The Dreamseller: The Calling by Augusto Cury

looked at the dreamseller and spoke so enthusiastically that he almost fell to the ground:
    “My great dream, chief? Russian vodka! Oh, oh, and to take a bath—” Everyone appeared heartened at this desire, because he certainly needed it. That is, until he finished. “—to take a bath in a vat of Scotch whiskey.” Then he fell into a sitting position. He was penniless and seemed in ecstasy at the thought of that singular bath.
    I couldn’t hold back. I started laughing at the sight of that poor clown and the dreamseller. But I was surprised at my sarcasm, and that deep down, I found pleasure in another’s misfortune. I thought to myself, “Let’s see how the dreamseller handles this one.”
    Before the dreamseller could answer, Jurema appeared with her cane and threatened to give Bartholomew another whack. She had overheard his dream and was indignant. This time she didn’t call him a pervert but a host of other names. “You inveterate alcoholic! Dreg of society! Insolent wastrel!”
    Honeymouth, who apparently had little schooling, thought they were compliments. “Thanks for the kind words, but a barrel of Brazilian rum or Mexican tequila would also be fine,” he said.
    The man was incorrigible. His drinking had been out of control for twenty years. For the last ten he had wandered from bar to bar, street to street, lost in the drink. I was certain that the dreamseller would never be able to teach that drunk anything. I was sure the dreamseller would dismiss him and quickly be done with him. But, to my surprise, he praised the man’s sincerity.
    “Well, congratulations on your honesty.”
    I cleared my ears to make sure I was hearing right. There’s no way the dreamseller was praising this drunk. Between the alcohol swimming in Bartholomew’s brain and the dreamseller’s praise, the man was euphoric. Feeling a self-esteem that he hadn’t known in years, he looked around at the mob that was jeering him just minutes earlier and yelled, “Aha! You see! I’m environmentally friendly. I run on alcohol.”
    Then he crossed his fingers and said, “I’m like
that
with this guy. He’s
the man
. Hey, can I take a ride in your spaceship, E.T.?” Then he tripped against a couple of people and almost fell again.
    I, who had always been intolerant, thought, “Ship the guy off to the loony bin.” The dreamseller looked at me, and for a second, I thought he was reading my mind and taking my advice. But, to my amazement, he said something that almost made me fall over. He touched Bartholomew’s shoulder and toldhim in a firm voice, “Come, follow me. And I’ll inebriate you with a drink unlike any you have ever known.”
    I was horrified. I shook my head to see if I understood what I’d heard. The drunk, who was weak both from dancing and from years of running on alcohol, immediately replied, “You say there’s a drink I don’t know about? I doubt it. Is it high-proof vodka?”
    I was embarrassed by the alcoholic’s naïve irreverence. But the dreamseller, finding it humorous, smiled. He was always able to relax in these tense situations. He looked at me and said, “Don’t worry, I specialize in the complicated ones.”
    I thought about running right then and there. Following this social outcast was one thing. Following him side by side with a witless drunk was too much. Who knew what risks lay ahead?

The World Is My Home
     

     
    T HE DREAMSELLER, BARTHOLOMEW AND I TURNED TO BEGIN our journey. As we were leaving, the crowd applauded. Some people even took photos. I had hoped for a discreet escape, but that idiot Honeymouth posed for pictures. I tried to lead him away without causing more of a scene. The last thing I wanted was to babysit a drunk. A few nearby reporters looked on and took notes.
    We hadn’t walked three blocks before I started wondering, “What am I doing here? Where are we going?” But my new companion wasn’t thinking at all. He was just happy to be part of our merry band of men.