~ ~ ~
Each tooth in the head of a man is worth more than a diamond.
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
BOOK II. The Hyperbolics
The regular connection between a sign, its sense, and its reference is of such a kind that to the sign there corresponds a definite sense and to that in turn a definite reference, while to a given reference (an object) there does not belong only a single sign.
~ ~ ~
~ ~ ~
BY THE YEAR 2011, Mexicans had lost their minds. Everybody was at war with everybody else, and there was a general climate of antagonism and bitterness — a sense of living on the verge of calamity. It had been some time since I’d been summoned to call an auction. I believe this was because Mexicans are also like crabs in a bucket, and this needs no further explanation. My skills languished, unused. I had also stopped traveling, principally because I’d realized that despite the Mexicans, who make every possible effort to ruin everything, Mexico is glorious. In my opinion, outside my native land, only Paris is worth a mention, but even so, we all know that the city of Campeche beats Paris hands down. End of comment.
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.