The Dream Merchant
It is somewhere, I am sure, that Juvenal relates the wonderful story of a quarter old in Rome when Rome was young, where an ancient Jewish family eked out a living selling dreams. Bystanders wandered in and out of the merchant's stall, passing the time, talking of dreams they might purchase. Workers and slaves stooped from labor asked timidly for dreams of wine and ease. Women asked for dreams of love, and men for dreams of women. Senators hustled themselves ostentatiously into the cramped quarter, their servants pushing aside the goats that still gathered in the streets, cropping the grass between the cobblestones, and demanded dreams of eloquence and power. Late at night, when Rome lay dark, the sleepless sidled along the narrow alleyways that led to the dream merchant's stall, their lanterns held aloft and with their knuckles rapped on the dream merchant's shuttered window.
"Who's there?" he would hiss indignantly. "At this hour."
"I cannot sleep, I need a dream."
There was a pause as the merchant fumbled with his tunic, and then a clatter. The door opened. He stood there, the lantern throwing a flickering light on his narrow, ruined face.
"A dream you want? What kind of dream."
"Any dream. Any dream at all."
"For five denarii you can dream of milk and honey."
"I have two."
"Dream of goats and donkeys, then," said the merchant, closing the door slyly.
"And for three?"
"For three denarii? You can dream of Jerusalem."
"I am not a Jew."
"Beggars can't be choosers," observed the merchant.
"Very well. Let me dream of Jerusalem."
The clank of money filled the night air, and then the merchant closed the door.
One day in winter, when the Roman streets were filled with fog, and men hustled themselves from the baths with their tunics clasped around their throats, a small brown man dressed in the Greek fashion knocked on the door of the dream merchant's stall.
"I am here on behalf of my master," he said, speaking with the derisive accent of one whose native language is not Latin.
The dream merchant fingered his long snow-white beard.
"That you're here, I can see for myself," he said. "What is it that your master wants?"
"A dream."
"I have dreams and I have dreams."
"My master is wealthy."
"Let him dream of beauty, then," said the dream merchant.
"For one hundred denarii he can dream that he occupies a palace made of beaten gold. There is the scent of incense in the air. He will lie on a bed of silk, underneath crushed violets, and women with dark black eyes will fan the perfumed air and sing for him."
The small brown servant withdrew a leather pouch from beneath his tunic and carefully counted one hundred denarii. The dream merchant accepted the money, held up his finger, and withdrew into the soiled interior of his stall. In a few moments he was back, carrying the dream of beauty.
The next day was the Sabbath. The dream merchant's stall was closed and shuttered, but the day after that, the small brown man was back. He knocked again at the door of the stall. The dream merchant regarded him with old hooded eyes.
"And so?"
"My master was very pleased, " he said, "but now that he has dreamed of beauty, he wishes to dream of love."
The dream merchant nodded sagely and said, "For two hundred denarii, your master can dream that he has spent the night within the Temple of Love where the Goddess Aphrodite herself will bewitch him with her charms. He will couch to sighs of spring and taste the fruits of paradise."
Once again, the little brown man withdrew this purse from beneath his tunic and once again the dream merchant brought forth a dream.
A week passed in which the dream merchant sold dreams to soldiers, stiff from battle, and to women, who had given birth to stillborn children, and to fortune-tellers, oppressed by signs and symbols.
"And then the little brown man was back. The dream merchant regarded him with his old hooded eyes.
"And so," he said again.
"My master was very pleased," he said. "But now that he has dreamed of beauty and love, he wishes to dream of truth."
"Ah," said the dream merchant. "That is my most expensive dream. Few wish to dream of truth and fewer still can pay for it."
"How much is it, to dream of truth?"
The dream merchant paused, as if he were calculating the sum. Then he said brusquely, "If your master wishes to dream of truth, he must come here himself and I will give him the dream."
The servant withdrew.
The next day, there was a commotion in the quarter as a palanquin, preceded by four armed guards, elbowed its way through the district, causing goats and chickens to scatter in every direction. The palanquin stopped before the dream merchant's stall, and a tall, plump man of perhaps fifty wearing an immaculate tunic emerged and after motioning to one of his guards to rap on the dream merchant's door, stood there solemnly in the brilliant winter sunshine.
The dream merchant emerged, rubbing his eyes.
"I am Aristarchus," said the man, speaking in Greek. "I am here because I wish to dream of truth."
The dream merchant shrugged his shoulder and then rubbed the forefinger and thumb of his right hand together.
Aristarchus raised his eyebrows in order to ask the price.
"One thousand denarii," said the dream merchant.
Aristarchus appeared to hesitate, whereupon the dream merchant began to close the door to his stall.
"Now understand me," Aristarchus said quickly. "It is not the thousand denarii." He gestured to his expensive palanquin and to the bodyguards standing patiently beside it.
"What then?"
"I have read the philosophers," said Aristarchus slowly, "And I have listed to the soothsayers and I have spoken to the priests who know the Eleusinian mysteries, but I have never seen the truth. Will I see the truth if I dream this dream?"
The dream merchant shrugged his thin shoulders underneath his stained caftan. "Even in dreams, no man sees all of the truth."
"What part will I see?" Aristarchus asked.
"The part that you can see," replied the dream merchant.
Aristarchus stood for a moment lost in thought, and then, making up his mind, motioned to his servant, who had been standing quietly beside the palanquin, to fetch the thousand denarii.
The dream merchant accepted the coins gravely and withdrew into his stall. Fifteen minutes passed when at last the dream merchant emerged with the dream of truth, which he placed in the hands of the servant. Aristarchus nodded and stepped back to his palanquin.
A day passed and then a week. On the day following celebrations at the Temple of Jupiter, there was again a commotion in the quarter where the dream merchant had his stall and again Arisitarchus's palanquin, surrounded by his personal guards, made its way through the narrow streets.
The palanquin stopped with a clatter before the stall. Aristarchus emerged, preceded by his servant. He motioned to his servant to fetch the dream merchant.
After a few moments, the dream merchant appeared. He looked at Aristarchus standing in the sunlight and said, "Good morning," quietly.
Aristarchus said, "I dreamed the dream of truth for seven nights."
"And?"
"Each night I dreamed that I was mounting a series of broad white steps, like those at the great Temple of Jupiter."
Aristarchus paused, as if he were collecting his thoughts. Then he continued, "At first, my heart beat violently in my chest. I could see that with each step I was getting closer and closer to the truth. I was filled with a great longing to see the sun."
The dream merchant looked quizzically at Aristarchus.
"I climbed higher and higher, until my legs began to ache."
From the small narrow streets around the dream merchant's stall came the squawking sounds of a Roman morning. Women were shouting to one another and the cries of children and chickens filled the air.
Aristarchus looked at the dream merchant. "As I climbed," he said, "I could feel the warmth of the sun emerging. Brightness fell from the air. The very steps glistened beneath my feet. A great feeling of happiness spread through my limbs."
The dream merchant continued to look at Aristarchus with his old hooded eyes but said nothing.
"It was then that I awoke," Aristarchus said. "The day was gray and I felt as if I were stepping into a cold bath."
"The next night, I dreamed the dream of truth again, and again I found myself mounting the same series of steps. This time I rose higher than before and again I saw brightness fall from the air."
A small, sly smile played across the dream merchant's face.
"And again I awoke," said Aristarchus, "and again the dawn was gray. For seven nights, I dreamed the dream of truth, and for seven nights, I climbed and climbed until I awoke, and for seven nights the dawn was gray."
"And?" asked the dream merchant.
"I am no closer to the truth than I was," said Aristarchus. "I sense its radiance, but I cannot reach it."
"You must dream the dream again," said the dream merchant.
"My dreams are valuable," said Aristarchus peevishly. "If I dream the dream again, when will I reach the truth?"
"When you have climbed all the stairs," said the dream merchant.
"And when will I have climbed all the stairs?"
"When you have reached the truth."
Aristarchus stood irresolutely in the spreading sunlight. Finally, he said, "That is not a very satisfactory answer."
"Yours was not a very satisfactory question," replied the dream merchant.
"It was not the dream I thought to dream," said Aristarchus.
The dream merchant spread his hands wide. "Nonetheless," he said, "it was the dream you dreamed."
For a long moment, Aristarchus stood quietly in the sunshine, as if he were thinking of what to say; finally, he motioned to his servant, who had been standing quietly by the palanquin, and in Greek told him to fetch the dream.
"At once, Master," said the servant, disappearing into the palanquin and reemerging with the dream.
"I am returning your dream," Aristarchus said gravely. "It is a dream I no longer wish to dream."
The dream merchant nodded his head as if to say the he understood that Aristarchus would have his money back but was too proud to ask. "It is expensive to dream of truth," he said. "By comparison, beauty and love are cheap."
For the first time, Aristarchus smiled broadly, revealing his even white teeth. He said something in rapid-fire Greek to his servant, who then presented the dream of truth to the dream merchant. "After all," he said, "money is only money."
"And truth is only truth," said the dream merchant.
"Yes," said Aristarchus.
And with that, he turned and reentered his palanquin, stooping low so that his head did not hit the carriage roof. There was a clatter and the palanquin proceeded down the narrow lane in front of the dream merchant's stall, preceded by its guards, who shooed children and chickens and the occasional goat from the way.
The dream merchant watched the procession recede until it had disappeared from sight. Just then, a young man wearing an immaculate tunic emerged from the lane that led to the dream merchant's stall. He had bright shiny eyes that were framed by the thick oiled hair that lay closely about his dark face. It was the poet Catullus.
He nodded courteously to the dream merchant, whom he knew very well, and said: "My Lesbia, I wish to dream of her again."
"Young men," he said, "wish always to dream of what they have lost."
Catullus looked at him curiously. "And old men?"
"Of what they have not found," said the dream merchant, turning on his heel to fetch the poet's dream.
From the book The Advent of the Algorithm by David Berlinski. Published by Harcourt, Inc., ©2000, page 36ff