The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [56]
“What’s the dreamseller looking for in a place like that?” we wondered. “How would he respond to it? Who could he possibly approach?” We were hoping he’d be discreet and not cause a scene, but, at this point, we knew better.
Just getting into the event would be a problem. After all, if we hadn’t succeeded in getting into the computer show, how would we get into the fashion show—especially looking the way we did?
That day, the dreamseller was wearing a faded, patched black blazer that he’d gotten in a secondhand store and was a size too large. His faded black pants were hemmed oddly and the back pockets were patched with blue cloth. He was wearing a wrinkled moss-green shirt with a few pen stains.
I was wearing a polo shirt and beige pants that I had been given by a traveler who had found his dreams. We were all disheveled, but Bartholomew’s clothes were the funniest and the most ridiculous. A widow who lived near the Europa bridge had given him clothes that belonged to her husband. His yellow pants ended well short of his ankles. His left sock was navy blue and his right sock baby blue. His white T-shirt boasted an eloquent slogan that faithfully reflected his personality: “Don’t follow me. I’m lost, too.” There was no way this ragtag bunch would ever be allowed into the show, I thought.
As we approached the immense hall of the fashion show and carefully watched the exquisitely dressed people, the dreamseller once again scrambled our thinking. He neither gave a speech nor criticized the world of fashion. He said with assurance:
“I’m thinking of calling a few women to sell dreams. How do you feel about that?”
Our roving bachelor pad was rocked. We were an eccentric, admittedly weird group, but we had adapted. We had our differences, but we were adjusting. Our arguments away from the dreamseller were heated but capable of being overcome. Calling women to join our brotherhood seemed like too much. How could it work?
I immediately posed the question: “A woman? I think it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?” he asked.
Luckily, before I could reply, Honeymouth came to my defense. “They won’t be able to bear this lifestyle. How will they stand to sleep under bridges?”
“What bathroom will they use? What mirror will they use to comb their hair?” asked Solomon. But the dreamseller replied:
“Who said they have to leave their own homes to follow us? After all, everyone should sell dreams, whether to himself or to others, wherever he—or she—is.”
For the first time, his words brought us no relief. We didn’t believe a woman could participate in the group. We considered ourselves revolutionaries, protagonists of a fantastic sociological experiment. We didn’t want to share our macho glory. Infected by discrimination, we thought that women would diminish our boldness.
“Following you, Dreamseller, is for . . . real men, and good ones. Besides, women talk too much and act too little,” Angel Hand said with conviction. Then he realized his arrogance and tried to backpedal. We had taken over the dreamseller’s project and given it a masculine feel.
The Miracle Worker also was against the dreamseller’s proposal. He used his knowledge of theology in an effort to dissuade him.
“Dreamseller, Buddha, Confucius and Jesus all had men as disciples. Why would you want to call women to follow you? Look at history. It’ll never work.”
For the first time, the group was unanimous in showering praise on the Miracle Worker. We began to think he could make interesting contributions. Nevertheless, the dreamseller had an answer for our theologian.
“When Jesus called his disciples, where did he put them, at the periphery or at the center of his plans?” he asked.
“The center, of course,” the Miracle Worker replied without hesitation.
“And women?” he asked, testing him.
Edson thought, reflected and rubbed his forehead. After a prolonged moment of analysis, he answered shrewdly:
“I can’t say at the periphery, because they provided material support, but they weren’t at the center of his work, because they weren’t active participants in