The Story of My Teeth (5 page)

Rather than frittering away my money on trips, I’d spent the subsequent years in my own neighborhood, collecting the stories and objects that chance threw in my path or that I found in the local junkyard—a beautiful establishment whose owner, my friend Jorge Ibargüengoitia, gave me special access to for being a loyal client. Between what I’d acquired on my international travels and my new local collections, I had amassed an admirable estate. I knew that one day I’d hold a grand auction in my own house, in which I would offer my treasures to people worthy of the privilege; refined people, people of great breadth of vision. But all that was still in the
future, and I am a patient man. The suspension bridge connecting the warehouse to the auction house still had to be finished, the land-use permit had to be obtained, comfortable chairs for the bidders bought, and, most importantly, I had to employ someone to put together my catalog of collectibles.

For the lucky man, even the cock lays an egg, as Napoleón sings. One summer day, Father Luigi Amara, parish priest of Saint Apolonia’s, came to offer me his help. Or so I thought. He explained that his church had gone into economic recession as a collateral effect of the global crisis. He was in need of my services as an auctioneer and proposed a project that, he promised, would benefit me too—both in spiritual and material terms. And why lie? The economic crisis had affected me as well. I needed the money that Father Luigi assured me we would make if we joined forces in organizing an auction of collectibles in his church.

Father Luigi’s plan was simple. Once a month, Saint Apolonia’s offered a service for residents of the neighborhood care home for the elderly Serene Twilight, or maybe Sweet Twilight, or perhaps just Twilight—some name like that, as depressing as it was predictable. The monthly mass for these old people was to be held the following Sunday. The majority of them, according to Father Luigi, were from wealthy families. Advanced in years, but solvent, he said. We had to take maximum advantage of the venue and context of the mass to get some money out of them. We would sell that senile but well-heeled congregation a selection of my collectibles in order to raise funds for the parish: 30 percent for me; 70 percent for the church.

At first I thought the balance was unfair, considering that Father Luigi’s contribution was restricted to the use of his church and—at only the most distant remove—the bidders, who, numerous though they might be, were still just sickly old dodderers. With such an audience, the chances of a good auction were close to zero. But the reverend father cautioned me to think of the poor souls who would be cheered by my presence, and of the salvation of my own good soul. Although I’m not sure I believe in Hell, I do count myself among those who think it’s better to be safe than sorry. What’s more, Father Luigi readily agreed to my holding a hyperbolic auction, which was most ad hoc to the circumstances.

Of course, Highway, he said. The hyperbole is an effective means of transmission of the great power of the Holy Spirit.

I explained that what I meant was that I could tell stories whose degree of deviation from the value of the conic section of their related objects was greater than zero. In other words, as the great Quintilian had once said, by means of my hyberbolics, I could restore an object’s value through “an elegant surpassing of the truth.” This meant that the stories I would tell about the lots would all be based on facts that were, occasionally, exaggerated or, to put it another way, better
illuminated
. But Father Luigi, like all those of his profession, often turns a deaf ear to anything you say that doesn’t correspond to what he thinks you should have said.

I spent a few days deciding on the best collection to auction to an audience of elderly bidders. I walked around
my warehouse, made notes, and, of course, consulted my Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus tome, for inspiration. During those same days—serendipity, luck—I read an article about an auction in which a molar previously belonging to John Lennon had been sold. Lennon’s housekeeper, a certain Dot Jarlett, had held on to it for over half a century and had finally sold it to Omega Auction House. Although Omega listed it under an estimated price of sixteen thousand dollars, the piece had gone for thirty-two thousand. A stroke of genius is nothing more than putting A and B together: I remembered that among my collectibles were my old teeth. I am not a naïve man, and I knew that my teeth were not as valuable as John Lennon’s, but I could raise their value by the apposite use of my hyperbolic method. For each tooth, I would tell the hypertrue story of one of my favorite people, in the style of the profiles Suetonius wrote. After all, as Quintilian says, a hyperbolic is simply “a fissure in the relationship between style and reality.”

I offered my collection and explained my plan to Father Luigi. He agreed, without showing much interest either in my teeth’s fascinating details or in the story of John Lennon’s molar. That’s politicians for you, clergy included: their heads are so full of themselves that they aren’t the least bit curious about other people’s lives.

I had a final moment of doubt and reluctance before closing the deal. It wouldn’t be easy for me to publicly exhibit such an intimate branch of my collection. Moreover, I’d have preferred to save the items for when I held my grand auction. I finally agreed, of course, because I’m not a mean-spirited sort. But
also because I remembered a resplendent evening when I’d read about an auction in which, after the death of the Emperor Pertinax in 193, a praetorian guard had sold off the entire Roman Empire. In the light of history, it would have shown a lack of decorum and gravitas on my part not to accept the minor challenge fate had set before me. End of declaration.

T
HE DAY BEFORE THE
sale, a messenger took the collection of teeth to the church, where my pieces were to spend the night. Early the following morning, Father Luigi came by to pick me up. I was feeling unhinged and shaky from lack of sleep. I had been awake all night with insomnia, probably because there had been a full moon. I suppose Father Luigi interpreted my appearance as a sign of anxiety related to the imminent auction.

Nervous? he asked as we were walking out the monumental gateway into the street.

Not the least, I replied, my hands trembling like a pair of maracas.

We walked on in a silence so difficult to interpret that I preferred not to break it. Halfway there we felt hungry, so we stopped for a strawberry atole at Magalita’s stall and continued on our way, sipping from our Styrofoam cups. Once we were standing outside the church, Father Luigi—the tips of his mustache stained pink with strawberry atole—returned to the same topic:

You’re not going to back out on me now, are you?

Appearances can be deceptive, Father; I’m a stalwart man.

Look, Highway, it isn’t going to be easy, but just keep in mind that the parish has to be saved from the rampant capitalism that’s threatening it. Right? And while you’re at it, you’ll be cleansing your soul. Understood?

Understood, Father. But why keep harping on about it?

I’m not harping on. I just want to make it clear that these people are coming to see you, and their expectations are high. Maybe you don’t realize it, because you live there inside your ivory tower, but for a lot of people, you’re a legend. Everyone around here knows you.

You flatter me, Father. Go on, go on, don’t hold back.

But you have to take into account, Highway, that there are people who don’t necessarily love you very much. They all know you, and some admire you, but others don’t like you one little bit; some perhaps hate you.

I thought I caught a whiff of sweetening the pill. Well, like who?

Like your son.

Siddhartha’s coming?

Of course.

But you told me it would be just old rich people turning up to buy the teeth. That’s what we agreed on.

Yes, but when Siddhartha heard that you’d be selling part of your legendary collection, he wanted to see you in action. He’s curious about you.

Bring on the violins!

I was afraid you’d say something like that.

What do you expect? I’m a serious auctioneer. Not just someone’s clown.

Don’t get riled, no one’s saying you are. Just remember that this church is in crisis.

As you already mentioned.

So, are you ready, Highway?

I’m almost going cold, Father.

That’s good.

Just one other thing, Father. Do you know the story of Little Red Riding Hood in reverse?

Sorry?

I always say it through before auctions: it loosens my tongue and oils my jaw. Perhaps you’d like to say it with me.

How does it go?

Ttleli Red Dingri Hood was walking through the restfo, la-la-tra, la-la-tra, when suddenly, a big ryhai wolf appeared.

Very good, Highway, very good. You keep at it, and at ten fifteen, go into the church through the sacristy door. I’ll be giving the final blessing. Mass finishes at ten thirty. In the sacristy, you’ll find an altar boy who’ll give you a contract to sign; a mere formality. Then he’ll show you to the pulpit from which you’ll conduct the auction.
O.K
.?

Kayo, Father.

Fine.

Listen, Father. Is he a good kid?

Who? Siddhartha? He’s a hard worker.

What does he do?

He’s something of a guard, like you were. He works as an art curator in the gallery next to the juice factory, not in the factory itself.

Well I never! My father always said that genetics is a science full of gods.

Anyway, it’s getting late and I have to go inside to put on my vestments. Are we all set?

Can I just say one last thing, Father?

Yes, go ahead.

With all due respect, and no mockery intended, you’ve got a bit of pink in your mustache.

F
ATHER
L
UIGI DISAPPEARED UNDER
the arch of the doorway, tugging at his mustache and beard with a hand wrapped in the end of his cassock. Until the stroke of ten fifteen, I went on reciting the inverted Little Red Riding Hood story to myself, walking round and round the almost deserted square in front of the church: Where are you going dayto Ttleli Red Dingri Hood? To my thermogrand’s house in the restfo.

Among the parishioners entering through the door in small groups, I suddenly made out Siddhartha’s face: the little sprout was the spitting image of me. I hadn’t seen him since I’d left Flaca, because that filthy sow had forbidden it. But it can’t be said that I didn’t do my duty: I sent a check for the child’s maintenance every month, until I calculated eighteen years and then I stopped—there’s no point in raising scroungers.

Following him out of the corner of my eye, I saw Siddhartha enter the church and began to feel an anxiety attack coming on. A cold sweat in the palm of my hands, trembling
in my groin and buttocks, the urge to pee, and the desire to turn tail and run. Was it possible that the presence of my own son could throw me off track in this way? I sat on the edge of a raised flowerbed and conjured up the images of my teachers, Carlos Kenta Yushimito and the peerless Leroy Van Dyke. I’m a man of pedigree, I said to myself, taking deep breaths. I’m a man of greedipe, I repeated aloud. I’m the peerless Highway. Wayhigh! I’m the best auctioneer in the world, I haven’t been a bad father, I can imitate Janis Joplin after the second round, I can stand an egg upright, like Columbus, and I can float on my back. Oklahoma had auctioned a pair of scissors; and the praetorian guard, Rome. I too, being obviously a man of that same exalted stripe, could auction my precious teeth. Ichi, ni, san, shi, go, roku, shichi, hachi, and then the big, ryhai wolf took the testshor path through the restfo to the thermogrand’s house . . . and he gobbled her up!

I
N THE SACRISTY, A
tall, thin altar boy was waiting for me and identified himself as Emiliano Monge. He handed me a contract that I had to sign and initial. Ignoring the intricate wording, I signed the pages of the contract one by one and then sat playing helicopters with the pen until the altar boy reappeared in the doorway and beckoned me.

The church was packed to the rafters, and I was struck by the strong scent of talcum in the air; I guess the very elderly, like the very young, use talcum. As I came out of the sacristy and made my way to the pulpit, I put my right hand to my eyes and took in the hall in one long sweep,
but I couldn’t identify Siddhartha among the rapt crowd. I was by then somewhat eager to see him, to have him see me, to impress him. Behind the pulpit, to which I hesitatingly ascended, my collection of teeth was lined up on a long metal table. I turned my back on them with a sense of sadness. Father Luigi came up and, putting an arm around my shoulders, whispered in my ear, like a football coach, Show ’em what you’re worth, hotshot!

I took a deep breath and began: Dear parishioners of Saint Apolonia’s, on this day our congregation needs your generosity, will, and commitment. But the words came out in a tone that sounded like a politician past his prime. I tried to modulate my voice, to infuse some enthusiasm into it, offering my audience a broad, toothy smile. We have here before us today pieces of great value, since each contains a story replete with small lessons. Taken together, these stories remind us of the true meaning of one of the most important pieces of wisdom in the Scriptures: “An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” This famous dictum is not a call to vengeance, as is commonly believed, but an invitation to value the small details of objects. God is in the details of teeth.