He pressed two fingers to his mouth, feeling the edges of his teeth through the whiskery skin. He put his other hand against his side, where Elsie’s hair rested in his pocket. He thought of saints’ relics, of the bones of the Magi at the cathedral in Köln, of Friedrich the Wise who found the thumb of Saint Anne while out crusading and brought it home to his palace. Friedrich was said to have had a mania for gathering up relics and showing them off to people, at least until Luther had made him doubt their authenticity. Then he sold them off, scattering them all over Europe: bones, teeth, hearts, hair, jewels.
Relics, thought Herr Bamberg. They weren’t relics. They were just jewels and hair and teeth. There was no magic in them. He rose.
“Where are you going?”
“To get the jewels,” he said. Hermann made a move to help him, but Herr Bamberg waved him away. “I can manage. Wait here.”
He went upstairs and found Käthe sitting on his bed, braiding her hair.
“Is it all right?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Bring out the box, will you?”
She got onto the floor, pulled the floorboard up, and handed the box up to him. He blew the dust off and pulled out a long string of white pearls on a silk thread. This he put in his pocket, next to Elsie’s hair. Then he proceeded downstairs with the box.
“You may have this,” he said, “on two conditions.”
“Anything, Papa.”
“First, you must send me one of little Elsie’s teeth, the next one that falls out. Do you understand?”
“I—yes, Papa. But I don’t know—”
“Second, never come here again.”
His son looked at the ground. “Yes, Papa.”
“Now go,” he said. And he went.
Later that night, when he was sure Käthe was asleep in her room, Herr Bamberg rolled out of bed and found the string of pearls in his waistcoat. They had been his wedding gift to his wife, the one piece that he’d told Käthe she couldn’t have, the closest thing to a holy relic he possessed. He ran the tiny globes through his hands, but his hands felt nothing. He put a pearl between two teeth and bit gently. Still nothing. He bit harder. He could feel a slight pressure in his gums, but it was very slight. So he put two pearls between his teeth, lining them up so that each pearl was between two teeth. He put three pearls between his teeth, then four. When all eight of his teeth were clamped on a pearl he pressed down hard, as hard as he could. One of the pearls slipped, and he heard a crack. His jaw shook. His head began to ache. He did it again. Another crack. His eyes vibrated and began to weep. He crammed the whole string into his mouth. He bit frantically, madly, gasping for breath. A pearl came loose in his mouth and he swallowed it. Sharp slivers of tooth began to collect in the pouch between his lips and gums. He dug them out with his tongue and swallowed those, too. His nose and eyes were streaming and his brain was pounding. He growled and spat like a wolf mauling a hare.
He kept biting and gasping until the pain was too much, until his teeth had become daggers cutting into his gums and lips, until blood stained his white beard and pearls lay scattered across the bed and floor. Then he caught his breath and opened the drawer that held the locks of his children’s hair. One by one, he pulled the ribbons off each soft tuft and flung the hair high, creating little plumes of brown and gold that settled onto the bed. Then he found the lock of Elsie’s hair in his waistcoat, gave it a final sniff, and scattered the pale strands over the rest. Finally, fatigue overtook him and he curled up on the litter of hair and pearls and slept, uncovered, like a child in a barn.
When Herr Bamberg died three months later, the broken teeth were still in his head. At the gravesite they lowered the casket into the earth, and when the priest wasn’t looking Käthe sprinkled a handful of teeth over the casket so that they bounced and disappeared among the loosened clods. They were all good, big teeth—all except one, which was the size of an infant’s and still had traces of blood on it. It had arrived just a week before in a tiny brown envelope. Käthe had shrieked when she opened it and nearly threw it away, but then she had taken it upstairs and placed it beside his bed. He never awoke to learn that it was there.
Käthe said a quiet prayer over the grave. It was silly, but she thought maybe the teeth down there would be seeds, that something good and holy might grow there. Then she pulled her scarf over her ears and hurried away before the priest was finished with his loud, hollow prayers. The evening was closing in, and the mist was starting to rise.