The Dreamseller: The Calling Read Online Free PDF Page B

than intimidation. And I had begun to greatly admire the charismatic dreamseller.
    It made me think about my relationship with my students. I was a vault of information but had never understood that charisma is fundamental to teaching. First you fell in love with the dreamseller’s charisma, then you opened to his teachings. I was afflicted with the same disease of most intellectuals: I was boring. I had been dull, critical, demanding. Even I couldn’t stand myself.
    The police chief, now shamed by the dreamseller, turned quickly to me and, like a child who has been told to apologize, said, “I’m happy for you, sir.”
    In a softer tone, the officer asked for the dreamseller’s identification.
    The reply was simple: “I don’t have any ID.”
    “How can that be? Everybody needs some kind of identification. Without it, you have no . . . identity.”
    “My identity is what I am,” the dreamseller said.
    “You can be arrested if you don’t identify yourself. You could be a terrorist, a public threat, a psychopath. Who are you?” the policeman asked, slipping back into an aggressive tone.
    I saw where this was headed. The dreamseller replied:
    “I’ll answer you if you answer me first. On whose authority should you be able to know my most intimate secrets? What are your credentials for plumbing the depths of my mind?” he said flatly.
    The policeman took the bait. He started to raise his voice, not knowing he’d be trapped by his own wit.
    “I’m Pedro Alcantara, chief of police of this district,” he said, radiating a proud and self-confident air.
    Annoyed, the dreamseller said, “I didn’t ask about your profession, your social status or your activities. I want to know about your essence. Who is the human being beneath that uniform?”
    The police officer quickly scratched an eyebrow, revealing a nervous tick he’d hidden away, not knowing how to respond. Lowering his voice, the dreamseller asked another question: “What is your greatest dream?”
    “My greatest dream? Well, I, I . . .” he stammered, again not knowing how to reply.
    Never had anyone using so few words confronted this pillar of authority. He remained motionless. I could look into the dreamseller’s eyes and see what he was thinking. The police chief protected “normal” people but couldn’t protect his own emotions.
    That’s when I began to see myself in him. And what I saw bothered me. How could a person without dreams protect society, unless he was a robot whose sole function was to makearrests? How could someone without dreams mold citizens who dream of being free and united?
    Then the dreamseller added, “Careful. You fight for public safety, but fear and loneliness are the thieves that steal our emotions, and they can be more dangerous than common criminals. Your son doesn’t need a chief of police. He needs a shoulder to cry on, a friend with whom he can share secret feelings and who teaches him to think. Live that dream.”
    The police chief was speechless. He had been trained to deal with criminals, to arrest them, and had never heard of thieves who invade the mind. He didn’t know what to do without his weapon and his badge. Like most “normal” people, including me, he defined himself through his profession. At home, he didn’t know how to be a father, only a police officer. He was unable to separate the two roles. He won medals for bravery, but was wasting away as a human being.
    I wondered how the dreamseller knew the chief had a son, or whether he had made a lucky guess. But I saw the police chief squirming, as if handcuffed inside his mind, trying to escape from a prison years in the making.
    The psychiatrist couldn’t hold back any longer. Seeing the police chief at a loss, he tried to trip up the dreamseller. Using psychiatry, he tried to rattle the dreamseller, saying, “Anyone who won’t reveal his identity is hiding his own frailty.”
    “Do you think I’m frail?” asked the dreamseller.
    “I