The Seventh Function of Language

Everyone knows that the Great Protagoras has been challenged and that only tribunes, accompanied by a person of their choice, will be invited to the match (along with the sophists, naturally, who comprise the jury). The duel will take place tomorrow in a secret venue that will be communicated only to authorized persons at the end of tonight’s tournament. Officially, no one knows the identity of the challenger, but there are several rumors in circulation.

Flicking through his Michelin guide, Bayard discovers that La Fenice is a theater that has regularly been burned down and rebuilt since its opening. Hence, presumably, that name: Phoenix.

On the stage, a brilliant Russian stupidly loses a finger over a mistake in quotation: a Mark Twain phrase is attributed to Malraux, allowing his opponent, a wily Spaniard, to turn the tables on him. The audience goes “ooohh” at the moment of the tchack.

The door opens behind Bayard, making him jump. “Well, well, my dear superintendent. You look like you just saw Stendhal in person!” It’s Sollers, with his cigarette holder, come to pay a visit to his box. “Interesting event, isn’t it? The cream of Venetian society and, my word, everyone of any culture in Europe. There are even a few Americans, I’ve been told. I wonder if Hemingway was ever part of the Logos Club. He wrote a book that took place in Venice, you know? The story of an old colonel who masturbates a young woman in a gondola with his wounded hand. Not bad at all. You know Verdi created La Traviata here? But also Ernani, based on Victor Hugo’s play…” Sollers stares out at the stage, where a sturdy little Italian is battling a pipe-smoking Englishman, and he adds dreamily: “Hernani amputated of its H.” Then he withdraws, clicking his heels like an Austro-Hungarian officer, with a slight bow, and goes back to his own box, which Bayard tries to spot, in order to see if Kristeva is there.

Onstage, a presenter in a dinner jacket announces the next duel, “Signore, Signori…,” and Bayard puts on his headphones: “Duelists from every land … he comes to us from Paris … his victories speak for themselves … no friendly matches … four digital duels … four victories, all unanimous … enough for him to have made a name for himself … I ask you to welcome … the Decoder of Vincennes.”

Simon makes his entrance, dressed in a well-tailored Cerruti suit.

Along with the rest of the spectators, Bayard applauds nervously.

Simon smiles and waves to the audience, all his senses alert, while the subject is drawn.

“Classico e Barocco.” The Classical and the Baroque: an art history subject? Why not, since we’re in Venice?

Instantly, ideas rush through Simon’s head, but it is too early to sort through them. First he must concentrate on something else. During the handshake with his adversary, he keeps his hand in his for a few seconds and reads the following about the man who faces him:

• a southern Italian, to judge by his bronzed complexion;

• small in height, so a drive to dominate;

• energetic handshake: a man of contact;

• paunchy: eats lots of meals with sauces;

• looks at the crowd, not at his opponent: a politician’s reflex;

• not very well dressed for an Italian: a slightly worn and mismatched suit, the hems of his trouser legs a little too short, and yet his black shoes are polished: a cheapskate or a demagogue;

• a luxury watch on his wrist, a recent model, so not an heirloom, obviously too expensive for his standing: strong probability of passive corruption (which confirms the Mezzogiorno hypothesis);

• a wedding ring, plus a signet ring: a wife and a mistress who gave him the signet ring, which he probably wore before his marriage (otherwise he’d have to justify its appearance to his wife, whereas this way he could claim it was a family heirloom), so a long-term mistress, whom he didn’t want to marry but couldn’t resolve to leave.

Naturally, all these deductions are merely suppositions, and Simon cannot be sure that each one is correct. Simon thinks: “This isn’t a Sherlock Holmes story.” But when the clues point to a collection of converging presumptions, Simon decides to trust them.

His conclusion is that he is facing a politician, probably a Christian Democrat, a Napoli or Cagliari supporter, a man without strong convictions, a skilled social climber, but someone who is loath to make decisions.

So he decides at the start of the game to try something to destabilize him: he makes a show of giving up his right to go first, always granted to the lower-ranked player, and generously offers to leave the initiative to his honorable opponent, which in concrete terms means that he is leaving him to choose which of the two terms of the subject he wants to defend. After all, in tennis, one can choose to receive rather than serve.