THE 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.
FATHER LUIGI 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!
IN 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.