The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [19]
I was horrified. I shook my head to see if I understood what I’d heard. The drunk, who was weak both from dancing and from years of running on alcohol, immediately replied, “You say there’s a drink I don’t know about? I doubt it. Is it high-proof vodka?”
I was embarrassed by the alcoholic’s naïve irreverence. But the dreamseller, finding it humorous, smiled. He was always able to relax in these tense situations. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I specialize in the complicated ones.”
I thought about running right then and there. Following this social outcast was one thing. Following him side by side with a witless drunk was too much. Who knew what risks lay ahead?
The World Is My Home
THE DREAMSELLER, BARTHOLOMEW AND I TURNED TO BEGIN our journey. As we were leaving, the crowd applauded. Some people even took photos. I had hoped for a discreet escape, but that idiot Honeymouth posed for pictures. I tried to lead him away without causing more of a scene. The last thing I wanted was to babysit a drunk. A few nearby reporters looked on and took notes.
We hadn’t walked three blocks before I started wondering, “What am I doing here? Where are we going?” But my new companion wasn’t thinking at all. He was just happy to be part of our merry band of men. Me? I was worried.
I looked ahead and tried to relax. The dreamseller watched me with a half-smile; he seemed to hear my doubts. I imagined we were heading to his humble home. Judging by his clothes, he seemed to be poor, but surely he must have a rented house or apartment. Maybe it wasn’t much to look at, but he was so insistent that we join him, I figured there must be enough room for his guests, Bartholomew and me. The thought of sleeping in the same room with that drunkard turned my stomach.
Maybe the room where I’d sleep would be simple but comfortable. Maybe the mattress would be worn but decent. Maybe the sheets would be old, but at least they’d be clean. Maybe his refrigerator wasn’t packed, but I imagined there would be something healthy to eat. After all, I was hungry and exhausted. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . I thought, but I wasn’t sure of anything.
Along the way, he waved at children and adults, helped a few people carry heavy bags. Bartholomew said hi to everyone, even trees and lampposts. I waved, too, but only not to seem out of place.
Most people responded with a smile. I wondered how the dreamseller knew all of them. But, of course, he didn’t know them. It was just his way. He treated any stranger as an equal. And, in fact, to him, no person was a stranger. He greeted them because it made him happy. I had never seen such a lively, good-natured, sociable person. He didn’t just sell dreams, he lived them.
We walked for blocks, then for miles, but never seemed to be any closer to his home. A long while later, when I couldn’t walk any further, he stopped at an intersection and I let out a sigh of relief. We’re here, I thought to myself. Yes, he said, we had arrived.
I looked to the left and saw a row of identical, white, low-income homes with small porches. I scratched my head and thought, “The houses look really small. They can’t have three bedrooms.”
Then the dreamseller looked down the other street. Behind a bridge was a tall apartment building that looked to have about eight rooms per floor, like a pigeon coop for people. It looked even more cramped than the row houses.
Remembering my own students, I said to myself, “I’m not going to complain. It’ll just be a tough night and that’s that.” The dreamseller saw the look on my face and said, “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of room.”
Trying to disguise my worry, I asked calmly, “So what floor is your apartment on?”
“My apartment? My apartment is the world,” he said calmly.
“I like that apartment,” Bartholomew said.
Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?”
He explained:
“Foxes have their dens, the birds of the sky their nests, but the dreamseller has no fixed address to lay his head.”
If I was nervous before, I really worried when he started quoting Jesus