A Dream for Sale - The Currency of Hope
A Dream for Sale
The Currency of Hope
I remember arriving by bus in the early morning. The mist was just beginning to clear. An old man wearing an apron opened the doors of his bakery and set chairs outside, the smell of freshly baked bread drifting into the street. A nun glided downhill on a bicycle, her veil fluttering in the cool air, and she smiled at me as if to welcome me home.
Lenan was the nearest town where I could make my dream of becoming an artist real. It had a modest art school, and by fortune—or maybe grace—I had been invited to study there under a scholarship, part of a local program to elevate the education of its citizens.
There were few cars in those days. We walked everywhere, and so everyone crossed paths daily. Within weeks, I felt like a local. The baker even gave me a discount for being a regular customer.
People took pride in being good neighbors, in keeping the streets clean, in living modest but full lives. Though Lenan was not wealthy or booming like the capital, it felt whole—like we were succeeding together.
One morning, hurrying across the plaza for one of my art classes, I noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the ground. I happily bent to pick it up. I remember feeling a little pride—my first small good deed for Lenan. Distracted, I bumped into a short man in a coat and hat.
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quickly.
He chuckled. “Hehehe, don’t worry, my son. I was distracted too—watching you pick up that paper.”
“I was just going to throw it away,” I said.
“I knew you would. And on behalf of the town of Lenan, I want to personally thank you.”
“It’s nothing, really. I just… like this town. It’s the right thing to do.”
“I know,” he nodded. “It’s the little things that make the big difference.”
We wished each other a good day, and I ran off, still smiling.
A week later, I saw his picture in the local newspaper. It was Lenan’s beloved elected mayor, Enrique Aguirre. The article was a tribute—he had suddenly died of a heart attack at just fifty-seven. The story told of his youth, when he had been the best newspaper boy the town had ever known, how he knew every name, every family, every need. He had helped build the soccer field, organized church festivals, made neighbors into collaborators. Beloved, selfless, and full of energy, he had served as mayor for three decades. He was the reason Lenan - was Lenan - the town I so much loved.
I closed the paper and felt a lump in my throat. Sad that I hadn’t introduced myself by name to him that day when we bumped into each other. Sadder still that Lenan had lost its role model. And in the back of my mind, an unease began to stir: if the town’s heart had suddenly stopped beating, who would carry it forward now?
I was so distracted by school that at first I almost didn't see small signs of change that began to creep into Lenan. One morning I noticed a trash can near the plaza overflowing, garbage spilling onto the cobblestones. It was unusual—almost unthinkable—for this town. A few days later, a car tore downhill, horn blaring for no reason, sending a spray of muddy water across the bakery’s front door. Someone muttered, half in despair:
“This town’s changing.”
And change it did.
First came the gallery. It was dedicated to racecars—something that had no roots in our traditions or culture. Still, for me and my college friends, it was novel, almost magical. Red carpet, dusty trophies, projectors replaying black-and-white races. To us, it was like a movie theater—a place to dream, to feel that anything might be possible. It was there, under the flicker of the reels, that I kissed the first girl of my life.
But incongruities multiplied. A fast-food donut chain opened across from one of our oldest churches. It felt like a violation—a cheap intrusion into something timeless. People tried the donuts out of curiosity, but they weren’t part of our lives. The shop failed quickly, leaving behind a hollow shell, a scar that disfigured the town’s face.
Then came the cars. Cheap imports, brittle machines that no local mechanic could repair and no spare parts could be found for. One by one, their lifeless chassis began littering the roadsides like abandoned promises.
Years later, the very arts school that had drawn me to Lenan was swallowed by mismanagement. The dorms where I had lived were torn down to make way for a hotel that was never finished, leaving behind a ruin of scaffolding and dust—a half-built dream, suffocating under greed.
In the plaza one afternoon, I overheard an old man grumble to his friends about new fees required to “register” his house with the town notary—something in all the years living in Lenan he was never asked to do before. The words tasted sour. Responsibility, they called it. Extortion, it felt like.
With the leadership of Mayor Aguirre gone, opportunists moved in, preying on the weakness of the town, each staking their claim on Lenan’s beauty. What had once been a community bound by trust and care became fractured, suspicious, easy to exploit.
And for many of us—those who remembered what Lenan had been—it felt like losing someone you loved slowly, piece by piece.
I first saw him at a bar—cheerful, magnetic, surrounded by admirers. He paid for drinks, told stories, and made everyone laugh. His white collared shirt was pressed, his hair perfect, his presence sharp. He looked like someone meant for a bigger stage than our small town.
When I asked a friend who he was, I learned his name: Lino García, son of a wealthy cattle rancher owner from the city. He had studied law at one of the finest english speaking universities in the country. He was well-traveled, well-connected, and—so the rumor went—had left city life behind to settle in Lenan.
He had all the trappings of success, but even that first night, something felt a little rehearsed about him. His stories seemed polished, the kind you tell often because they’ve been practiced. His laugh was half a second too quick, his smile sometimes faltering when the crowd’s attention wavered. Still, he carried himself with a charisma that was hard to resist, and I wasn’t immune.
I resolved to meet him. Perhaps his optimism might rub off on me. I wasn’t the only one—people seemed drawn to him, clinging to the sense of hope he gave off like perfume.
When I finally introduced myself, I felt an idea take root. Perhaps this man—this polished outsider—could be the one to lead Lenan back to what it once was. I told him as much. I told him he could be our mayor. That he could restore our town’s dignity, and that he might even become the most influential figure Lenan had seen in decades.
At the mention of power, his interest sharpened. What began as idle talk turned into late-night brainstorming. He told me he was destined to be a great administrator. I believed him—not because of his words, but because I wanted to believe. I was desperate for any thread of hope to bring Lenan back to life.
With the election window open, we threw ourselves into it. I offered him what I had: my connections. I knew the people. I had roots here. He brought in one of his own—an old friend who, he said, managed his money. Soon, this man became the one I had to speak with about everything—an “unofficial chief of staff.” When I asked Lino directly about campaign details, he brushed me aside, always smiling, always charming, but never answering.
Still, I worked hard. I rallied support, called in favors. Friends from the art school printed banners and posters. I asked the nuns to pass flyers, convinced the baker to hang election flags in his shop. I even commissioned my friend Andrés to paint a mural—something to inspire, to symbolize a rebirth. My vision for it was clear: the old burned away, the new rising with the dawn. A sunlit Lenan reborn.
I even passed the collection plate at church, coaxing donations from the elderly who trusted me.
But through all of this, Lino kept me at a distance. Every request had to go through his chief of staff. When I asked about funds for Andrés’s mural, I was told to just send the invoice, that it would be “handled.”
And though I didn’t see it then, there was a quiet unease in the way he operated—a man who talked of building a new Lenan but never got his own hands dirty, who inspired hope yet kept his real intentions tucked away, hidden behind polished words and practiced smiles.
I was too hopeful, too blinded by the dream of what Lenan could become, to notice what was happening right in front of me.
Lino won by a landslide. The town was jubilant, and I was beside myself with pride. For a moment, it felt like triumph.
In the plaza, a mural was being painted—my mural, commissioned in hope. It showed the burning of the old order, the promise of a rising dawn. Andrés worked with bold, confident strokes. I reached out, smudged a patch of paint with my thumb. It was still wet. As an artist I already knew that this cheap paint was never going to last.
Buses pulled in, unloading strangers in fine clothes. They looked wealthy, important—or at least more important than us. Locals like me were roped off from the main square while those strangers sipped catered wine.
Then the music stopped. Lino stepped onto a balcony, framed against the mountains. The people cheered, children on shoulders, flags waving. For them, it was history.
But the speech was short, awkward, almost empty. He barely spoke. A lawyer from one of the wine families took the microphone instead. His voice was smooth, distant, and he spoke not of Lenan but of “order,” of “prosperity,” and of “our distinguished guests.”
The locals cheered anyway, clapping at the pauses they couldn’t quite hear, pressed shoulder to shoulder under the sun.
Then came the slip of paper—the official mayor’s salary. The man on the balcony announced it with a grin: “Ten thousand and four hundred pesos a month!” The bus crowd erupted in laughter. Their laughter echoed through the plaza. I didn’t get the joke. To me, it sounded like a fine number. I felt confused, like a child missing the meaning of a secret shared by adults. But I saw Lino’s face redden. A bead of sweat traced down his forehead.
That evening, the election staff was summoned to a private wine cellar. It was no celebration—it was an initiation. The families who owned the land, the oil, the wine, and the law surrounded him. They flattered him, told him he’d shine, told him he would be “important.” But the message was clear: he had to do what he was told.
“What did you think?” one of them said. “That we’d let a boy whose father bought him an election just to be rid of him play with the big toys?”
The laughter that followed was sharper, colder. Bigger sharks already circled.
Later, Lino, his chief of staff, and I walked to a clearing behind the mansion. Lino pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one with ease, like he’d smoked all his life. Not the pristine man from the posters, but someone else. His mood had hardened.
“Diez te dan en cuatro,” he muttered, staring into the distance. Then he turned to his chief of staff. “Find someone else to run this town. Put an ad in the paper. I’m not working a single day here.”
I stood dumb, still clinging to hope. “What do you mean? How much does it even pay?”
He pulled the folded paper from his pocket, the number still mocking him. The cigarette trembled at his lips as he spat out the truth.
“It means ten men fucking you while you’re on your knees. That’s what it means. This salary is a joke. I can’t even redo my kitchen with that. And with these families looking over my shoulder, I won’t get a chance to skim a peso. I’m not staying in this dump. Find some local clerk to lick stamps. I’m going skiing.”
That was the moment the laughter from earlier returned as an echo, sharper now, as the joke was on me. Proof that I’d been naïve all along. Lino was never here to save Lenan. He was just another opportunist here to cash a check, and even that was beneath him.
My heart was beating fast and I was having trouble breathing. I felt hollow. I had worked for the very same corruption I’d once wanted to clean from this town.
I stumbled back to the square as though gut-shot, confetti crushed underfoot. The poor of Lenan were still cheering, still waving their flags, still believing.
At the gallery, the same projectors whirred, showing those old reels of race cars. What once had felt like possibility now looked absurd—a shrine to irrelevance, a monument to vanity.
The buses rolled away. My girlfriend walked past me, already smiling at other men, already moving toward a better place in the food chain. People angled for their positions in the new order.
I caught Andrés leaving the mural. “When will you come back to finish it?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m not. This was just for show.”
I was befuddled, numb. As I turned, behind me the mural stood unfinished. A few drops of rain began to fall, streaking the wall, the paint running like mascara down a weeping face. That was what the people had been given—not change, not hope, only cheap paint on a mural that would never be finished.
And as the colors dissolved into the rain, I remembered my first morning in Lenan—the mist clearing, the bakery opening, the nun’s smile as she coasted downhill. Back then, it had felt like innocence was safe.
Now, all that remained was a ghost of that promise, dripping away like the paint on the wall.
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