39BloombergBusinessweek August 3, 2020Ettinger’saidestookuptheirpositions,withtwodeputiesat
deskspreparedforphoneandonlinebids.Thorpewasback,
alongwithanOrthodoxrabbi,numerousfriendsandasso-
ciatesofBarber,andFayeWattleton,theformerpresident
ofthePlannedParenthoodFederationofAmerica,who’d
beenhelpingEttingerdrumupbuyers.“Ihadexpectedthat
therewouldbegreaterinterestinthemfromwealthyAfrican
AmericansI reachedoutto,”Wattletonsaid.Shenotedit
wasdifficulttounderstandthehands’impactwithoutseeing
themintheflesh,asit were.“Whatwouldyousayif some-
bodycalledyouupandasked,‘Wouldyougiveme$12mil-
lionforsomegoldhandsofNelsonMandela?’”
At 7:40 p.m., Ettinger asked everyone to take their seat. He
opened at $12 million for all four hands. No takers. He dropped
the ask to $10 million, then $8 million, then $7.5 million. “I’m
not allowed to, nor should I, go any lower than that, so I’ll hold
another minute.” Silence.
It was time for plan B: selling the hands one at a time,
with the 1964 fist the first to go. This time Ettinger started at
$4 million, quickly dropping from there. “3.5 ... 3 ... 2.5 ... 2.25.”
One of his staff cut in to say he had a remote bid for $1 mil-
lion, but Ettinger rejected it as too low. He soon withdrew
the fist, though the same anonymous bidder agreed to pay
$2.3 million for the impression of Mandela’s palm. When the
third hand came up, the staffer said he had a $1 million offer
from the same buyer. Trying to push up the number, Ettinger
turned to another aide with a potential buyer on the line.
“Susan, tell your bidder there are only two hands left.”
“I’m supposed to tell you there are only two hands left.”
“Tell him life is short.”
“Arlan says ‘life is short.’ ”
No luck. That hand, too, had to be withdrawn. The fourth
went to the same buyer as the second, for $2.25 million. The
whole auction was over in 15 minutes. In the front row, Jacki
had her hand on Duncan’s knee. “I hope he gets what he
needs,” she said softly.
The room began to empty out, but after a few minutes it
became apparent that Ettinger wasn’t finished. He was still on
the phone, seemingly with the two-hand buyer. Suddenly heput down the receiver to make an announcement: The buyer
had agreed to take the remaining hands, for a total of $9 mil-
lion. Duncan’s face lit up; Guernsey’s staffers shook their
heads in disbelief. Ettinger said he needed to sit down “before
I collapse.” The buyer wished to remain anonymous, Ettinger
said, offering an unconvincing explanation of why this person
would pay $9 million for all four when they’d been available
at the start of the auction for $7.5 million. “To try to imagine
what they’re thinking is impossible,” Ettinger offered. “You
get into a mood, you get things happening. I can’t say why.”uncan and Jacki flew back to Austin the next day,
assured by Guernsey’s that the deal would be finalized
soon.Butthen,nothing.EttingertoldDuncanthemystery
buyerneededmoretimetogatherthefundsbecauseofthe
financialturmoil of the coronavirus pandemic, and a May 1
deadline to make the transfer came and went.
A few days later, Duncan received an email from Ettinger
with what seemed like great news: The buyer would be will-
ing to throw in another $1 million if he could have some
time to get the money together. Duncan was still optimis-
tic. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt,” he said. “The
buyermustreallywantit.”
A weekafterwardtherewasstillnosignofthecash,and
Duncanwasgettinganxious.It allfeltlikedéjàvu,aversion
ofthecheck-is-in-the-mailassuranceshe’dreceivedright
beforetheArbitradedealfellthrough.He’daskedEttinger
repeatedlytoconnecthimwiththebuyerdirectly,tonoavail.
Hewasstartingtowonder,hesaid,whethertherewasreally
anyoneontheothersideofthephoneattheauction. In a
mid-July interview, Ettinger rejected that speculation, saying
he’d been in regular contact with the buyer, who “was hit
broadside, as many, many people have been, by the virus”
anditseffects.“Thesaleis stilllive,”hesaid.“We’rehoping
forthebestandremainoptimistic.”
DespiteDuncan’sdifficultyclosinga deal,andhisinsistence
thatthehandsdeservetobeseenbyasmanypeople as pos-
sible, he says he has no plans to donate them to a museum or
charity. For one thing, he’s counting on the cash to expand his
latest venture, a company that converts shipping containers
into off-grid shelters for disaster zones. And he says he sees
no contradiction between admiring Mandela and seeking a
profit from selling the hands—as even the most dedicated col-
lector might, if the opportunity arose. “I knew it was a safe
investment, but I admired Mandela passionately,” he said of
his purchase. “If Mandela had asked me to go to war, without
thinking I would have done what he asked.”
Meanwhile, Duncan is still convinced that his big score
is on its way. Like a rubber ball, he’s unsquashable. In June
he said that an old friend had put him in touch with a possi-
ble buyer in Italy, in case the Guernsey’s sale never happens.
Whatdidheknowaboutthisnewlead?“Absolutelynothing.”
He’dbeenona conferencecallwithsomeonewhosaidhewas
representing the Italian, but no more than that. “We expect a
call from him any day now.” <BW> �With Michael CohenA Guernsey’s employee lifts one of the hands out of its bespoke box