The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [63]
Edson took her arm politely.
“You look tired. At your age one needs lots of rest,” he told her.
“I feel just great, son. But thanks for your concern,” Jurema said.
I also gave it a shot, trying to remind her of something she might have forgotten—an appointment, a doctor’s visit, a bill to pay. But she told me everything was taken care of.
Monica didn’t understand our concern over Jurema. She thought we were being a little too nice. Bartholomew, who had always been the most honest of any of us, slipped up again. Seeing that she had no intention of heading home, he appealed. He raised one eyebrow and said:
“My dear, beautiful Jurema,” he said, and she seemed to melt, batting her eyelashes. Just when he’d gotten her attention, he blurted out, “I’m sorry to tell you that you’re as red as a beet. I think you might be having a heart attack. You need to get to a hospital right away.”
Solomon tried to cover Bartholomew’s big mouth, but it was too late. Jurema did the job. She hooked his neck with the crook of her cane, yanked him close and said flatly:
“Bartholomew, with your mouth shut you’re absolutely perfect.”
We roared with laughter. But Jurema was bothered, realizing we were hiding something from her. To show us she was still strong and full of life, despite being more than eighty years old and having a touch of Alzheimer’s, she crouched down and did a few push-ups. She asked us to try and match her, but we couldn’t keep up. Then she leaped into a pair of ballet pirouettes and dared us to try. But we all clumsily almost fell on our faces.
“You guys are a bunch of old geezers,” she said. “I feel younger than any of you and I’m as healthy as a horse. Now, where’s that guru of yours?”
Guru? I thought. The dreamseller didn’t like even being called master, much less guru. We said he was having some problems . . . had an appointment . . . couldn’t talk to her now. We tried to block her view of the dreamseller, but she poked her head between us. By then, Monica had already figured out our little game and I think wondered whether there was any hope of redemption for any of us.
Jurema shouted even louder, “Where’s the guru?”
We cringed when we heard the dreamseller’s deep, powerful voice.
“How wonderful to see you again!” he told her, and then said the words we had all dreaded: “Come with us. Come and help us sell dreams!”
Monica couldn’t help laughing and laughing, but we were worried. We wandered off to one side and began to whisper questions to one another. “What will society think of us, a band of eccentrics followed by an old lady? We’ll be a laughingstock. Oh, the newspapers are going to love this. What’ll it be like living with her? We’ll probably waste all our time waiting for her to catch up. And that old-lady smell? Does she wear dentures?”
We worried that our journey would suffer with the addition of Jurema. The dreamseller patiently watched our boys-only conference as Monica tried to explain the calling to Jurema. But she was a beginner herself and had trouble making it clear.
Jurema, an honest woman, called us aside and said, “I’ve never sold anything in my life. What type of product is it?”
The dreamseller went off to speak with Monica and left us alone to explain the project to Jurema. This gave us a golden opportunity to dissuade the old woman. In the privacy of my thoughts, I wondered whether the dreamseller hadn’t seen Jurema first and was testing us again, in an attempt to unveil the subtle prejudices in our minds.
We had had a fantastic experience at the nursing home, where we had discovered the greatness of the elderly, but we insisted on harboring a prejudice against them. We were convinced the old lady wouldn’t be able to keep up with the pace of the group. We thought that, with her, the dreamseller would have to be less aggressive with some of his plans.
We spoke honestly with Jurema about the adventure of dreams. After all, even when our interests were thwarted, we were learning to be transparent. But, to dissuade her, we emphasized the dangers we faced,