was beginning to learn how to exorcise the demons that had made me into an unbearable human being.