The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [49]
Now I understood why the dreamseller often isolated himself. When I first saw him talking to himself, I found it extremely odd. To me, such behavior had always been a sign of madness. But he turned the concept upside down, considering it a clear sign of sanity.
More and more people gathered, forcing him to speak louder. They had come to the magnificent fair to see the newest innovations in computers and instead discovered the latest news about their own mental “computers.” The dreamseller made an argument bolstered by numbers unknown to me to shine a light into the audience’s mind:
“Millions of people have never had an encounter with their own being. Their tombs will hold foreigners who never found their true home,” he said.
The people meditated on these words as if they were a prayer. At that moment, Honeymouth raised his hand. He should have kept his mouth shut to not spoil the mood. But he was even more addicted to the sound of his own voice than he was to alcohol. He said, “Chief, I think we’re in worse shape than everyone else here.”
“Why, Bartholomew?” he asked patiently.
“Because we don’t even have an address. We live under a bridge.”
The crowd roared with laughter and Bartholomew realized what a blunder he’d made. But the dreamseller just smiled at his disciple’s spontaneity. Honeymouth was a hyperactive, mischievous child. And to the dreamseller, freedom grew in that spontaneous terrain. Most people killed their spontaneity in school, church, at work, even here, at this electronics fair; they’re robots admiring other machines. They don’t say what they think. At that moment, I looked within myself and realized that I was no exception. In the name of discretion, I was formal, deliberate, guarded. I didn’t know myself or let others know me. I was an expert in pretending everything was fine. It wasn’t easy to admit that Honeymouth had an advantage over me.
Calmly, the dreamseller said, “Yes, Bartholomew. We have no home, but we seek the best home of all. Remember our song.”
And once again he startled a crowd with his eccentricity. He interrupted his speech to sing his song, even making the gestures of a conductor. We joined in. During the first verse I was stiff. Honeymouth and Dimas went all out. We left the hilltops of reflection to revel in a relaxing waterfall of fun.
I’m just a wanderer
Who lost the fear of getting lost
I’m certain of my own imperfection
You may say I’m crazy
You may mock my ideas
It doesn’t matter!
What matters is I’m a wanderer
Who sells dreams to passersby
I’ve no compass or appointment book
I have nothing, yet I have everything
I’m just a wanderer
In search of myself.
Hearing that song, some of the listeners were completely stunned. They asked, “What kind of group is this? Where did they come from? Who’s this conductor? Could he be a speaker from some corporation in disguise as some sort of publicity stunt?” Others loosened up, followed the beat and began to sing with us. They lost their fear of getting lost, lost the fear of letting go, discovering for a few moments that they were not researchers, engineers or businessmen, just wanderers themselves. And still others moved away from the audience muttering, “That guy’s stark raving mad!” Whatever their reactions, it was impossible to remain indifferent to the dreamseller’s words. He penetrated the most intimate reaches of loneliness.
We looked around us and saw that several people were moved, especially two well-dressed female executives. Despite being surrounded by people, they felt crushingly alone. They were successful professionally, but they were unhappy with their lives.
Seeing the crowd become reflective, the dreamseller touched on another matter. He asked something apparently obvious: “Do people live longer today or in the past?”
One person, taking the initiative, answered, “Today, beyond the shadow of a doubt!”
But the dreamseller,