The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [78]
All of us, disciples and businessmen alike, moved slowly and apprehensively toward a wide open area where everyone could stand. We looked at one another for answers, all thinking the same thing: “What am I doing here?” This would be the first time in history a leadership conference had been held in a cemetery. And it was appropriate. Because it would be the first time that the hurried world of the living would be discussed among the dead.
As we gathered around, the dreamseller used his deep, vibrant voice to greet the participants in an unusual manner:
“Welcome, all of you, the future rich residents of the cemetery. Please, make yourselves at home.”
The businessmen’s legs weakened. They were used to great competitive battles, to taking phenomenal risks, but they had never faced a challenge like this. They had been knocked out in the first round by a stranger. I didn’t know what to say or how to react, and those around me were frozen. Recoleta Cemetery is imposing. It’s a cemetery for the wealthy. Its mausoleums are truly works of art.
Seeing us deep in thought, the dreamseller continued to let his ideas flow.
“The notable men and women of society lie here. Dreams, nightmares, secret feelings, visible emotions, anxiety attacks, moments of rare pleasure made up the lives of each human being who rests here. Their stories sleep here, forever. And other than their loved ones, no one ever thinks about them.”
We didn’t know what the dreamseller was getting at, whether the conference had begun or even if there would be a conference. We only knew that his words were taking us on a journey through our own stories. That in the past of those buried here we might see our own future. His talk, which seemed intended to cause fear, began to take on an unexplainable tenderness. Then he made a request of all of us:
“Take ten minutes to read the gracious epitaphs on the front of the mausoleums.”
I had never taken the time to do anything like that. Despite the failing light, we began moving through the cemetery’s passageways, reading the engraved messages that celebrated the existence of people now departed. So much longing! So many inscriptions! So many words laden with noble sentiments! Some messages said, “To my kind and gentle husband, who will be greatly missed by his loving wife. May God grant him peace”; “To our beloved father: Time stole you from us, but it can never steal the love we feel for you”; “Dad, you are unforgettable. I will love you forever”; “To my irreplaceable friend: Thank you for having lived and having been part of our lives.”
I don’t know what happened to me when I read those messages, but I became lost in emotion. I began to remember the ones I had lost. I never wrote a plaque for my father. Nor even thanked him for giving me life. His suicide blocked out my feelings. Not even for my brave mother had I written a message, other than the one I carry silently in my mind: “I love you. Thank you for having put up with my rebelliousness.”
I looked to the side and saw that my friends and the businessmen were moved. They had traveled through time, opened the doors of their subconscious and encountered their excruciating frailty. They were men who ran companies with thousands of employees, but now they were simply mortals.
At that moment, I saw that the dreamseller had stripped them of their pridefulness, shut off their defense mechanisms, removed the security they took in their financial status. When he opened his mouth, he said something every businessman hates to hear, “Where are the proletarians of today, and who are they?”
I thought to myself, “These businesspeople won’t stand for this.” No one answered. The question, though seemingly obvious, was not. Then he stood the theory of utopia on its head.