The Dreamseller: The Calling (18 page)

But the dreamseller disagreed with the central idea of anarchism. To him, without constitution and institutions, human beings could commit atrocities, trounce the rights of others, assassinate, extort, live only for themselves and display unrivaled savagery. Nor did he want to replay the hippie movement, which had emerged in the wake of America’s war in Vietnam. Young people’s frustration with the war generated disillusionment with institutions, and that had become the seed of a movement of peace and love, but one without social commitments.

The dreamseller’s plan to sell dreams, on the other hand, was replete with commitments to society, especially to human rights, freedom and mental health. That’s why he recommended to those who would follow him that they not abandon their activities in society. Only a few, maybe the weirdest, were called to his training.

Bartholomew didn’t know what to answer. He just scratched his head and replied with philosophical simplicity: “Look here, my friend, I don’t know if we’re anarchists or not. What I do know is that until a short time ago I didn’t know who I was.”

“And now you do?” the interviewer asked. But our friend tied his mind in more complex knots.

“Now? I know even less. I don’t know who I am or what I am, because what I used to think I was isn’t what I am at all. I
still don’t understand who I am, but I’m searching to find myself. You understand?”

“No!” answered the reporter, completely confused.

“Thank goodness! I thought I was the only one who didn’t,” Bartholomew said. “Look, my friend, I only know that I used to live falling down drunk every day, but now I’m lifting others up.” And, staring at the journalist, he extended a friendly invitation: “Wouldn’t you like to be part of the group?”

“Not me! That’s crazy stuff,” the other man scoffed.

At that, Bartholomew countered, “Now, wait a minute. What do you know about being crazy? Being crazy is a beautiful thing!”

He playfully hopped up, spread his arms and began to dance and sing his favorite song in that unsteady voice: “I’m going to go crazy, too crazy . . .” The reporter left without saying good-bye, as Bartholomew sang on: “Oh, how I love this life!” He shook his hips and sang, “I’m going to go crazy, too, too crazy . . .” He was lost in the moment.

The journalist, before interviewing Bartholomew, had already mapped out his article. He merely needed to confirm some facts with Bartholomew. He had let prejudice guide him.

But Bartholomew was so euphoric with his first interview that he lost his way. He decided to celebrate the only way he knew how. He went to a bar and got wasted. It was his third relapse since he was called, except that the first two had been mild. This time he ended up passed out on the sidewalk.

We started to worry when he went missing. The dreamseller set us out to look for him. My friends and I said impatiently to each other, “Again? The guy’s hopeless.” After an hour, we found him, almost unconscious. We tried to lift him to his feet, but he could barely stand, and he just let his body dangle like deadweight. We each took an arm and lifted, while Dimas pushed from behind.

Bartholomew, his voice slurred, complained to Dimas, “Not so hard, bud. My bumper’s a little temperamental . . .”

And he passed gas—often and loudly and noxiously, joking, “Sorry about the broken tailpipe, guys.”

We all felt like smacking him. I said to myself: “I left the world of ideas in the academy to listen to the ideas of a drunk. Unbelievable!” I had never loved my fellow man unless there was something in it for me. Now I was taking care of someone who, besides offering me nothing in return, drew me away from serious reflection and made fun of me. We had to carry him the last hundred feet to the bridge. The hardest part was putting up with his declaration of love for us:

“I love you, guys, I love you so, so, so, so much . . .”

“Shut up, Bartholomew!” sweating and exhausted, we said in chorus. But it was no use. Asking him to keep quiet just made him louder. Twice more on the way to the bridge he loved us. Maybe he was being sincere, maybe his affection was greater than ours. As soon as we got to the bridge, he tried to give us all kisses of gratitude. We dropped him on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

“
Mis amigos,
it’s a privilege for you to take me in your arms,” he said.

Impatiently, we complained to the dreamseller. “What this guy needs is Alcoholics Anonymous.” But without Bartholomew, there was no laughter in our group.

“Send him to a mental institution,” Dimas said.

“Master, how long do we have to put up with this?” the Miracle Worker asked.

We weren’t happy with his response.

“It’s a privilege to carry him,” the dreamseller said.

Bartholomew, even intoxicated, felt validated. “You heard the chief. I’m not worthless!” he said almost incomprehensively but clear enough to raise our tempers.

“It’s better to carry than to be carried,” the dreamseller said. And he added something that once again flew in the face of my atheism:

“The god constructed by man, the religious god, is merciless, intolerant, elitist and prejudiced. But the god who hides behind the scenes of existence is generous. His capacity to forgive has no limits. It inspires us to carry those who frustrate us as often as necessary.”

While the dreamseller was speaking, I started to doubt him. I remembered my sociological analysis of texts from the Old Testament, which portrayed a rigid, aggressive, intolerant god. “Where is the generous god, if he accepted only the people of Israel?” I asked myself. As if reading my thoughts, the dreamseller said:

“God’s generosity and forgiveness was shown by Jesus when he called Judas his friend, amid the act of betrayal, and when Jesus called out from the cross, ‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ He protected those who hated him, he loved his enemies and that love made him intercede on behalf of his torturers.”

His words exposed my own lack of generosity. I had never known how to forgive. I had never forgiven my son for using drugs. To me, he had taken his excellent upbringing for granted. I had never forgiven my wife for leaving me. To me, she had left one of the best men in the world. I had never forgiven my father for killing himself. To me, he had committed the greatest of crimes in having abandoned me while I was still a child. I had never forgiven my faculty colleagues who betrayed me after they had promised their support.

Now, with the dreamseller’s guidance, I had the chance to forgive by carrying a childish, confused, irresponsible alcoholic. How could I do that without complaining? It was incredibly difficult for me. But I was actually coming to love that clown. Bartholomew had what I’d always wanted: authenticity
and self-esteem. Sociologically speaking, irresponsible people are happier than responsible people. The problem is that the irresponsible depend on the responsible to carry them.

The next day, we saw the consequence of Bartholomew’s interview. Plastered across the front page of the major newspaper was a photo of the dreamseller under the headline: “Psychotic Calls Society a ‘World of Madness.’”

The journalist wrote that there was a lunatic who claimed that mankind was on its way to becoming a gigantic worldwide insane asylum. But this time—according to the lunatic—that asylum wasn’t some gloomy, ugly, stinking, dark place like the psychiatric hospitals of the past, but a pleasant, colorful setting full of sophisticated machines, a perfect place to indulge our madness without being inconvenienced by it.

He gave speeches in public places, with the intention of changing the mind-set of people. No one knew his origins, but to deceive people he called himself by an attractive name, “the Dreamseller.”

The article included photos of onlookers hypnotized by him and went on to say the guy was stark raving mad but charismatic and provocative. His power of seduction was unrivaled. Even intelligent businessmen fell into his trap, the article said. A gang of misfits followed him. The story said that the dreamseller didn’t work miracles or consider himself a messiah, but not since the time of Jesus had the world seen a lunatic so boldly trying to reproduce his steps.

The reporter made no mention of the dreamseller’s provocative ideas. He said nothing about the need to dialogue with one’s self, the sleep of unawareness to which computers are eternally condemned, the excesses of society that cause us to die prematurely in our minds. He concluded the piece by saying that the dreamseller’s followers were a band of anarchists who put democracy at risk and who might commit terrorist acts.

The article burned our real story to the ground, devastating our project and our true intent. We were profoundly depressed and discouraged. We couldn’t go on, I thought. Once again, the dreamseller tried to ease our minds:

“Remember the swallows,” he said, calming us. “It’s not our calling to be myths.

“Never forget that it’s impossible to serve two masters: Either we sell dreams or we concern ourselves with our image in society; either we remain loyal to our conscience or we fall prey to what others think and say about us,” he said.

And once again he gave us the option to leave:

“Don’t worry about me. You have already brought great joy to me and to many others. I’ve learned to love you and admire you the way you are. I don’t want to put your lives in danger. It’s better that you go.”

But where would we go? We wouldn’t any longer succeed as “normals,” servants to a system wracked with tedious social routine, slaves complaining about life as we waited for death. The selfishness of the past still lived inside us, but was slowly losing ground to the pleasure of serving others.

We decided to stay. After all, if the person most defamed by the story felt free, why should we chain ourselves?

That very day, we saw the article had backfired. The story, instead of killing the movement, added fuel to it. People couldn’t take more news about murders, accidents, rapes, robberies. In a city marked by sadness, the dreamseller became a social phenomenon.

People were hungry for something new, even if it were clothed in madness. The dreamseller became that novelty, made into a local celebrity, which was precisely what we most feared. From then on, he began to be followed by paparazzi.

Upon realizing his growing fame, he warned us:

“To create a god, all that’s needed is a bit of charisma and
leadership in a climate of social stress. Be careful, the system gives but also takes away, especially our humanity.”

I understood the dreamseller’s warning. The most cultured people on earth, a people who had won Nobel Prizes in the early twentieth century, enthroned Hitler in a period of social crisis. Times of crisis are times of change, for better or for worse. Recalling the risks of power, the dreamseller said:

“The majority of people are unprepared to assume power. Power awakens phantoms—blackmail, vanity and a hunger for power—which are hidden beneath a cloak of humility.

“Power in the hands of a wise man makes him into an apprentice,” he continued, “but in the hands of a fool turns him into a tyrant. If you acquire great power one day, what demons will you face?”

His question shook me. When I took over as chair of the department, I became hard, inflexible, demanding. I came to understand that we cannot judge a person by the mildness of his voice, the kindness of his acts or the simplicity of his attire, but only after he has been given power and money.

The dreamseller spoke in a way that intrigued me. He gave the impression of someone who had tasted real power. But what power could someone so poor, with no home and no identity, have had?

Some religious people began to hold his ideas in great esteem, but others were concerned about the attention he was gaining; God was their personal property. They were the erudite theologians, experts in divinity. A penniless man who lived under bridges wasn’t qualified to talk about God, they said. Some religious radicals wondered, “Couldn’t he be a prophet of evil? The Antichrist foretold centuries ago?” He had become an emblematic figure. He wanted to move about unnoticed, but it was impossible for him to hide.

People began asking for his autograph everywhere we went. But, looking them in the eye, he said to their surprise:

“How can I give an autograph to someone as important or more important than I am? It would take decades to get to know you a bit, to understand some of the pillars of your intelligence and unveil some of the phenomena that make up the construction of your thoughts. I’m the one who feels honored to meet you. Please, give me your autograph.”

They would leave his presence speechless and reflective. And some even bought the dream that there are no celebrities or “ordinary” people, only complex human beings with different places in society.

I
N THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED, IT WAS ALL BLUE SKIES FOR US.
No social trouble. No rejection. We were enjoying prestige, attention and recognition. Not bad for someone who challenged the powerful system and resided in inhospitable places. But we had no idea what lay ahead.