The Dreamseller: The Calling (13 page)

A crowd, that only seconds earlier was ready to applaud the Miracle Worker, was now growing into a mob ready to pummel him. But the dreamseller stopped them. With one question he tamed an angry mob and rescued the man who loved power:

“Wait! Why do you want to hurt this man? What matters most, his actions or his intent?”

Tempers cooled and people began to disperse. Bartholomew, still confused, said, “Chief, you need to explain to me what you just said.”

Calmly, with the Miracle Worker still shrinking from the crowd, the dreamseller explained:

“A man’s actions may warrant our outrage. His methods can be criticized. But what we should focus on are a person’s intentions.”

For the first time in his life, Edson had performed a real miracle—and had almost been lynched for it. We had criticized his attitude, looking only at his actions. Unlike the dreamseller, we hadn’t seen the altruistic reasons for what he had done; we simply wanted him as far away as possible from us and our little sociological experiment. But before we could say a word, the dreamseller did what we feared most. He looked at the Miracle Worker and casually told him:

“Come, follow me and I will show you miracles unlike any you’ve ever known, miracles that can cure our ailing society.”

When we heard the dreamseller’s call, my two friends and I embraced one another. Some might have thought we were moved, but actually we were disappointed in ourselves. In that moment, we realized how easy it is to fall under the spell of prejudice. We had accepted scoundrels, drunks and stupidly prideful people into our group, but we had discriminated against the religious types, especially so-called miracle workers. We had to adjust our thinking to the dreamseller’s will with a heavy dose of patience and tolerance.

Edson was euphoric about being called. He didn’t understand it, but knew that this dreamseller, however strange, possessed great powers of persuasion. He thought that if he learned the dreamseller’s techniques, he could use them to go far. He couldn’t imagine the depths of the journey he was about to begin. He couldn’t imagine the bitter pain he would suffer curing himself of his obsession with power. Deep down, he was as addicted to power as Honeymouth was to alcohol, as I was to my ego, as Angel Hand was to the art of the con. We were addicts, all of us.

W
E WERE NO SECT, NO POLITICAL PARTY. WE WERE NOT
part of a foundation or any official organization. We didn’t rely on public welfare, didn’t even know where we’d sleep or what we’d eat. We depended on spontaneous donations from people, and sometimes we bathed in public shelters. We were a band of dreamers who wanted to change the world, or at least our world. Still, we had no guarantee whether we would change anything or cause more confusion. But I was beginning to love this lifestyle, a pleasant sociological experiment, albeit one full of unknowns.

Some were starting to recognize the dreamseller from the news. They would interrupt his walk, feeling the need to tell him their problems. He enjoyed listening to them. After minutes or hours of hearing them vent, he would encourage them to make choices and understand that every choice comes with frustrations and not merely gains.

Gradually, the dreamseller acquired more disciples, each more interesting than the last. The swallows were learning to fly within a system that threatened to clip their wings. But we also learned not to make grand plans for the future. The future didn’t belong to us. Life was a celebration, even though the wine always eventually ran out.

We learned to kiss old people and feel the markings of time. We learned to pay attention to children and delight in their innocence. We learned to talk to beggars and journey through their incredible worlds. Priests, nuns, pastors, Muslims, Buddhists, would-be suicides, depressives, neurotics . . . there were so many beautiful and interesting people around us who were ignored by society.

I was starting to develop a new sensitivity to others, an empathy. Even though my pridefulness was dormant, it wasn’t yet dead. I recalled action films I had seen. How many countless extras were killed in movies, faceless people who, in the real world, had entire life stories, complete with fear and love, bravery and cowardice. To the dreamseller, there were no extras in society. He praised the poor, calling them to be his closest friends. He cared deeply for those who lived at society’s margins.

Just when I thought my sensitivity was at its height, one of those supporting actors came into my life and made me see that I was still only just a beginner. We were on Kennedy Avenue when we saw a young man of about twenty, close to six feet tall, curly hair, dark skin. His name was Solomon Salles. He had these wild gestures that made even children flinch. He would wink uncontrollably and move his neck restlessly, flexing his trapezius muscles. Before going through a door he would jump three times, believing that if he skipped the routine even once, someone in his family would die. He had severe obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Besides all these bizarre compulsive rituals, the oddest thing of all was that Solomon couldn’t see a hole, whether in walls, the ground or furniture, without feeling the urge to stick his right index finger into it. As we were watching him, he was crouching, sticking his finger in various small openings in the sidewalk.

Passersby made fun of him. To tell the truth, we couldn’t hold back either, though we tried to disguise our laughter. We thought we’d finally found someone more messed up than any of us. But the dreamseller was upset at our reactions.

“Is this young man more fragile than we are, or stronger?” he asked us pointedly. “What price does he pay for having to live with his tics in public? Is he weak or gifted with unusual courage? I don’t know about you, but beyond a doubt he’s a stronger man than me.”

We fell silent, but he went on:

“How often do you think this young man has felt he was in the center ring of a circus, as he is now? How many sleepless nights has he spent thinking about the laughter of others? How many times has he felt the white-hot sting of prejudice?” And so we would truly feel the burn of our discrimination, he concluded, “Criticism injures a person, but prejudice annihilates him.”

Whenever the dreamseller analyzed one of us, he stripped us, leaving us “naked.” I discovered that people like me, who always defended human rights, are grossly prejudiced in some areas, even if this barbarity is subtly manifested in a hypocritical smile or in indifferent silence. We’re worse than vampires. We kill without extracting blood. He continued:

“If you want to sell the dream of unity, you have to perceive the suffering of others. You have to learn to dry the tears never shed, the anguish never verbalized, the fears hidden below an impassive face. The ones who don’t develop such characteristics will have traces of psychopathy even if they live in unsuspecting settings, like the temples of universities or the temples of business, politics or religion. They’ll pressure, wound, coerce, without feeling the pain of others. Is that you?” he asked us.

I tried taking a deep breath to see if I could get oxygen to my brain. Could I have traces of psychopathy? Classic psychopaths are easily discerned, but those with subtle traces of
psychopathy can disguise their insensitivity behind their academic titles, their ethics or their spirituality. I wore a disguise.

I never sought out my son to ask him about his fears, his frustrations. I imposed rules on John Marcus, pointed out his mistakes, but I never sold him the most important dream: That I wanted to know him, to love him and to be loved by him. I never sought out a student who looked sad, irritable or indifferent. I never lent my shoulder for another professor to cry on. To me, professors were technicians and not people. My arrogance turned against me like a boomerang.

When I was ready to give up on life, my colleagues and students had no idea of my emotional state. An intellectual like me couldn’t declare his pain. To them, depression was something that happened to weak people. No one noticed the suffering secretly drawn on my face. Were they blind or was I incapable of showing my feelings? I still don’t know.

As the dreamseller always advised us, no one is a hundred percent villain or a hundred percent victim. I was insensitive but also surrounded by people with low levels of sensitivity. I didn’t need applause or praise. What I needed was just a shoulder to cry on, to feel the support of people saying, “I’m here. You can count on me.”

When the dreamseller made us see the courage and greatness of the young man with OCD, he offered us a challenge: “Are you going to sell dreams to him?” He said nothing more, awaiting our reaction.

We remained silent. After endless seconds with a lump in our throats, we felt lost. It was an odd reaction for a group of supposedly experienced people. We didn’t know what to say. We didn’t know what he would think of us. Just a few minutes earlier we had branded him a lunatic, and now we were afraid of being branded lunatics by him. Isn’t that what insanity is? We went from one extreme to the other.

The dreamseller remained silent and made us uncomfortable. We knew how to ridicule the misfortune of others but not how to alleviate it. We were creative when it came to exclusion but helpless in matters of inclusion. If someone asked the Miracle Worker to deliver a long, bombastic speech to the young man, it would be an easy task, but asking him to sell dreams paralyzed him. If Bartholomew were under the influence and was asked to make friends with the stranger, it would be no problem. But sober, it was much more complicated. If someone asked Angel Hand to steal his wallet then give it back to win his admiration, it would be easy. But charming someone with words was an almost impossible task for him.

If they asked me to teach a class to demonstrate my sophistication, I’d have no problem. But for me to win over a stranger, my fellow man, without using the power of information, was a hellish task. I knew how to address large audiences but not how to engage a man alone. I had been trained to speak about Kant, Hegel, Auguste Comte, Marx, but not about myself. The system had made a mockery of our humanity. And I had nurtured it.

Since there was no instruction manual for selling dreams to an obsessive, and since the dreamseller refused to offer guidance, I shyly tried my hand. I, the most urbane of the group, was also the most unbending. Honeymouth, worn down by life, crouched down and tried to stick his hands in the holes in an effort to initiate contact. But the young man just laughed at him. Bartholomew felt like a fool, and the young man went on with his compulsion.

Edson couldn’t stand watching it. He turned his back and covered his mouth, trying helplessly to stifle his laughter. Suddenly, the obsessive young man stood up and saw the opening in the Miracle Worker’s Dumbo-like right ear. He rushed over and stuck his finger in Edson’s ear, making the Miracle Worker
leap to the heavens and shout, “Away with you, demon, this body doesn’t belong to you!”

Solomon was startled at the Miracle Worker’s rudeness. Edson put his hands on his head, realizing that once again he had displayed his weakness for the supernatural. This time, however, he’d gone too far. He had wanted to cast out the mental illness lodged in the man’s brain. But Solomon looked wounded.

“I’ve been called crazy, psychotic, mad, demented, insane, bonkers, off my rocker, but possessed by demons is a first,” he said.

Edson saw how deeply he had hurt the young man. He realized that deep down, he had trouble accepting people who were different, and, in effect, was selling nightmares instead of dreams.

“Forgive me. Please, forgive me,” Edson said solemnly. “I was stupid and unjust and superficial. I actually think you’re much stronger than me. You put up with mockery while I look for applause.”

Edson’s honest and courageous words fascinated us. He had begun to achieve one of the most difficult miracles, that of humility. Like him, I had never asked for anyone’s forgiveness. We were small gods, I in the temple of knowledge, Edson in the temple of spirituality. We were beginning to understand that we only became strong when we allow ourselves to be fragile.

That moment of honesty broke the ice. We introduced ourselves to the young man and began to become part of his life. He had attempted to study psychology but had to give it up because his professors said an obsessive couldn’t treat the mentally ill. He tried law school but had to give it up because his professors said an obsessive with such wild obsessions wouldn’t be taken seriously by his clients, much less when presenting arguments in court.

He hadn’t lasted three months at any job. No one wanted to hire a person seemingly unable to control his behavior. He didn’t have a girlfriend because no one wanted to be with someone who was constantly being insulted. His whole existence was based on exclusion. Nevertheless, he was a very strong human being, as the dreamseller had imagined. Despite those mounting difficulties he hadn’t become depressed or thought about taking his own life, as I had. He had serious issues, to be sure. But despite those moments when he felt rejected, he had learned to enjoy life. He lived better than the disciples. We were the ones who needed to buy dreams from him, and he knew it.