The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [46]
The dreamseller turned his attention toward the big event; he wanted to stand in the temple of electronics. We couldn’t understand why he was so interested in the event since it looked like he had never even used a computer. But he simply said, “Let’s go to the fair.”
Skittish, we followed him. The event was way too upscale for people like us. After all, we were unkempt in torn shirts and frayed and patched jeans. We weren’t part of any corporation, and of course, didn’t have an invitation. We looked as if we had teleported from some rural area of the 1900s into the peak of the twenty-first century.
Bartholomew, trying to put us at ease, repeated his famous phrase: “Guys! Let’s pretend we’re ‘normals.’” Immediately, our posture improved, we tried to smooth our hair and walked upright and confident.
As we approached the doors, Dimas put his arm around Solomon’s shoulder and tried to keep his nervous tics under wraps. Pulling away from him, Solomon joked, “Watch it, Nimble Fingers. I’m all man, here!”
“Hey, it’s Angel Hand or Saint’s Hand, to you,” Dimas said.
“More like Devil’s Hand,” Bartholomew joked.
Dimas didn’t like the joke and his eyes grew wide and angry.
“In the old days, Dimas. In the old days—many hours ago,” he joked again, and ran away, afraid of retaliation.
Our group was impossible; I swear we were like children, sometimes. But our sense of humor faded as soon as we set foot in the fair. Seeing the apprehension on our faces, the dreamseller told us:
“Does rejection still frighten you? Do these tense settings still threaten you? Haven’t you learned that someone can injure your body but not your mind, unless you let him?”
His words just fueled our anxiety. The entrance hall alone intimated us: a beautiful patio with a multicolored water fountain. Dozens of vases with roses, hibiscuses, daisies and tulips decorated the place.
Endless panels of illuminated ads for the major corporations glowed at the entrance. A red carpet led visitors inside. But to get in, besides showing an invitation and ID, guests had to submit to a full-body scan and a metal detector. It’s a dangerous world and a man’s word apparently was worth little.
In that moment, I realized that I, the intellectual of the group, was the most insecure of all. I drifted behind the others. The dreamseller didn’t actually want to go into the fair, he wanted to stand in the entrance hall and watch people. But Bartholomew, demonstrating uncommon boldness, tried to get in. But two security officers quickly intercepted him. One of them asked him to spread his arms and ran a security wand over every part of his body. When the guard began to touch his private parts, Bartholomew jumped: “Easy, there, buddy!”
We went to his aid. The dreamseller tried to calm him and asked the rest of us to hang back. When several other security officers approached, they took one look at our band of misfits and asked to see invitations. Since we had none, they started scanning us with their machines and frisking us as they’d done to Bartholomew. The guards got angry when Solomon said he was ticklish and wouldn’t let himself be searched. They tried to throw us out of a public area.
Then, one of the guards recognized Angel Hand from his past life. He gave him a hard shove and said, “Get outta here, you crook.”
As he fell, he stole the guard’s wallet in a moment of weakness. But he regretted it before he even hit the floor and returned the wallet. The dreamseller was pleased, but it only made the guards more suspicious.
Edson was fuming. I felt if he actually had supernatural powers, he would have rained down fire on those guards. But the dreamseller displayed a disquieting calm, like he had fully expected that situation.
While pushing us toward the door, the guards began mocking us.
“Maybe these guys are the clowns the fair hired as entertainment,” one of the guards said as they followed us to the