The Dreamseller: The Calling by Augusto Cury Page A

Me? I was worried.
    I looked ahead and tried to relax. The dreamseller watched me with a half-smile; he seemed to hear my doubts. I imagined we were heading to his humble home. Judging by his clothes, he seemed to be poor, but surely he must have a rented house or apartment. Maybe it wasn’t much to look at, but he was so insistent that we join him, I figured there must be enough room for his guests, Bartholomew and me. The thought of sleeping in the same room with that drunkard turned my stomach.
    Maybe the room where I’d sleep would be simple but comfortable. Maybe the mattress would be worn but decent. Maybe the sheets would be old, but at least they’d be clean. Maybehis refrigerator wasn’t packed, but I imagined there would be something healthy to eat. After all, I was hungry and exhausted. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . I thought, but I wasn’t sure of anything.
    Along the way, he waved at children and adults, helped a few people carry heavy bags. Bartholomew said hi to everyone, even trees and lampposts. I waved, too, but only not to seem out of place.
    Most people responded with a smile. I wondered how the dreamseller knew all of them. But, of course, he didn’t know them. It was just his way. He treated any stranger as an equal. And, in fact, to him, no person was a stranger. He greeted them because it made him happy. I had never seen such a lively, good-natured, sociable person. He didn’t just sell dreams, he lived them.
    We walked for blocks, then for miles, but never seemed to be any closer to his home. A long while later, when I couldn’t walk any further, he stopped at an intersection and I let out a sigh of relief. We’re here, I thought to myself. Yes, he said, we had arrived.
    I looked to the left and saw a row of identical, white, low-income homes with small porches. I scratched my head and thought, “The houses look really small. They can’t have three bedrooms.”
    Then the dreamseller looked down the other street. Behind a bridge was a tall apartment building that looked to have about eight rooms per floor, like a pigeon coop for people. It looked even more cramped than the row houses.
    Remembering my own students, I said to myself, “I’m not going to complain. It’ll just be a tough night and that’s that.” The dreamseller saw the look on my face and said, “Don’t worry. There’s plenty of room.”
    Trying to disguise my worry, I asked calmly, “So what floor is your apartment on?”
    “My apartment? My apartment is the world,” he said calmly.
    “I like that apartment,” Bartholomew said.
    Confused, I asked, “What do you mean?”
    He explained:
    “Foxes have their dens, the birds of the sky their nests, but the dreamseller has no fixed address to lay his head.”
    If I was nervous before, I really worried when he started quoting Jesus Christ. Did this man think he was the Messiah? Could he be having a psychotic break? Or would he have one later? I mean, he seemed highly intelligent. And he speaks of God in a secular way. But I couldn’t help wonder who this man was. And what I was getting myself into.
    “Don’t worry,” the dreamseller said, “I’m not Him. I only try to understand Him.”
    “You’re not who?” I asked, not following.
    “I’m not Jesus Christ. Like I said, I’m just the least of his brethren. I just try to understand him,” he replied calmly.
    “But who are you?” I repeated anxiously, seeking a fuller explanation that never seemed to come.
    He said emphatically, “I’ve already told you who I am. Don’t you believe in me?”
    Bartholomew should have kept quiet just then, but he didn’t have it in him. He tried to correct me by saying, “You don’t believe he’s the alien commander.”
    This time I couldn’t hold back.
    “Shut up,
Trashmouth,
” I shouted.
    “Trashmouth? You second-rate snob!” he shouted and struck a karate pose. This would be the first of many arguments among the dreamseller’s ragtag band of disciples.
    The