I

I learned about Tiritus by chance, when Ulises, a paleontologist friend even younger than I was, mentioned him during our discussion of my thesis on Campanile fossils. One spring afternoon, while we were having coffee at the Department of Integrated Research, I asked him if in his extensive career he had ever found evidence of any other species in the genus. Catching my sarcasm, he replied that the only somewhat verifiable reference he'd ever heard on the subject was at his aunt's birthday party, during a conversation about herbal balms used to treat hysteria. From his sly smile, I could tell he said it just to annoy me.

At the time, my scientific rigor had already been called into question at the university, and my friends enjoyed mocking the fragility of my unconventional theories. While I clung to every fragment of evidence I could gather, they preferred to be mediocre researchers, content to please the highest and most conservative academic circles. The price of brilliance was to endure the laughter, ironic remarks, and constant degradation from those who would not risk much to contribute something valuable to the community. Among them, Ulises was the most respectable and the only one I could take seriously. On several occasions, he had acknowledged my courage for trying to fill an empty field of research. He rarely joked, but after two years of a thesis that wasn't progressing, my credibility in his eyes was starting to wane, and he could hardly resist the temptation to ridicule me.

Before admitting that I felt offended by his mockery, I decided to feign interest and asked him for more details about that conversation at his aunt's birthday. Ulises told me she had asked him if he knew a musician from the 1940s because she recalled reading in a therapeutic plant magazine that the artist had a collection of objects, including a fragment of Campanile lirithalassia. Unsure if he was being serious, I asked what magazine it was, and he said he couldn't remember but would try to bring the issue for me to see the following week.

I confess I didn't believe him, but to my surprise, he did.

The magazine was called Green Dream. The article I was interested in was in volume III. Ulises handed me the issue discreetly, to spare us the embarrassment. He asked me to return it after reading it, as he had to give it back. I stored it in my briefcase, along with other documents, and didn't open it again until I got home, for fear of anyone discovering it.

Even in the privacy of my study, alone with my typewriter, it took me a few minutes to muster the courage to pull out the magazine without feeling too ashamed. I, who had always prided myself on being a fundamentally rational man, now had to resort to trivial sources to find what I was looking for. I also knew that my professional ethics would compel me to be transparent and cite the magazine. My face burned just imagining Green Dream in the bibliography of my thesis.

The cover was obscene: in the center, an illustration of a nearly naked woman sitting in a meditative pose over a field of flowers; behind her, in a starry sky, the figure of a blue planet shone; on the sides, enclosed in violet circles, were the content teasers: Magical Plants, Holistic Medicine, Chakra Alignment, and above it all, the title in bold letters that shifted from yellow to green. I could have laughed, which would have been for the best, but I was far too arrogant in those days and lacked a sense of humor.

Ulises hadn't marked the exact place where the reference to the Campanile lirithalassia fragments was, so I forced myself to read through the content.

It wasn't an article. I found it near the end, in the announcements section for the next volume:

Join our monthly membership! In the next issue of Green Dream, we will talk with Tiritus, a renowned musician from the 1940s who claims to have in his collection an extraordinary fossil of Campanita liricatasia, a mythical flower with unimaginable properties. Don't miss it!

The name of the specimen was misspelled, and it was described as a plant fossil when in fact it should have been an animal.

The next day, Ulises stopped by my house to pick up the magazine. We chatted for a few minutes until I asked him, with a hint of defeat, what had happened with volume IV. He looked at me with what seemed like pity. He said the magazine had ceased publication due to a lack of subscribers and that this musician Tiritus had been dead for at least twenty years.

"But this issue is from this year", I pointed out, somewhat confused.

"It is," he nodded. "Now you see why no one else wanted to buy it. It's clearly a scam."

I handed back the issue and saw him out.

"You're an intelligent man," he commented before leaving. "Don't waste your time chasing absurd illusions. With a mind as brilliant as yours, pursuing fiction is an act of selfishness."

I replayed those words in my head as I watched him drive away in his Ford Fairlane.

I abandoned the research on Campanile lirithalassia fossils. Instead, I wrote a thesis on the taxonomy of Cretaceous ammonite species that wouldn't shake the scientific community. I graduated with honors six months later and returned to my hometown.

Soon after, I found work at the National Institute of Archaeology and Paleontology. I married Sofía, my childhood sweetheart, and a year later, Arpa, our only daughter, was born.