The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [62]
“I know,” replied the dreamseller. “That’s why it’s rare that anyone pays attention to him to free him from his loneliness. I heard the words he didn’t say. Have you spent any time trying to understand him?” She fell as silent as the deaf man.
Monica agreed to join the journey, but at the dreamseller’s request she would sleep at her own home. She didn’t know about the sleepless nights that awaited her.
The next day, the dreamseller was in every major daily newspaper in the city and on all the television morning newscasts. His ideas were spreading. Some papers were already calling him by the name he liked: “Dreamseller.” They said he had turned the fashion world upside down.
Some journalists, extremely concerned with the eroding self-image of today’s youth, wrote about the Barbie syndrome and came to conclusions that expanded on what the dreamseller had said. They said he had shouted that because of the unrealistic standards of the fashion industry many adolescent girls lose a grip on reality and are perpetually dissatisfied with their bodies, finding defects in their faces and constantly complaining that their clothes didn’t fit.
Young people who didn’t like to read newspapers clamored for the articles. Some took it to school, where it spread from hand to hand. Many boys and girls breathed a sigh of relief when they read the articles because they so often had agonized about the “anatomical defects” they saw in themselves. Soon they began laughing at their “paranoia.” They felt the story covered conflicts almost never discussed at school. From that point on, a rebellious streak started forming within some of the students. They began criticizing the social system and wanted to learn firsthand the ideas of that mysterious dreamseller.
Monica met us that afternoon and told us about the waves the article had created in the fashion world. She said that some of her designer friends as well as some stores had bought into the dreamseller’s ideas and were beginning to spread the view that beauty couldn’t be standardized.
Seeing the model more enthused, we decided to tell her about the countless adventures we’d had in the last several months. A week later, the dreamseller told us he wanted to invite another woman to the group.
The way Monica looked, we felt he could invite not one or two or three, but ten women. “How we’ve changed our stance,” I thought. I, who had always criticized politicians who were enemies one day and the best of friends the next, began to understand that such fluctuation was a sickness inherent to the human mind. It all depended on what was at stake.
Convinced of the wisdom of his new plan, the dreamseller looked upward and then to the sides, placed his hands on his chin and began moving away from us. He was lost in thought again. I heard him ask himself in a low voice, “Which woman should I call? What characteristics should she have?”
The dreamseller was about fifty feet away, walking in circles in the lobby of the shopping mall where we met. Just as we were celebrating the proposal of bringing more women into the group, an elderly woman appeared and gave Honeymouth a light tap on the head with her cane. It was Jurema.
“How are you, boys?” she said.
“Just fine, Jurema. How nice to see you again,” we said politely.
Suddenly we looked over at the pensive dreamseller, then back at the little old lady and had a terrible thought: “She might be the next to be called! We better get her out of here fast.”
The dreamseller, his gaze turned toward the sidewalk opposite where we stood, raised his voice and said to himself, “Whom to call?” We felt a shiver run down our spines. We tried to hide Jurema. We had to get rid of her.
“The sun is . . . scalding. You could get dehydrated, you’re sweating so much. You should . . . go home,” Dimas, the great manipulator of hearts, told the old woman, trying not to stutter. But she insisted on staying.
“The weather’s