The Dreamseller: The Calling (15 page)

“Make . . . the . . . the old folks hap . . . happy? How, dreamseller? They ha . . . have one foot in the grave.” He knew how to pick old people’s pockets, how to worry them half to death, but he had never cheered up or had a deep conversation with one of them.

“Dimas, prejudice will age you more than the passing of time. Inside, you’re older than many of them,” the dreamseller said.

“If it were up to me, I could solve their problems in about two minutes,” Bartholomew added. “I’d give ‘em a couple quarts of booze and get the party started.”

He immediately apologized. Edson and Solomon also didn’t know how to achieve the miracle of happiness. We were all at a loss.

Before we realized it, the dreamseller had already set off for some unknown destination. The group gathered, each one explained his ideas, we formulated a strategy and went in search of materials, returning two hours later.

Honeymouth was wearing a long wig and dark glasses and was chewing gum. Excited, he told us, “Guys, I’ve got it! We’ll pretend we’re normal.” We all burst out laughing.

We headed for the nursing home. Before I could say anything, Bartholomew again took the lead. He made up what sounded like a pretty good story to get us in.

“OK, here’s the deal. We’re a professional band of musicians and we want to put on a show for the people here. For free. We don’t need money but any donations are welcome.”

When he mentioned donations, I poked him. That wasn’t in the script. Dimas was wearing a red hat and dark Ray-Ban–type glasses. I had on a long pigtail wig. Solomon sported thick sideburns like Elvis Presley’s. Edson had a red ribbon on his head and a long collarless T-shirt. We borrowed the outfits saying we were putting on a fund-raiser and had promised to return them afterward.

The nursing home staff looked suspiciously at our costumes, but since young people rarely came to visit the elderly, the staff wanted to see what we had in store. I said to myself, “What are you doing here? This isn’t going to work.” An impromptu audience was arranged. More than a hundred retirees sat down quietly in front of our so-called band.

We had two battered guitars. The Miracle Worker, who claimed to have learned to play in his church band, played way out of tune. And Solomon, who had the other, wasn’t much better. I blew into a sax, trying to recall the handful of notes I had learned in a few classes with my grandfather. Dimas had a double bass and didn’t know what to do with it. Honeymouth was—what else?—on lead vocals. But he assured us that he could carry a tune and said he used to sing in nightclubs when he was more or less sober.

We played our first piece of music, a rock ballad. But we were nervous and stiff. Honeymouth’s voice was a disaster; he couldn’t keep up with the music and it probably would have been better if he had just danced along—not that he realized how awful he was. Our audience just watched us. We thought maybe things should be livelier. We stopped halfway through the first song and broke into a heavy metal jam. Oh, what a ruckus we made. We were really worked up, shaking our hips, jumping around the stage, but from the old folks? Nothing. Not even Honeymouth’s verbal gymnastics with that off-key voice drew a laugh.

I thought: “We’re toast. We’ve just made these people’s depression worse.” Bartholomew broke into his anthem, a samba, and we just tried to keep up: “
I drink, yes I do, I’m livin’, there’s folks who don’t drink and are dyin’, I drink, yes I do.
”

And he repeated the refrain, looking at the old people, believing a little alcohol in some form would get them moving.

But no one sang. Or clapped. Or smiled. Or so much as moved. Instead of selling dreams, we were selling embarrassment. We looked at the nursing staff and saw that they were motionless, too. Like us, they thought the elderly had one foot in the grave and were just waiting for death. Just when the afternoon was looking like one of the worst since we started following the dreamseller, he returned. When they saw him, several of the old men and women rushed to hug him passionately. That was when we realized that he was a frequent visitor here.

The dreamseller handed out our instruments to the audience, though they could barely hold them. We thought they wouldn’t even realize what a guitar, saxophone or double bass were, much less be able to play them. To our surprise, three of the men, Mr. Lauro, Mr. Michel and Mr. Lucio, took the two guitars and the double bass, positioned them correctly, and began to play in tune. The sound that emerged made us tingle. We couldn’t believe what we were hearing.

A woman picked up the saxophone and put on a show. I was speechless. “Wait,” I thought, “isn’t this supposed to be a warehouse for old people awaiting death?” We were shocked—and humbled—to realize this place was a prison for full, rich, gifted people with incredible repressed potential.

The dreamseller delighted in hearing them. Then he took Bartholomew’s microphone, and gave it to a much older gentleman, who could barely walk. But when he breathed into the microphone, his voice was unrivaled even by Frank Sinatra.

Then the dreamseller called the elderly who could still
move about to the floor and began to dance with them. Even I started to dance. It was a riot. These old folks turned that nursing home upside down. Smiles sprang onto their faces and they felt like people once again. Of course they had looked at us like we were idiots. We had underestimated them and given them our worst, thinking that just because they were old—that their muscles were weak, their memory failing—they would swallow whatever pathetic show we put on.

Many of them had enjoyed a wonderful childhood, much better than mine. And now, the child within awakened from its slumber. Later, the dreamseller would tell us he had sent us to the nursing home not with the intention of our selling them dreams but so we could buy dreams from them. He showed us there is no such thing as a person without worth, only someone who is grossly undervalued.

Upon hearing these words, I realized another mistake I had made. My grandfather, Paulo, was fun and sociable. He died almost fifteen years after my mother, but I never let myself into his world. I had felt rejected by my uncles and cousins, and so I ended up rejecting my grandfather. Every victim bears the scars of a hostage. I had admired my grandfather’s ability to play instruments, but had never asked about his tears and his fears. I never valued his great sense of humor and his lifetime of experiences. I missed out on enjoying such a surprising human being.

That day, the dreamseller wove together thoughts that still echo in my mind:

“The time between youth and old age is shorter than you can imagine. Whoever doesn’t delight in reaching old age isn’t worthy of his youth. Don’t fool yourselves: A person doesn’t die when his heart stops beating. He dies when the world tells him he’s no longer of any value.”

T
HE EVENT THAT OCCURRED IN THE NURSING HOME CAME
to light not because a journalist was present but because a nurse photographed it and gave the information to a newspaper. Ever since our visit to the nursing home, our days were filled with commotion. As the days went by, our group became ever stronger. We formed close ties despite our bickering. We held lively outdoor round tables to discuss our own stories and what we’d seen in society.

At least once a week the dreamseller invited new people—bricklayers, painters, sculptors, gas station attendants, mechanics, garbage collectors—into our expansive “home” to sit on fruit crates and tell us about their lives. They were delighted at the invitation. And we had never had as good a time communing with our fellow man, listening to stories of their real difficulties and expectations, dreams and nightmares, passions and disillusionments. It was a unique sociological experience, a magical apprenticeship.

Meanwhile, the dreamseller’s fame was growing. He had become a mythic figure in the city. People in cars would point at him and tell one another, “Isn’t that the guy who stopped traffic near the San Pablo Building?” “Isn’t that the same one who shook up an old folks’ home and a wake?” Judging by
how “normals” like a spectacle, they’d soon be saying he raised the dead.

One day, a man of about sixty with a serious and tormented expression recognized the dreamseller on the street. He called to the dreamseller and hurried to catch up to us.

“Master,” he said. “For thirty years I worked for the same company. I truly started to come into my own as a manager and distinguished myself among my peers. But my boss didn’t like it and started finding all sorts of ways of making my life hell for years until he finally fired me. I gave that company my all, but I was tossed aside like trash. I became depressed. I felt betrayed and didn’t have the courage to start all over again with a new company. Besides, they prefer young employees who’ll take less pay. I hate my old boss with all my heart. What can I do?”

The man’s lips trembled. He appeared to be looking for some kind of relief amid the agony. The dreamseller looked first at us, then at him, and stated:

“Envy and revenge are phenomena exclusive to the human race. No other species has them. He envied you because you had something he didn’t. But there’s a way to exact revenge on him.”

I was confused. “What kind of man am I following?” I thought. “Isn’t he the master of forgiveness?”

Bartholomew liked the dreamseller’s attitude. Echoing his words, he said, “That’s right. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Give the guy a good punch in the mouth.”

Dimas puffed out his chest. “If you need somebody to get your back, you found him,” he said and began making karate gestures.

Honeymouth was emboldened. He began to shout and make disjointed karate chops like he was some kind of sensei. The two started play-fighting and Dimas, without meaning to, popped Honeymouth upside the head and dropped him like a
bad habit. He went out cold and was slow to get up. When we rushed to his side, he rubbed his head and told Dimas, “Are you mad at me?”

Bartholomew realized this eye-for-an-eye was a dangerous business. The fired manager, watching this, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“How should I get even?” he asked the dreamseller.

“By killing him,” the dreamseller replied flatly.

My legs buckled. I never thought I’d hear those words come out of the dreamseller’s mouth. My heart was pounding and I even thought about leaving the group that very moment. Then, dripping hatred, the man bared his true intent.

“You’re right. That’s what I’m going to do. That son of bitch doesn’t deserve to live.” But before the man could leave, the dreamseller searched for the root of his hate.

“The greatest revenge you can take against any enemy is to forgive him. Kill him inside yourself.”

“How do I do that?” the man asked, surprised.

“The weak kill their enemies’ body; the strong kill how they regard their enemies. Those who kill the body are murderers. Those who kill what they represent are wise.”

The man started to feel light-headed. We had to grab him and lean him against the closest wall. The dreamseller went up to him again, looked him straight in the eyes and said:

“Take your revenge by reclaiming your peace of mind and by shining even more in your next job. Otherwise, he will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

The man stood paralyzed for several seconds. Then he regained his composure and realized that he couldn’t behave like a victim, like a poor fool who only fuels his anger. He should take action, but a different kind. He gave the dreamseller a long embrace, the way a son hugs his father. And when he left, he was clearly headed down a different path.

That’s when I noticed the revolver bulging under his shirt. I was flabbergasted. The man really was ready to commit murder. Only then did I understand the dreamseller’s shocking attitude. No gentle words would have dissuaded this man, just like when I tried to commit suicide. The dreamseller hadn’t wiped out his desire for vengeance; he had just redirected it.

“What kind of therapy is this?” I wondered.

Days later, the Consumer Electronics Show, the greatest consumer electronics fair in the world, was taking place in the wealthiest part of the city. More than 2,500 companies were participating and some 140,000 visitors from more than 130 countries were expected. Even in a down economy, end-users and retailers eagerly flocked to the event, which proved the industry had experienced uninterrupted growth.

The dreamseller turned his attention toward the big event; he wanted to stand in the temple of electronics. We couldn’t understand why he was so interested in the event since it looked like he had never even used a computer. But he simply said, “Let’s go to the fair.”

Skittish, we followed him. The event was way too upscale for people like us. After all, we were unkempt in torn shirts and frayed and patched jeans. We weren’t part of any corporation, and of course, didn’t have an invitation. We looked as if we had teleported from some rural area of the 1900s into the peak of the twenty-first century.

Bartholomew, trying to put us at ease, repeated his famous phrase: “Guys! Let’s pretend we’re ‘normals.’” Immediately, our posture improved, we tried to smooth our hair and walked upright and confident.