The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [44]
A woman picked up the saxophone and put on a show. I was speechless. “Wait,” I thought, “isn’t this supposed to be a warehouse for old people awaiting death?” We were shocked—and humbled—to realize this place was a prison for full, rich, gifted people with incredible repressed potential.
The dreamseller delighted in hearing them. Then he took Bartholomew’s microphone, and gave it to a much older gentleman, who could barely walk. But when he breathed into the microphone, his voice was unrivaled even by Frank Sinatra.
Then the dreamseller called the elderly who could still move about to the floor and began to dance with them. Even I started to dance. It was a riot. These old folks turned that nursing home upside down. Smiles sprang onto their faces and they felt like people once again. Of course they had looked at us like we were idiots. We had underestimated them and given them our worst, thinking that just because they were old—that their muscles were weak, their memory failing—they would swallow whatever pathetic show we put on.
Many of them had enjoyed a wonderful childhood, much better than mine. And now, the child within awakened from its slumber. Later, the dreamseller would tell us he had sent us to the nursing home not with the intention of our selling them dreams but so we could buy dreams from them. He showed us there is no such thing as a person without worth, only someone who is grossly undervalued.
Upon hearing these words, I realized another mistake I had made. My grandfather, Paulo, was fun and sociable. He died almost fifteen years after my mother, but I never let myself into his world. I had felt rejected by my uncles and cousins, and so I ended up rejecting my grandfather. Every victim bears the scars of a hostage. I had admired my grandfather’s ability to play instruments, but had never asked about his tears and his fears. I never valued his great sense of humor and his lifetime of experiences. I missed out on enjoying such a surprising human being.
That day, the dreamseller wove together thoughts that still echo in my mind:
“The time between youth and old age is shorter than you can imagine. Whoever doesn’t delight in reaching old age isn’t worthy of his youth. Don’t fool yourselves: A person doesn’t die when his heart stops beating. He dies when the world tells him he’s no longer of any value.”
The Temple of Electronics
THE EVENT THAT OCCURRED IN THE NURSING HOME CAME to light not because a journalist was present but because a nurse photographed it and gave the information to a newspaper. Ever since our visit to the nursing home, our days were filled with commotion. As the days went by, our group became ever stronger. We formed close ties despite our bickering. We held lively outdoor round tables to discuss our own stories and what we’d seen in society.
At least once a week the dreamseller invited new people—bricklayers, painters, sculptors, gas station attendants, mechanics, garbage collectors—into our expansive “home” to sit on fruit crates and tell us about their lives. They were delighted at the invitation. And we had never had as good a time communing with our fellow man, listening to stories of their real difficulties and expectations, dreams and nightmares, passions and disillusionments. It was a unique sociological experience, a magical apprenticeship.
Meanwhile, the dreamseller’s fame was growing. He had become a mythic figure in the city. People in cars would point at him and tell one another, “Isn’t that the guy who stopped traffic near the San Pablo Building?” “Isn’t that the same one who shook up an old folks’ home and a wake?” Judging by how “normals” like a spectacle, they’d soon be saying he raised the dead.
One day, a man of about sixty