Free The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli

definitely take a lot of exercise, since that leads to the production of large amounts of serotonin in the cerebellum and the hypothalamus. I interrupted:
    Why don’t you go get the VW ? What are you doing lying there?
    Me? I’m just here, making some thoughts.
    What do you mean, making thoughts? You don’t make thoughts.
    You might not. I do.
    Really? Like what?
    Well, right now, for example, I’m thinking that dogs are truly contemptible animals, as well as being dangerous, and that they should be wiped out.
    A very profound thought, I said with forced sarcasm. What else?
    I’ve also made the thought that Italian politics are ridiculous; that stray cats can turn violent in spite of being almost always good-natured, fiercely independent beings; that abusive couples aren’t at all uncommon; that people are obliging due to fear; that lots of primary school teachers are cruel; that The Little Prince is a book for kitsch forty-somethings; and that it doesn’t make sense to have so many saints in the Gregorian calendar.
    Ah, I said, or perhaps I didn’t. Perhaps I only sighed. Or maybe I just breathed.
    I also think, for example, that the fact that you’ve forgotten to get the car has to do with Bacon’s parable of the horse’s teeth.
    Another parable?
    Shut up and pay attention:
    In the year of our Lord 1432, there arose a grievous quarrel among the brethren over the number of teeth in the mouth of a horse. For thirteen days the disputation raged without ceasing. All the ancient books and chronicles were fetched out, and wonderful and ponderous erudition such as was never before heard of in this region was made manifest. At the beginning of the fourteenth day, a youthful friar of goodly bearing asked his learned superiors for permission to add a word, and straightway, to the wonderment of the disputants, whose deep wisdom he sore vexed, he beseeched them to unbend in a manner coarse and unheard of and to look in the open mouth of a horse and find the answer to their questionings. At this, their dignity being grievously hurt, they waxed exceeding wroth; and, joining in a mighty uproar, they flew upon him and smote him, hip and thigh, and cast him out forthwith. For, said they, surely Satan hath tempted this bold neophyte to declare unholy and unheard-of ways of finding truth, contrary to all the teachings of the fathers. After many days more of grievous strife, the dove of peace sat on the assembly, and they as one man declaring the problem to bean everlasting mystery because of a grievous dearth of historical and theological evidence thereof, so ordered the same writ down.
    I didn’t understand a word of that, I said.
    Don’t you think it’s fishy?
    In what way?
    In the way that you’re a toothless, despicable, old man who doesn’t understand, and forgets things and people.
    Maybe you’re right, I said, feeling the shrine to guilt carving out a larger space for itself somewhere in my chest.
    And are you going to fetch my car now, small, insignificant, spindle-legged, deceitful, mediocre Fancioulle?
    Well, maybe.
    The clown said nothing—and his silence went on long enough for me to understand that our conversation had come to an end. Perhaps he was right. Maybe I should go and buy the makeup remover and get the car out of the pound. Anyway, I had nothing else to do. But what an idiotic thought. The clowns were just videos, and the voice was clearly coming in through the loudspeaker from somewhere else. I decided to wait patiently for the voice to sound again.
    T HE FIRST TIME I felt horror in the presence of a clown was at the age of fifteen or sixteen. I was in Balderas metro station with my friend El Perro. It was just after eleven at night, and we were coming back from playing dominoes ona friend’s rooftop in downtown Mexico City. There was no one else in the station, just El Perro and I, waiting for the last train. At some point, we heard a sort of deep grunting sound, immediately followed by a huff. And