The Seventh Function of Language Read online

  37

  My Julenka,

  I got back from Moscow yesterday. The visit went well, or at least I think it did. I got back, in any case. We had a few drinks, me and the old guy. He was friendly and seemed pretty drunk by the end of the night, but I don’t believe he really was. I do the same thing sometimes, pretending to be drunk in order to win people’s trust or get them to lower their guard. But as you can probably guess, I didn’t lower mine. I told him everything he wanted to know except, obviously, I didn’t mention you. I said I didn’t believe in the manuscript’s power, and that was why I didn’t inform him about the Paris mission, because I wanted to be sure first. But as certain agents in my service did believe in it, I decided it was better to be safe than sorry, so I sent a few agents, and I told him that they’d been overzealous. Apparently, the French services are investigating at the moment, but Giscard is pretending not to know anything about it. Maybe you can use your husband’s connections to find out? Either way, you should be very careful, and now that the old man is watching me, I won’t be able to send you any extra men.

  The van driver got here safely, and so did the fake doctor who gave you the document. The French will never be able to find them—they’ve gone on holiday to the Black Sea, and they are the only people who could possibly lead anyone to you, along with the two other agents who died and the one who’s stayed there to oversee the investigation. I know he was wounded, but he’s tough. You can count on him. If the police find anything, he’ll know what to do.

  Allow me to give you some advice. You must file away a copy of that document. We are used to keeping and hiding precious documents that must absolutely not be lost but whose contents cannot under any circumstances be divulged to anyone else. You must make a copy of it, one only, and give it for safekeeping to someone trustworthy who has no idea what it’s about. Keep the original on you.

  One other thing: look out for Japanese people.

  All right, that is my advice for you, my Juleshka. Make good use of it. I hope you’re well and that everything will go as planned, even if I know from experience that nothing ever goes as planned.

  Your old father who watches over you,

  Tatko

  PS: Write back to me in French. It’s safer, and anyway I need to practice.

  38

  There is some faculty housing at the École Normale Supérieure, behind the Panthéon. We are in a large apartment, and the weary-looking, white-haired man with bags under his eyes says:

  “I’m alone.”

  “Where is Hélène?”

  “I don’t know. We had another row. She had a horrible tantrum about something absurd. Or maybe that was me.”

  “We need you. Can you keep this document? You mustn’t open it, you mustn’t read it, and you mustn’t talk to anyone about it, not even Hélène.”

  “Okay.”

  39

  Hard to imagine what Julia Kristeva is thinking in 1980. The idea that Sollers’s histrionic dandyism, his so-very-French libertinism, his pathological boasting, his adolescent-pamphleteer style, and his shock-the-bourgeoisie habits could have seduced the young Bulgarian girl, newly arrived from Eastern Europe … yes, I can buy that. Fifteen years later, one might suppose that she is somewhat less under his spell, but who knows? What seems obvious is that their partnership is solid, that it has functioned perfectly from the beginning, and that it is still functional now: a tightly knit team with clearly defined roles. For him, the pretentious bullshit, society parties, and clownish nonsense. For her, the icy, venomous, structuralist Slavic charm, the arcana of academia, the management of mandarins, the technical, institutional, and, inevitably, bureaucratic aspects of their rise. (He “doesn’t know how to write a check,” so the story goes.) Together, they are a formidable political war machine already, working toward the heights of an exemplary career in the next century: when Kristeva receives the Legion of Honor from the hands of Nicolas Sarkozy, Sollers, also present, will be sure to mock the president for pronouncing “Barthès” instead of “Barthes.” Good cop, bad cop. They get their cake full of honors and they eat it with insolence. (Later, François Hollande will elevate Kristeva to the ranks of commandeur. Presidents come and go, people with meaningless medals remain.)

  In summary: an infernal duo, and a political double-act. Let’s keep that in mind.

  When Kristeva opens the door and sees that Althusser has come with his wife, she cannot or prefers not to suppress a grimace of displeasure. Hélène, Althusser’s wife, is well aware of what these people think of her and gives an evil grin in return, the two women’s instinctive hatred instantly bordering on a sort of complicity. For his part, Althusser looks like a guilty child as he hands over a small bouquet of flowers. Kristeva rushes off to put them in a sink. Visibly under the influence of the aperitifs he’s had, Sollers welcomes the two arrivals with phony exclamations of delight: “So, my dear friends, how are you?… We were just waiting for you to come … before we sat down to eat … Dear Louis, a martini … as usual?… red!… oh wow!… Hélène … what would you like to drink?… I know … a Bloody Mary!… hee hee!… Julia … will you bring the celery … my darling?… Louis!… how’s the Party?”

  Hélène observes the other guests like an old, nervous cat, recognizing no one but BHL, who she’s seen on the television, and Lacan, who has come with a tall young woman in a black leather suit. Sollers makes the introductions while they sit down, but Hélène doesn’t bother trying to remember anyone’s name: there is a young New York couple in sports clothes, a Chinese woman who either works for the embassy or as a trapeze artist for the Peking Circus, a Parisian publisher, a Canadian feminist, and a Bulgarian linguist. “The avant-garde of the proletariat,” Hélène says to herself, laughing.

  The guests have barely sat down when Sollers unctuously begins a discussion about Poland: “Now that is a subject that will never go out of fashion!… Solidarnosc, Jaruzelski, yes, yes … from Mickiewicz and Slovacki to Walesa and Wojtyla … We could be talking about it in a hundred years, a thousand years, but it will still be bowed beneath the yoke of Russia … it’s practical … it makes our conversations immortal … And when it’s not Russia, it’s Germany, of course, hmm?… Agh, come on, come on … comrades … To die for Gdansk … to die for Danzig … What delicious nonsense!… What’s that phrase again?… Oh yes: six of one and half a dozen of the other…”

  The provocation is aimed at Althusser, but the old philosopher is so dull-eyed as he sips his martini that he looks like he might drown in it. So Hélène, with the boldness of a small wild animal, replies on his behalf: “I understand your solicitude toward the Polish people: I don’t think they sent any members of your family to Auschwitz.” And as Sollers hesitates for a second (just one) before following up with some provocative insult to the Jews, she decides to drive home her advantage: “But what about this new pope, do you like him?” (She plunges her nose into her plate.) “I wouldn’t have thought so.” (She imitates a working-class intonation.)

  Sollers opens his arms wide, as if beating his wings, and declares enthusiastically: “This pope is just my type!” (He bites into an asparagus spear.) “Isn’t it sublime when he gets off his plane and kisses the ground?… Whichever country he’s in, the pope gets down on his knees, like a beautiful prostitute preparing to give you a blow job, and he kisses the ground…” (He waves his half-eaten asparagus.) “What can you do? This pope is a kisser … How could I not like him?”

  The New York couple giggle as one. Lacan lifts his hand and squeaks like a little bird, but decides not to speak. Hélène, who like any good Communist is single-minded, asks: “And you think he likes libertines? Last I heard, he wasn’t very open on sexuality.” (She glances over at Kristeva.) “Politically, I mean.”

  Sollers laughs noisily, the sign that he is about to embark on his usual strategy of abruptly changing the subject to pretty much anything that comes to mind: “That’s because he’s badly advised … Anyway, I’m sure he’s surrounded by h
omosexuals … The homosexuals are the new Jesuits … but on things like that, they’re not necessarily that well advised … Except … apparently there’s a new disease that’s decimating them … God said: be fruitful and multiply … The rubber johnny … What an abomination!… Sterilized sex … Horny bodies that don’t touch each other anymore … Pfft … I’ve never used a rubber in my life … Wrap up my dick like some meat in a supermarket?… Never!”

  At this moment, Althusser wakes up:

  “If the USSR attacked Poland, it was for highly strategic reasons. They had to prevent Hitler from moving close to the Russian border at all costs. Stalin used Poland as a buffer: by taking up a position on Polish soil, he was insuring himself against the coming invasion…”

  “And that strategy, as everyone knows, worked like a dream,” says Kristeva.

  “After Munich, the Nazi-Soviet Pact had become a necessity. More than that, an inevitability,” Althusser continues.

  Lacan makes a sound like an owl. Sollers pours himself another drink. Hélène and Kristeva stare at each other. It is still not clear if the Chinese woman speaks French, nor, for that matter, the Bulgarian linguist or the Canadian feminist or even the New York couple, until Kristeva asks them, in French, if they’ve played tennis recently (they are, we discover, doubles partners, and Kristeva talks for quite a while about their last match, when she proved herself astonishingly combative, to her own surprise, as she is essentially not a very good player, she’s at pains to make clear). But Sollers, always happy to change the subject, does not let the couple reply:

  “Ah, Borg!… The messiah who came in from the cold … When he falls to his knees on Wimbledon’s grass … arms outstretched … that blond hair … his bandana … his beard … it’s Jesus Christ on Centre Court … If Borg wins Wimbledon, it’s for the redemption of all mankind … And, as there’s a lot of redeeming to do, he wins every year … How many victories will it take to wash our sins away?… Five … Ten … Twenty … Fifty … A hundred … A thousand…”

  “I thought you prefer McEnroe,” says the young New Yorker in his New York–accented French.

  “Ah, McEnroe … the man you love to hate … a dancer, that one … the grace of the devil … But he should have actually flown around the court … McEnroe is Lucifer … the most beautiful of all the angels … Lucifer always falls in the end…”

  While he embarks on a biblical exegesis in which he compares St. John with McEnroe, Kristeva slips into the kitchen with the Chinese woman on the pretext of serving the main course. Lacan’s young mistress takes off her shoes under the table. The Canadian feminist and the Bulgarian linguist look at each other questioningly. Althusser plays with the olive in his martini. BHL bangs his fist on the table and says: “We must intervene in Afghanistan!”

  Hélène looks around at everyone.

  She says: “And not in Iran?” The Bulgarian linguist adds mysteriously: “Hesitation is the mother of the fantastical.” The Canadian feminist smiles. Kristeva returns with the leg of lamb and the Chinese woman. Althusser says: “The Party was wrong to support the invasion of Afghanistan. You shouldn’t invade a country with a press release. The Soviets are smarter than that: they’ll withdraw.” Sollers asks mockingly: “The Party? How many divisions have they got?” The publisher looks at his watch and says: “France is slow.” Sollers smiles as he looks at Hélène and says: “One is not serious at seventy.” Lacan’s mistress uses her bare foot to caress BHL’s crotch. He is hard within seconds.

  The conversation drifts toward Barthes. The publisher delivers an ambiguous eulogy. Sollers explains: “Lots of homosexuals have given me the same strange impression, now and then—as if they’re being eaten up from inside…” Kristeva points out to the eleven guests: “As I’m sure you know, we were very close. Roland adored Philippe and [she sounds suddenly modest and mysterious] he liked me very much.” BHL insists on adding: “He could never stand Marxism-Leninism.” The publisher: “He adored Brecht, though.” Hélène, venomously: “And China? What did he think of China?” Althusser frowns. The Chinese woman looks up. Sollers replies in a relaxed way: “Boring. But no more than the rest of the world.” The Bulgarian linguist, who knew Barthes well: “Except for Japan.” The Canadian feminist, who did her master’s under Barthes, remembers: “He was very welcoming and very lonely.” The publisher says knowingly: “Yes and no. He knew how to surround himself … when he wanted to. He wasn’t without resources, in spite of everything.” Lacan’s mistress slides farther down her chair to massage BHL’s balls with her toes.

  BHL is imperturbable: “It’s good to have a master. But you must know how to detach yourself from him. With me, for example, at the École Normale—” Kristeva interrupts him with a dry laugh: “Why are the French so obsessed with their education? They can’t go two hours without mentioning it. It reminds me of old soldiers.” The publisher agrees: “That’s true. In France, we’re all nostalgic for our school days.” Sollers says teasingly: “Well, some stay in school all their lives.” But Althusser doesn’t react. Hélène grinds her teeth at this middle-class compulsion: imagining their own experience holds for everyone. She didn’t like school, and she didn’t stay there long either.

  The doorbell rings. Kristeva gets up to open it. In the entrance hall, she can be seen talking to a badly dressed man with a mustache. The conversation lasts less than a minute. Then she comes back to the table as if nothing happened, saying simply (and her accent resurfaces for a second): “Sorrrry, just some borrring work stuff. For my office.” The publisher goes on: “In France, academic success has too much influence on social success.” The Bulgarian linguist stares at Kristeva: “But thankfully, it is not the only factor. Isn’t that true, Julia?” Kristeva says something in Bulgarian. Then the two of them begin talking in their native language: brief, muttered replies. If there is any hostility between them, the ambience around the table makes it impossible for the other guests to detect it. Sollers intervenes: “Come on, now, children, no whispering, ha ha…” Then he addresses the Canadian feminist: “So, my dear friend, how is your novel going? I agree with Aragon, you know … The woman is the future of the man … and therefore of literature … because the woman is death … and literature is always on the side of death…” And while he vividly imagines the Canadian peeling back his foreskin, he asks Kristeva if she would like to go and fetch dessert. Kristeva gets to her feet and starts clearing the table, helped by the Chinese woman, and while the two women disappear once again into the kitchen, the publisher takes out a cigar and cuts the end off it with the bread knife. Lacan’s mistress continues to perform contortions on her chair. The New York couple hold hands and smile politely. Sollers imagines a foursome with the Canadian and tennis rackets. BHL, hard as a rock, says they should invite Solzhenitsyn next time. Hélène scolds Althusser: “You pig! You made a stain!” She wipes his shirt with a napkin dipped in a little sparkling water. Lacan quietly sings a sort of Jewish nursery rhyme. The others pretend not to notice. In the kitchen, Kristeva grabs the Chinese woman by the waist. BHL says to Sollers: “When you think about it, Philippe, you’re better than Sartre: Stalinist, Maoist, papist … He always seems to be wrong, but you!… You change your mind so quickly that you don’t have time to be wrong.” Sollers sticks a cigarette in his cigarette holder. Lacan mumbles: “Sartre does not exist.” BHL continues: “In my next book, I—” Sollers interrupts him: “Sartre said that all anti-Communists are dogs … I say that all anti-Catholics are dogs … Anyway, it’s very simple: there is not a Jew of any worth who hasn’t been tempted to convert to Catholicism … Isn’t that true?… Darling, are you going to bring us dessert?” From the kitchen, Kristeva’s muffled voice replies that it’s coming.

  The publisher says to Sollers that he might publish Hélène Cixous. Sollers replies: “Poor Derrida…” BHL again sees fit to tell everyone: “I have a great deal of affection for Derrida. He was my tutor at the École. Along with you, dear Louis. But he is not a philosopher. I can think of only
three French philosophers who are still alive: Sartre, Levinas, and Althusser.” Althusser does not react to this flattery. Hélène conceals her irritation. The American man asks: “What about Pierre Bowrdieu—isn’t he a good philosopher?” BHL replies that he went to the École Normale but he is certainly not a philosopher. The publisher explains to the American that Bourdieu is a sociologist who did a lot of work on invisible inequalities, and cultural, social, symbolic capital … Sollers makes a show of yawning. “Above all, he is boring beyond belief … His habitus … Yes, we are not all equal—who would have guessed? And, allow me to let you all in on a little secret … shhh … gather around and listen … It has always been like that and it always will be … Incredible, huh?”

  Sollers becomes more and more garbled: “Rise above! Rise above! Abstraction, quick!… We’re not Elsa and Aragon, no more than Sartre and Beauvoir. Wrong!… Adultery is a criminal conversation … Oh yeah … oh yeah … And while we’re at it … Here. Now. Really here … Really now … Fashion is often true…” His gaze wavers between the Canadian and Hélène. “The Maoist affair? It was our age’s entertainment … China … Romanticism … I’ve had to write some incendiary things, it’s true … I’m a great heckler … The best in the country…”

  Lacan is miles away. His mistress’s foot is still caressing BHL’s crotch. The publisher waits for it all to stop. The Canadian and the Bulgarian feel united in silent solidarity. Hélène endures the great French writer’s monologue in mute rage. Althusser feels something dangerous rising within him.

  Kristeva and the Chinese woman finally return with an apricot tart and a clafouti; their hastily reapplied lipstick burns passionately. The Canadian asks how the French will vote in next year’s elections. Sollers explodes: “Mitterrand has only one destiny: defeat … he will fulfil it completely…” Always prompt to issue reminders, Hélène asks him: “You’ve had lunch with Giscard, haven’t you? What’s he like?”