The Seventh Function of Language

How he battled a pugnacious dialectician over a Shelley quotation (“He hath awaken’d from the dream of life”) by delicately manipulating Calderon and Shakespeare, but also, with exquisite refinement, Frankenstein.

With what elegance he dueled a peripatetician over a line by Leibniz (“Education can do anything: it can make bears dance”) by allowing himself the luxury of a demonstration founded almost entirely on quotations from de Sade.

Bayard lights a cigarette while looking through the window at the gondolas on the Grand Canal.

Simon answers his admirers with good grace. An old Venetian in a three-piece suit hands him a glass of champagne:

“Maestro, you know Casanova, naturalmente? In the account of his famous duel with the Polish count, he writes: ‘The first advice one gives someone who is taking part in a duel is to convince one’s adversary as quickly as possible of the impossibility of harming you.’ Cosa ne pensa?”

(Simon takes a sip of champagne and smiles at an old lady, who bats her eyelashes.)

“Was it a duel with swords?”

“No, alla pistola.”

“In the case of a duel with pistols, I think the advice is valid.” Simon laughs. “For an oratory duel, the principles are a little different.”

“Come mai? Dare I, maestro, ask why?”

“Well … I, for example, like to strike at my opponent’s speech code. Which implies letting him come at you. I allow him to reveal himself, capisce? An oratory duel is more like a duel with swords. You reveal yourself, you close your guard, you derobe, you feint, you cut, you disengage, you parry, you riposte…”

“Uno spadaccino, si. Ma, is the pistol not migliore?”

Bayard elbows the young prodigy. Simon is aware that it is not wise, on the eve of a duel at this level, to obligingly provide anyone that asks with strategic instructions, but the reflex is too strong. He just can’t help teaching.

“In my opinion, there are two main approaches. The semiological and the rhetorical, you see?”

“Si, si … credo di si, ma … Could you explain un poco, maestro?”

“Well, it’s very simple. Semiology enables us to understand, analyze, decode; it’s defensive, it’s Borg. Rhetoric is designed to persuade, to convince, to conquer; it’s offensive, it’s McEnroe.”

“Ah si. Ma Borg, he wins, no?”

“Of course! You can win with either; they’re just different styles of play. With semiology, you decode your opponent’s rhetoric, you grasp his things, and you rub his nose in it. Semiology’s like Borg: it is enough to get the ball over the net one time more than your opponent. Rhetoric is aces, volleys, winners down the line, but semiology is returns, passing shots, topspin lobs.”

“And it’s migliore?”

“Well, no, not necessarily. But that’s my style. It’s what I know how to do, so that’s how I play. I’m not a brilliant lawyer or a preacher or a political orator or a messiah or a vacuum-cleaner salesman. I’m an academic, and my job is analyzing, decoding, criticizing, and interpreting. That’s my game. I’m Borg. I’m Vilas. I’m José Luis Clerc. Ahem.”

“Ma, your opponent, who’s that?”

“Well … McEnroe, Roscoe Tanner, Gerulaitis…”

“And Connors?”

“Ah yeah, Connors, shit.”

“Perchè shit? What’s so special about Connors?”

“He’s really good.”

It is difficult, just now, to assess how much irony there is in Simon’s last reply, because in February 1981 Connors has not beaten Borg in eight consecutive meetings, his last victory in a Grand Slam is almost three years back (U.S. Open 1978, against Borg), and people are starting to think he is finished. (They don’t know that he will win Wimbledon and the U.S. Open the following year.)

Whatever, Simon becomes serious again and asks: “I suppose he won his duel?”

“Casanova? Si, he hit the Pole in the stomach and quasi killed him, but he also took a bullet to the thumb, and almost had to have his left hand amputato.”

“Ah … really?”

“Si, the surgeon told Casanova that gangrene would set in. So Casanova asked if it was already there. And the surgeon said no, so Casanova, he said, ‘Va bene, let’s just wait and see when it’s there.’ And the surgeon, he said allora, they’ll have to cut the whole arm off. You know what Casanova said to that? ‘Ma, what would I do with an arm without my hand?’ Ha ha!”

“Ha ha. Uh … bene.”

Simon politely takes his leave and goes off to find a Bellini. Bayard stuffs himself with canapés and observes the guests as they watch his partner with curiosity, admiration, and even a little fear. Simon accepts a cigarette from a woman in a lamé dress. The way the evening is unfolding confirms what he came to establish: that the reputation he has acquired in a few Parisian sessions has definitely reached Venice.