The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [77]
In my experience, the elite were only interested in three things: money, money, money. I almost told him immediately that the dreamseller wouldn’t accept the invitation, but not wanting to be presumptuous, I passed along the news.
However, I was in for a surprise. After thinking about the invitation for a while, the dreamseller said he would talk to them, but in a setting of his choosing. And he gave me the address. It was a location I had never heard of. I didn’t know the size of the amphitheater, whether it had air-conditioning and comfortable chairs. I only knew that his audience was used to luxurious accommodations and to getting their way.
I was told the audience would consist of close to a hundred businessmen and executives, of whom only five were women. There were entrepreneurs, bankers, owners of large construction companies, of supermarket networks, of retail chain stores and other sectors. They represented the richest and most powerful people in the state.
They were delighted that the dreamseller had accepted the invitation. But since I had always been suspicious of these people, I wanted to scare them, to tell them they had no idea what awaited them. I said that the dreamseller was so radical, he would make Lenin the communist seem ordinary. My jibe made them squirm, but I only doubled the threat. I told them that the dreamseller might call them capitalist vipers who lived to exploit the poor. They were not amused. They seemed to be rethinking the invitation, but even so, they wanted to hear this man’s fascinating ideas.
The leaders received their invitations, and some found it strange that they didn’t recognize the address, since they were used to attending events at the city finest venues. The night of the meeting, the dreamseller set off ahead of us. He seemed to want to meditate before the event. “Could he be preparing for battle?” I thought. “Was he asking God for the wisdom to be able to rattle these elite individuals? This is his golden opportunity to break the backs of the financial elite,” I thought. But I was wrong. I had no idea that what was about to happen would leave me at a loss for words.
We didn’t know the address either, so we asked around as we walked. We were nearing the address, but couldn’t find the location on the dimly lit street. Eventually, we came across another group of people who seemed lost, the businessmen and executives. They thought I’d given them the wrong address. But I assured them that it was the address the dreamseller had given me. Still, I thought they might be right. Maybe he had mistakenly given us the wrong address, since he didn’t run in these high-society circles and didn’t know exactly where the city’s amphitheaters were.
The business leaders thought they’d been fooled. But we decided to go a bit further up the street together in search of the site. Suddenly, we found ourselves at the entrance to a huge, gloomy cemetery. It was the famous Recoleta Cemetery. We checked the street number the dreamseller had given us and the numbers matched. I thought to myself, “If people thought the dreamseller was crazy before, they’re sure of it now.”
“I don’t mind confronting my mental demons, but this is too much,” Solomon said. “I hate cemeteries, especially at night. Let’s get out of here.”
I took his arm and asked him to stay calm. The elite participants were beginning to arrive in their luxury cars and to gather around the gates. Everyone was confused. For the first time, I humbled myself in the presence of that group, apologizing for the mistaken address.
Suddenly, just as we were about to leave, the gates of the cemetery swung open, their hinges creaking. Honeymouth clung to Angel Hand.
“I’d need a couple of bottles of vodka in me before I went in there,” he said trembling.
No sooner