The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [54]
His words exposed my own lack of generosity. I had never known how to forgive. I had never forgiven my son for using drugs. To me, he had taken his excellent upbringing for granted. I had never forgiven my wife for leaving me. To me, she had left one of the best men in the world. I had never forgiven my father for killing himself. To me, he had committed the greatest of crimes in having abandoned me while I was still a child. I had never forgiven my faculty colleagues who betrayed me after they had promised their support.
Now, with the dreamseller’s guidance, I had the chance to forgive by carrying a childish, confused, irresponsible alcoholic. How could I do that without complaining? It was incredibly difficult for me. But I was actually coming to love that clown. Bartholomew had what I’d always wanted: authenticity and self-esteem. Sociologically speaking, irresponsible people are happier than responsible people. The problem is that the irresponsible depend on the responsible to carry them.
The next day, we saw the consequence of Bartholomew’s interview. Plastered across the front page of the major newspaper was a photo of the dreamseller under the headline: “Psychotic Calls Society a ‘World of Madness.’”
The journalist wrote that there was a lunatic who claimed that mankind was on its way to becoming a gigantic worldwide insane asylum. But this time—according to the lunatic—that asylum wasn’t some gloomy, ugly, stinking, dark place like the psychiatric hospitals of the past, but a pleasant, colorful setting full of sophisticated machines, a perfect place to indulge our madness without being inconvenienced by it.
He gave speeches in public places, with the intention of changing the mind-set of people. No one knew his origins, but to deceive people he called himself by an attractive name, “the Dreamseller.”
The article included photos of onlookers hypnotized by him and went on to say the guy was stark raving mad but charismatic and provocative. His power of seduction was unrivaled. Even intelligent businessmen fell into his trap, the article said. A gang of misfits followed him. The story said that the dreamseller didn’t work miracles or consider himself a messiah, but not since the time of Jesus had the world seen a lunatic so boldly trying to reproduce his steps.
The reporter made no mention of the dreamseller’s provocative ideas. He said nothing about the need to dialogue with one’s self, the sleep of unawareness to which computers are eternally condemned, the excesses of society that cause us to die prematurely in our minds. He concluded the piece by saying that the dreamseller’s followers were a band of anarchists who put democracy at risk and who might commit terrorist acts.
The article burned our real story to the ground, devastating our project and our true intent. We were profoundly depressed and discouraged. We couldn’t go on, I thought. Once again, the dreamseller tried to ease our minds:
“Remember the swallows,” he said, calming us. “It’s not our calling to be myths.
“Never forget that it’s impossible to serve two masters: Either we sell dreams or we concern ourselves with our image in society; either we remain loyal to our conscience or we fall prey to what others think and say about us,” he said.
And once again he gave us the option to leave:
“Don’t worry about me. You have already brought great joy to me and to many others. I’ve learned to love you and admire you the way you are. I don’t want to put your lives in danger. It’s better that you go.”
But where would we go? We wouldn’t any longer succeed as “normals,” servants to a system wracked with tedious social routine, slaves complaining about life as we waited for death. The selfishness of the past still lived inside us, but was slowly losing ground to the pleasure of serving others.
We decided to stay. After all, if the