The Dreamseller: The Calling (25 page)

He paused to allow us to assimilate his ideas, then continued:

“Turning the other cheek is a symbol of maturity and internal strength. It doesn’t refer to the physical cheek but to the mental one. Turning the other cheek means trying to do good to someone who disappoints us, it means having the grace to praise someone who defames us, the altruism to be kind to someone who hates us. It means walking away from those looking for a fight. Turning the other cheek prevents murders, injuries and lifelong scars. The weak seek vengeance; the strong protect themselves.”

Edson soaked in these words like rain to dry earth. That episode helped him take a major emotional leap forward, polished his wisdom and expanded the frontiers of his mind. He contributed greatly to our movement.

The dreamseller’s words penetrated all of us like a bolt of lightning. They had such an impact that the Orthodox Jews and Muslims who were present turned and hugged each other. I looked at my friend, Professor Marco Antonio. I remembered that I had come down hard on my enemies at the university. I never learned that those who turn the other cheek are much happier, much calmer and sleep soundly at night.

Jurema whispered in my ear, “I taught for more than thirty years. But I have to admit that I produced many aggressive, vengeful, heartless students.”

And I thought to myself, “So did I. Without realizing it, in the structured confines of universities, we produced dictators in the making.”

A commotion broke out as I was deep in thought. Bartholomew and Barnabas had finally appeared—completely drunk. Bartholomew had been so happy at finding his old friend that he let down his guard. He knocked back a few drinks to celebrate and got drunk on vodka again.

They had their arms around each other. Their legs got tangled up as they walked, and to keep from falling down, each clung to the other. They showed up singing a Nelson Gonçalves song:

Bohemia, I’m back again, begging to rejoin you.

Crying for joy, I’ve come to see the friends I left behind.

As if his bingeing weren’t enough, Bartholomew looked at the group and yelled out his favorite phrase: “Oh, how I love this life!”

“Shut up, Bartholomew!” we called out in chorus, laughing.

But he didn’t shut up. Instead, almost falling over, he called out the dreamseller and questioned his project. His face flushed, and emboldened by everyone watching him, he said:

“Listen, chief, this whole deal about being ‘humans without border,’ that’s old news. Real old, you know?” He tried, and failed, to snap his fingers to emphasize his point. He continued, “Alcoholics have known about that for years and years and years . . . No alcoholic is better than any other. They all kiss each other, they all hug, they all sing together. We don’t have a country or a flag. You get what I’m saying?”

I watched the dreamseller. He had invested so much of his time in training us. He had had the patience of Job, and now, as his dream was becoming a reality, he had to deal with this
mess. But the dreamseller just walked up to them and hugged them. And jokingly, he said, “Some people can live outside the cocoon forever. Others need to come home now and then.”

And instead of being disappointed, he seconded Honeymouth’s idea.

“It’s true, alcoholics are human beings without borders, especially when they’re not aggressive. Why? Because in certain cases the effect of alcohol blocks the memories that hold our prejudices and our cultural, national and social barriers. But it’s better and safer to achieve that goal while sober, through the difficult art of thinking and choosing.”

And he began to dance among us, filled with energy. He understood that one person could not change another; it has to come from within. He knew, better than any of us, that the dangers of living outside the cocoon were many and unforeseeable.

Watching the dreamseller lovingly coach his “students” who had strayed completely, I was convinced that the greatness of a teacher lies not in how he teaches his perfect students, but in how he teaches the most difficult ones. How many crimes against teaching had I committed? I had never encouraged a rebellious student or helped one who was struggling.

I took Jurema aside and told her, “I’ve buried students in the basement of the educational system.”

Jurema, examining her own history, had the courage to confess:

“Unfortunately, so have I. Instead of encouraging creative rebellion, intuition and thoughtful reasoning, I demanded only the ‘right’ answers. We molded paranoid young predators, desperate to be number one, and not peacemakers, tolerant individuals who feel worthy of being number nine or ten.”

It felt like we were leaving behind our sociological infancy and entering into childhood. The celebration lasted till the
early hours. We were drunk with joy. Barnabas was invited to join our team of dreamsellers, and he and Bartholomew became the most eccentric pair in the bunch. We didn’t know whether they had been reformed or whether they would make us even crazier than we already were. But it doesn’t matter. We, too, were learning to love this life.

T
HE DREAMSELLER’S FAME WAS GROWING EACH DAY AND
was starting to seep into the world of finance. Businessmen and executives had heard about this unusual stranger, and because they were always eager to learn new inspiring leadership styles, they asked me to invite the dreamseller to give a lecture. They wanted to meet this man who was setting society on fire.

In my experience, the elite were only interested in three things: money, money, money. I almost told him immediately that the dreamseller wouldn’t accept the invitation, but not wanting to be presumptuous, I passed along the news.

However, I was in for a surprise. After thinking about the invitation for a while, the dreamseller said he would talk to them, but in a setting of his choosing. And he gave me the address. It was a location I had never heard of. I didn’t know the size of the amphitheater, whether it had air-conditioning and comfortable chairs. I only knew that his audience was used to luxurious accommodations and to getting their way.

I was told the audience would consist of close to a hundred businessmen and executives, of whom only five were women. There were entrepreneurs, bankers, owners of large construction companies, of supermarket networks, of retail chain stores
and other sectors. They represented the richest and most powerful people in the state.

They were delighted that the dreamseller had accepted the invitation. But since I had always been suspicious of these people, I wanted to scare them, to tell them they had no idea what awaited them. I said that the dreamseller was so radical, he would make Lenin the communist seem ordinary. My jibe made them squirm, but I only doubled the threat. I told them that the dreamseller might call them capitalist vipers who lived to exploit the poor. They were not amused. They seemed to be rethinking the invitation, but even so, they wanted to hear this man’s fascinating ideas.

The leaders received their invitations, and some found it strange that they didn’t recognize the address, since they were used to attending events at the city finest venues. The night of the meeting, the dreamseller set off ahead of us. He seemed to want to meditate before the event. “Could he be preparing for battle?” I thought. “Was he asking God for the wisdom to be able to rattle these elite individuals? This is his golden opportunity to break the backs of the financial elite,” I thought. But I was wrong. I had no idea that what was about to happen would leave me at a loss for words.

We didn’t know the address either, so we asked around as we walked. We were nearing the address, but couldn’t find the location on the dimly lit street. Eventually, we came across another group of people who seemed lost, the businessmen and executives. They thought I’d given them the wrong address. But I assured them that it was the address the dreamseller had given me. Still, I thought they might be right. Maybe he had mistakenly given us the wrong address, since he didn’t run in these high-society circles and didn’t know exactly where the city’s amphitheaters were.

The business leaders thought they’d been fooled. But we
decided to go a bit further up the street together in search of the site. Suddenly, we found ourselves at the entrance to a huge, gloomy cemetery. It was the famous Recoleta Cemetery. We checked the street number the dreamseller had given us and the numbers matched. I thought to myself, “If people thought the dreamseller was crazy before, they’re sure of it now.”

“I don’t mind confronting my mental demons, but this is too much,” Solomon said. “I hate cemeteries, especially at night. Let’s get out of here.”

I took his arm and asked him to stay calm. The elite participants were beginning to arrive in their luxury cars and to gather around the gates. Everyone was confused. For the first time, I humbled myself in the presence of that group, apologizing for the mistaken address.

Suddenly, just as we were about to leave, the gates of the cemetery swung open, their hinges creaking. Honeymouth clung to Angel Hand.

“I’d need a couple of bottles of vodka in me before I went in there,” he said trembling.

No sooner had Bartholomew said this than a strange, terrifying figure appeared. We couldn’t see its face in the inky night. But it clearly was gesturing for us to step through the gates. Inside, under gas lamps throughout the cemetery, we saw the face of tonight’s speaker, the dreamseller. The address was no mistake.

All of us, disciples and businessmen alike, moved slowly and apprehensively toward a wide open area where everyone could stand. We looked at one another for answers, all thinking the same thing: “What am I doing here?” This would be the first time in history a leadership conference had been held in a cemetery. And it was appropriate. Because it would be the first time that the hurried world of the living would be discussed among the dead.

As we gathered around, the dreamseller used his deep, vibrant voice to greet the participants in an unusual manner:

“Welcome, all of you, the future rich residents of the cemetery. Please, make yourselves at home.”

The businessmen’s legs weakened. They were used to great competitive battles, to taking phenomenal risks, but they had never faced a challenge like this. They had been knocked out in the first round by a stranger. I didn’t know what to say or how to react, and those around me were frozen. Recoleta Cemetery is imposing. It’s a cemetery for the wealthy. Its mausoleums are truly works of art.

Seeing us deep in thought, the dreamseller continued to let his ideas flow.

“The notable men and women of society lie here. Dreams, nightmares, secret feelings, visible emotions, anxiety attacks, moments of rare pleasure made up the lives of each human being who rests here. Their stories sleep here, forever. And other than their loved ones, no one ever thinks about them.”

We didn’t know what the dreamseller was getting at, whether the conference had begun or even if there would be a conference. We only knew that his words were taking us on a journey through our own stories. That in the past of those buried here we might see our own future. His talk, which seemed intended to cause fear, began to take on an unexplainable tenderness. Then he made a request of all of us:

“Take ten minutes to read the gracious epitaphs on the front of the mausoleums.”

I had never taken the time to do anything like that. Despite the failing light, we began moving through the cemetery’s passageways, reading the engraved messages that celebrated the existence of people now departed. So much longing! So many inscriptions! So many words laden with noble sentiments! Some messages said, “To my kind and gentle husband, who
will be greatly missed by his loving wife. May God grant him peace”; “To our beloved father: Time stole you from us, but it can never steal the love we feel for you”; “Dad, you are unforgettable. I will love you forever”; “To my irreplaceable friend: Thank you for having lived and having been part of our lives.”

I don’t know what happened to me when I read those messages, but I became lost in emotion. I began to remember the ones I had lost. I never wrote a plaque for my father. Nor even thanked him for giving me life. His suicide blocked out my feelings. Not even for my brave mother had I written a message, other than the one I carry silently in my mind: “I love you. Thank you for having put up with my rebelliousness.”

I looked to the side and saw that my friends and the businessmen were moved. They had traveled through time, opened the doors of their subconscious and encountered their excruciating frailty. They were men who ran companies with thousands of employees, but now they were simply mortals.

At that moment, I saw that the dreamseller had stripped them of their pridefulness, shut off their defense mechanisms, removed the security they took in their financial status. When he opened his mouth, he said something every businessman hates to hear, “Where are the proletarians of today, and who are they?”

I thought to myself, “These businesspeople won’t stand for this.” No one answered. The question, though seemingly obvious, was not. Then he stood the theory of utopia on its head.