The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [2]
The chief of police followed the firemen to the top of the building, each trying and failing to reason with the would-be jumper. Defeated, the authorities reached out to a renowned psychiatrist, who was hastily called to the scene. The doctor, too, attempted to gain the man’s trust, trying to make him see the consequences of his actions—but he couldn’t even get close. “One more step and I’ll jump!” the man shouted. He seemed certain that only death would finally silence his thoughts. Audience or no, his decision was made. His mind replayed his misfortunes, his frustrations, feeding the fever of his grief.
Meanwhile, down on the street below, a man tried to make his way through the crowd toward the building. He looked like just another curious on-looker, only more poorly dressed. He wore a wrinkled black blazer over a faded blue shirt, long-sleeved and stained in places. He wasn’t wearing a tie. And his wrinkled black pants looked like they hadn’t been washed in a week. His longish, uncombed hair was graying at the temples. His full beard had gone untrimmed for some time. Dry skin with prominent wrinkles around his eyes and in the folds of his face showed he sometimes slept out in the open. He was between thirty and forty, but seemed aged beyond his years.
His unstructured appearance contrasted with the delicacy of his gestures. He gently touched people’s shoulders, smiling as he passed. They couldn’t describe the sensation of being touched by him, but they quickly made room for him.
He approached the crime scene tape but was stopped from going any further. Disregarding the barrier, he stared into the eyes of those blocking his way and said flatly, “I need to go in. He’s waiting for me.”
The firemen looked him up and down and shook their heads. He looked more like someone who needed help rather than someone who could provide it.
“What’s your name?” they asked, without blinking.
“That doesn’t matter at a time like this,” the mysterious man answered firmly.
“Who called you here?” the firemen asked.
“You’ll find out. But if you keep me here any longer, you’ll have to prepare for another funeral,” he said, raising his eyes toward the top of the building.
The firemen were starting to get nervous and the mysterious man’s last phrase shook them. He hurried past them. “After all,” they thought, “maybe he’s an eccentric psychiatrist or a relative of the jumper.”
When he got to the top of the building, the stranger was stopped again, this time by the police chief.
“Hold it right there. You can’t be here,” adding that he should go back down at once.
But the man stared at them for a moment and answered calmly, “What do you mean I can’t be here? You were the ones who called me.”
The police chief looked at the psychiatrist who looked at the fire chief. They gestured to one another to find out who might have called this man. In that moment of confusion, the stranger hurried past the officer. There was no time to stop him. Any commotion could spook the jumper into carrying out his plan. They bit their lips and waited to see what happened.
This man who had come out of nowhere, uninvited and apparently unshaken by the possibility of this jumper plunging to his death, moved toward the ledge until he was dangerously close, about three feet away. Surprised, the jumper stammered, “Get away from me or I’ll kill myself!”
The stranger didn’t flinch. Nonchalantly, he sat down on the ledge, took a sandwich from his coat pocket, and started eating it with gusto. Between bites, he whistled a cheery tune.
The jumper didn’t know what to think. He took it as an insult and shouted:
“Stop that whistling! I’m going to jump.”
Annoyed, the stranger turned from his sandwich. “Could you not