The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [53]
“Not me! That’s crazy stuff,” the other man scoffed.
At that, Bartholomew countered, “Now, wait a minute. What do you know about being crazy? Being crazy is a beautiful thing!”
He playfully hopped up, spread his arms and began to dance and sing his favorite song in that unsteady voice: “I’m going to go crazy, too crazy . . .” The reporter left without saying good-bye, as Bartholomew sang on: “Oh, how I love this life!” He shook his hips and sang, “I’m going to go crazy, too, too crazy . . .” He was lost in the moment.
The journalist, before interviewing Bartholomew, had already mapped out his article. He merely needed to confirm some facts with Bartholomew. He had let prejudice guide him.
But Bartholomew was so euphoric with his first interview that he lost his way. He decided to celebrate the only way he knew how. He went to a bar and got wasted. It was his third relapse since he was called, except that the first two had been mild. This time he ended up passed out on the sidewalk.
We started to worry when he went missing. The dreamseller set us out to look for him. My friends and I said impatiently to each other, “Again? The guy’s hopeless.” After an hour, we found him, almost unconscious. We tried to lift him to his feet, but he could barely stand, and he just let his body dangle like deadweight. We each took an arm and lifted, while Dimas pushed from behind.
Bartholomew, his voice slurred, complained to Dimas, “Not so hard, bud. My bumper’s a little temperamental . . .”
And he passed gas—often and loudly and noxiously, joking, “Sorry about the broken tailpipe, guys.”
We all felt like smacking him. I said to myself: “I left the world of ideas in the academy to listen to the ideas of a drunk. Unbelievable!” I had never loved my fellow man unless there was something in it for me. Now I was taking care of someone who, besides offering me nothing in return, drew me away from serious reflection and made fun of me. We had to carry him the last hundred feet to the bridge. The hardest part was putting up with his declaration of love for us:
“I love you, guys, I love you so, so, so, so much . . .”
“Shut up, Bartholomew!” sweating and exhausted, we said in chorus. But it was no use. Asking him to keep quiet just made him louder. Twice more on the way to the bridge he loved us. Maybe he was being sincere, maybe his affection was greater than ours. As soon as we got to the bridge, he tried to give us all kisses of gratitude. We dropped him on the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“Mis amigos, it’s a privilege for you to take me in your arms,” he said.
Impatiently, we complained to the dreamseller. “What this guy needs is Alcoholics Anonymous.” But without Bartholomew, there was no laughter in our group.
“Send him to a mental institution,” Dimas said.
“Master, how long do we have to put up with this?” the Miracle Worker asked.
We weren’t happy with his response.
“It’s a privilege to carry him,” the dreamseller said.
Bartholomew, even intoxicated, felt validated. “You heard the chief. I’m not worthless!” he said almost incomprehensively but clear enough to raise our tempers.
“It’s better to carry than to be carried,” the dreamseller said. And he added something that once again flew in the face of my atheism:
“The god constructed by man, the religious god, is merciless, intolerant, elitist and prejudiced. But the god who hides behind the scenes of existence is generous. His capacity to forgive has no limits. It inspires us to carry those who frustrate us as often as necessary.”
While the dreamseller was speaking, I started to doubt him. I remembered my sociological analysis of texts from the Old Testament, which portrayed a rigid, aggressive, intolerant god. “Where is the generous god, if he accepted only the people of Israel?” I asked myself. As if reading my thoughts, the dreamseller said:
“God’s generosity and forgiveness was shown by Jesus when he called Judas his friend, amid the act of