The Dreamseller_ The Calling - Augusto Cury [97]
Tears streamed down his face, proving that great men cry, too. And he concluded with these words:
“The past is a tyrant and it won’t allow my family to come back to me. But the present generously lifts my downcast face and makes me see that, although I can’t change what I was, I can construct what I will be. They can call me crazy, psychotic, a lunatic, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that, like all mortals, one day I will end the theater of existence on the tiny stage of a tomb, in front of an audience in tears.”
This last thought reached the roots of my mind. Breathing heavily, he ended his speech:
“On that day, I don’t want people to say, ‘In that tomb rests a rich, famous and powerful man whose deeds are recorded in the annals of history.’ Or, ‘There lies an ethical and just man.’ Because those words will merely sound like an obligation. But I hope they say, ‘In that tomb rests a simple wanderer who understood a little of what it means to be human, who learned to love humanity and who succeeded in selling dreams to others travelers . . . ‘”
At that moment, he turned his back to the audience and left the stage without a good-bye. The crowd in the stadium broke their silence, rising to their feet and applauding him uninterruptedly. His disciples couldn’t hold back and burst into tears. We, too, were learning to lose the fear of showing our emotions. His supposed enemies also rose. Two of them applauded. The CEO sat still, not knowing where to look.
Suddenly, a boy broke through security, climbed onto the stage, ran after the dreamseller and gave him a long, heartfelt embrace. It was Antonio, the twelve-year-old boy who had been in such despair at his father’s wake, the wake the dreamseller had transformed into a solemn act of homage.
“I lost my father, but you taught me not to lose faith in life,” the boy told him. “I’ll always be grateful . . .”
Touched, the dreamseller looked at the young boy and surprised him by saying, “I lost my children, but you also taught me not to lose faith in life. And for that, I will always be grateful to you.”
“Let me follow you,” the boy said.
“How long has school been in you?” the dreamseller asked.
“I’m in the sixth grade.”
“You didn’t understand my question. I didn’t ask what grade you’re in, but how long school has been in you.”
I had made teaching my life, my world, and even I had never heard anyone phrase a question that way, much less to a young boy. The boy looked confused.
“I don’t understand the question,” the boy said.
The dreamseller looked at him and sighed. “Well, the day you understand it, you’ll become a seller of dreams like me, and in your free time you can follow me.”
The boy walked away confused, but then suddenly, something dawned on him. The stadium camera caught him just as his expression changed. He radiated pure joy. Instead of returning to his seat, he came over to us. We all wanted to understand what had happened, but none of us understood at the time.
The dreamseller headed toward the door, without a destination or an agenda or a map, living each day unhurriedly, blowing like a feather in wind. This time he left without inviting us to follow him. And we felt a deep sadness.
Would we ever see each other again? Had the dream of selling dreams ended? What would we do? Where would we go? Would I write other stories? We didn’t know. We only knew we were children playing in the theater of time, children who understood very little about the mysteries of existence.
Who is the dreamseller really? Where does he come from? Is he one of the most powerful men in the world or a pauper with an uncommon imagination? To this day, we still don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we broke out of the prison of routine, and we left the cocoon to become wanderers.
Bartholomew and Barnabas touched me on the shoulder. I don’t know whether they had understood everything that happened in the stadium or nothing at all.
“Don’t follow us. We’re lost, too,