The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [91]
“Thank you, my friend,” Bartholomew replied, feeling flattered.
The dreamseller turned to leave and headed for the exit when the crowd started buzzing. We thought they might rush the stage to lynch him, and then, suddenly, they broke out in a chant that soon filled the stadium.
“Speak . . . ! Speak . . . ! Speak . . . !”
The chant reverberated throughout the stadium until the entire building shook with nervous energy. The executives looked worried. The last thing they wanted was to start a riot that would give them more bad front-page press. So they turned his microphone back on and gestured for him to return to the stage and speak. Doubtless, they figured the dreamseller would crush what was left of his image by trying to worm his way out with superficial explanations and accusations. But clearly, they didn’t know the depth of this man they were so eager to discredit.
He looked out at the audience, and then at us, his disciples. He gently raised his voice and, without fear of repercussions, he dissected his own history the way a microsurgeon does with the tiniest of blood vessels.
Softly, he told us his story, the most dramatic one I’d ever heard. Except that this time it was no parable; it was his true story, raw and uncensored. For the first time, the man I had followed exposed the very depths of his being. And I realized that I hadn’t known him fully, either.
“Yes, I was mentally ill, or maybe I still am. I’ll leave that for the psychiatrists and psychologists, and all of you, to judge. I was committed to an institution because I was suffering from a deep and severe depression accompanied by mental confusion and hallucinations. My depression was fed by a crippling feeling of guilt. Guilt over the indescribable mistakes I’d made with people I loved the most.”
He paused for breath. He seemed to be trying to rebuild his dismembered being, to organize his thoughts in order to tell his shattered story. “What mistakes did the dreamseller make that unbalanced him?” I wondered. “Wasn’t he strong and generous? Didn’t he demonstrate the height of camaraderie and tolerance?” To our surprise, he declared:
“I was a rich man, very rich, and powerful, too. I was more successful than anyone else of my generation. Young and old alike came to seek my advice. Every venture I touched turned to gold. They called me Midas. I was creative, bold, intuitive—a visionary, unafraid of uncharted territory. My ability to absorb a failure and come back stronger astounded everyone around me. But gradually the success I always thought I controlled came to control me, to poison me, to invade the intimate reaches of my mind. Without realizing it, I lost my humility and became a god—a false god.”
We were stunned by his words. I wondered, “Could he really have been rich? What kind of power did he have? Or is he hallucinating again? Didn’t he walk around in tattered clothes? Didn’t we depend on the kindness of others just to survive?”
At hearing the dreamseller’s admission, Bartholomew became emboldened.
“Aha, that’s my chief! I knew it! I knew he was a millionaire,” Bartholomew said. Then, scratching his head, asked, “Wait, then why were we always so broke?”
There was no good explanation. “Maybe, like so many businessmen, he went bankrupt,” I thought. “But could financial ruin trigger such a serious mental illness? Could it break someone’s sanity and plunge him into the realm of madness?” My thoughts were interrupted when he continued his account.
“My only goal was to stand out, to compete, to be number one, as long as it meant playing by the rules,” the dreamseller confessed. “I didn’t want to be just another face in the crowd. I wanted to be unique. And so, I became a machine, tirelessly dedicated to success and making money. The problem doesn’t start when we possess money, however much we have. It starts when the money possesses us. When I realized this had happened to me, I saw that money could, in fact, impoverish a man. And I became the poorest of men.”
I was flabbergasted at seeing this man, who had supposedly