The Dreamseller: The Calling (11 page)

We knew the dreamseller would not behave like just another mourner; that was a problem. We also knew he would not stay quiet and stand idly by. And that was a greater problem still.

I
WENT THROUGH THE SAME ORDEAL WHEN I LOST MY MOTHER.
The expressions of sympathy, the prefabricated advice, nothing helped ease the pain. All the comforting words didn’t make a dent in the bars that imprisoned me. I would have preferred the silence of embraces or just a few tears shed at my side.

The dreamseller asked to be let through the crowd, and we followed. The closer we came to the coffin, the more the people seemed to be suffering. Then we saw a young man, near forty, with thinning black hair, a drawn and anguished face, lying motionless in the coffin.

His wife was inconsolable. Relatives and close friends were all drying their tears. The son was lost in despair. I saw myself in him and felt his pain more than my companions could. He had barely begun his life and had already begun losing a great deal. I had only just started to understand life when my father ended his, and then I lost my mother, too. I dined with loneliness and slept in my own sealed-off world, plagued by unanswered questions. God ignored me, I thought. I felt bitter toward him in my adolescence. Finally, in adult life, he became a mirage and I an atheist, a specialist in pessimism. Realizing the emptiness in this young boy, I couldn’t hold back the tears.

The dreamseller, seeing the boy’s despair, hugged him and asked his name and his father’s. Then, to our amazement, he turned to those present and in his deep voice offered words that shook them, words that could provoke an uproar: “Why are all of you grieving so hopelessly? Marco Aurelio isn’t dead.”

Immediately, Bartholomew, Dimas and I tried to distance ourselves. We did not want to be recognized as his disciples. The people had different reactions to his claim. Some went from tears to mockery, albeit well contained. They secretly laughed at the crazy man. Others were extremely curious. They thought he was some eccentric spiritual leader invited to officiate the funeral. Still others wanted him thrown out, outraged at the invasion of privacy and disrespect for other people’s feelings. Some of these grabbed him by the arms in an effort to usher him out.

But the dreamseller wasn’t upset. He said in a strong, firm voice:

“I’m not asking you to silence your pain, only your despair. I don’t expect you to stanch your tears, only the depth of your anguish. The emptiness never goes away, but despair can be alleviated, for it does no honor to the departed.”

Those grasping him released their grip and began to understand that the strangely dressed man with a heavy beard might be eccentric, but he was intelligent. The deceased’s widow, Sofia, and his son, Antonio, stared at him.

Then, with an air of serenity difficult to describe, he added:

“Marco Aurelio experienced incredible moments. He cried, he loved, he fell in love, he won, he lost. The reason all of you are sad—thrust into an existential vacuum because of his absence—is because you’re letting him die in the only place where he must remain alive: inside you.”

Seeing the people more introspective, he resumed his penetrating Socratic method: “What scars did Marco Aurelio leave
on your emotions? Where did he influence your paths? How did his actions and words color your way of looking at life?”

After offering these words, the dreamseller said something that shocked everyone, including us. Once again we were ashamed of our lack of wisdom and sensitivity. He repeated the question that had shaken his audience: “Is this man alive or dead inside of you?”

The mourners answered that he was alive. Immediately, he made a comment that lifted them out of their despair and soothed their spirits:

“Shortly before Jesus was killed, a woman named Mary, who loved him, poured the most expensive of perfumes over his feet. It was all she had. By anointing him with her perfume, she was praising him for all he had done and experienced, and he was so moved that he praised her magnanimous gesture, while the disciples scolded her because she had wasted an extremely valuable perfume that could have been used for other purposes. Scolding his disciples, Jesus told them that he was preparing them for his death, and that wherever his message was spread her gesture would be recounted as a timeless homage.”

The mourners pondered his words. The ones who couldn’t hear clearly squeezed closer to him. Then he concluded:

“Jesus wanted to demonstrate that a wake may be a place of tears, but it should, above all else, be an atmosphere flooded with praise and solemn remembrance. Mourning should be a perfume, an homage to the departed. A setting for recounting his life and his words. A word of praise can be said about any person. Please, tell me of this man’s deeds. Tell me how he impacted your lives. His silence should give wing to our voices.”

At first the mourners just looked at one another. Then what happened was incredible. Many of them began relating unique stories that they had experienced with him. They spoke of the
legacy he had left. His kindness. His loyalty. His capacity to deal with failure. His unyielding affection. His friendship.

Others, now more at ease, joked about his mannerisms. There were those who said he loved nature. One friend said, “I never met anyone as stubborn and obstinate.” And in a setting where usually no one smiles, people laughed at the memory, including Antonio and the widow, because they knew how stubborn he could be. A friend added, “But he taught me that we must never give up on what we love.”

There were twenty incredible minutes of heartfelt memories. People didn’t know how to describe the fascinating emotional experience they had had. Marco Aurelio was alive. At that moment, the dreamseller looked at us, his disciples, and said, whether joking or serious I don’t know, “When I die, don’t despair. Instead, speak of my dreams and my wild desires.”

Some people laughed at the strange and amusing man who had lifted them from the valley of despair to the peak of serenity. As incredible as it seems, even young Antonio smiled. There, in that room where so many lavished praised on the deceased, the dreamseller sold a dream to the young boy who had lost his father.

“Antonio, look what a brilliant human being your father was, despite his shortcomings. Don’t hold back your tears. Weep as many times as you desire, but don’t let his loss make you lose hope. Just the opposite. Honor your father by living maturely. Honor him by confronting your fears. Praise him by being generous, creative, affectionate, sincere. Live wisely. I believe that if your father could use my voice at this moment to say something to you, he would implore you: ‘Son, go forward! Don’t be afraid of the journey. Be afraid of missing out on life.’”

Antonio felt his spirits lift. That was all he needed to hear. He would still cry. Longing would beat mercilessly in his chest. But he would know how to put commas instead of periods in
his life when he encountered loneliness, when he came upon sorrow. His life would take on new dimensions.

The dreamseller prepared to leave, but first he left the mourners with his final thoughts, the same questions that had shaken me atop the San Pablo Building.

“Are we living atoms that disintegrate and never again become what they were? What is existence or nonexistence? What mortal can know? Who has dissected death to expose its true essence? Is death the end or the beginning?”

Enraptured, people approached me and asked, “Who is that man? Where does he come from?” What could I answer? I didn’t know either. They asked the same of Bartholomew and, unfortunately, he found himself answering the questions. Honeymouth enjoyed weaving theories about things he didn’t know. Puffing out his chest, he replied:

“Who’s the chief? He’s from another world. And if you need anything, I’m his adviser on international affairs.”

Dimas, the newest member of our group, stunned by everything he’d heard, replied honestly. “I don’t know who he is. All I know is he dresses like a pauper but he seems to be very rich, indeed.”

Sofia, Antonio’s mother, was deeply grateful and bursting with curiosity. When she saw him about to leave without saying anything more, she asked, “Who are you? What religion do you preach? Where do you learn these teachings?”

He looked at her and calmly answered:

“I’m not a priest, a theologian or a philosopher. I’m just a wanderer trying to understand who I am. A traveler who once doubted God, but, after crossing a great desert, has discovered that he is the architect of all existence.”

Upon hearing him, I again fell deep in thought. I didn’t know that the dreamseller had been an atheist like me. But something had changed in him. His relationship with God troubled me; it
wasn’t based on religion, tradition or self-pity, but was rooted in an incomprehensible friendship. Who is he, then? What desert had he crossed? Could he have cried more than the people at the wake? Where had he lived, where was he born? Before more questions could bubble up in my mind, he started to leave. Sofia extended both hands to him and wordlessly declared her gratitude. Antonio couldn’t contain himself. He gave the dreamseller a long embrace that moved everyone and asked, “Where can I find you again? Where do you live?”

“My home is the world,” the dreamseller replied. “You can find me in some avenue of existence.”

And he left, leaving everyone astonished. We, his disciples, were speechless. For the moment, at least, he quieted our uncertainties. We were beginning to believe it was worthwhile to follow him, little knowing the storms that awaited us.

We made our way slowly through the gathering. The people wanted to meet him, speak with him, open up some chapters of their lives, but he humbly passed them by. He wasn’t fond of praise. We, on the other hand, were starting to feel important. Dimas and Bartholomew, who had always lived at the edge of society, felt their egos swell, attacked by a virus I knew all too well.

T
HE DAY WOULD HAVE BEEN PERFECT IF NOT FOR THE
surprise awaiting us just around the corner. The funeral home was large, and there were several enormous rooms, each separate from the others so several families could mourn their loved ones at once. When we left the hall where Marco Aurelio was being mourned, we passed through another wake, that of a seventy-five-year-old woman.

But a man who walked by caught the dreamseller’s attention. He was a young man of about thirty, curly hair, short, navy blue suit and a white shirt. He was good-looking, with a well-modulated voice, imposing. The dreamseller quietly followed him.

The man approached the old woman’s coffin confidently. Apparently he was some sort of priest. To me, he seemed harmless, but the dreamseller didn’t see it that way. The man positioned himself at the foot of the coffin and made a gesture of reverence. Little by little he revealed his face, and we soon saw his true intentions.

His name was Edson, but people called him the Miracle Worker. Edson had a penchant for “performing” miracles. Oh, he wanted to help others. But there was always a motive behind his aid: He loved attention. Edson wasn’t the spiritual leader
charged with offering words of consolation at the funeral. He was there out of self-interest.

Incredible as it seems, the Miracle Worker desired to resurrect the old woman. He wanted to put on a dazzling show capable of making the spectators bow at his feet; he actually hoped to awaken the elderly woman from death and be recognized as the bearer of a supernatural gift. Just as Caligula used his power to be hailed as a god on earth, Edson hoped to use his knowledge of the Bible to invoke the supernatural and be treated like a demigod himself—although he never would have admitted it.

As a sociologist I had learned that there is no power as complete as religion. Dictators, politicians, intellectuals, psychiatrists and psychologists fail to penetrate the minds of others like certain religious figures. Because they represent a deity, these men can achieve a status the likes of which Napoleon or Hitler never could.