The Seventh Function of Language

Simon is finding it harder and harder to concentrate; he thinks about the “prestiges” of the seventeenth century, of Cervantes fighting at Lepanto, of his course on James Bond at Vincennes, of the dissecting table at the anatomical theater in Bologna, of the cemetery in Ithaca and a thousand things at the same time, and he understands that he can only triumph if he overcomes, in a mise en abyme that he would savor in other circumstances, this baroque vertigo that is taking hold of him.

He decides to bring an end to the discussion of Shakespeare, which he thinks he has safely negotiated, and condense all his mental energy into changing the subject, to turn his adversary away from the metadiscursive approach he had begun, where, for the first time, Simon does not feel at ease.

“One word, again: Serenissima.”

With this, he obliges his opponent to react and by interrupting the rhetorical sequence that he was about to build, to wrestle the initiative away from him again. The Italian ripostes: “Repubblica e barocco!”

At this stage of the improvisation, Simon plays for time and says everything that comes to mind: “That depends. A thousand years of doges. Stable institutions. Firm authority. Churches everywhere: God is not baroque, as Einstein said. Napoleon, on the contrary [and Simon deliberately invokes the man who was the gravedigger of the Venetian Republic]: an absolute monarch, but he moved all the time. Very baroque, but also very classical, in his way.”

The Italian tries to respond, but Simon cuts in: “Ah, it’s true, I forgot: the Classical does not exist! In that case, what have we been talking about for the last half hour?” The audience stops breathing. His opponent reels slightly under the force of this uppercut.

Heads spinning from the effort and the nervous tension, the two men are now debating in a way that can only be described as anarchic. Behind them, the three judges, appreciating that they have each given the best of themselves, decide to put an end to the duel.

Simon suppresses a smile of relief and turns toward them. He realizes that these three judges must be sophists (because normally the jury is composed of members of higher ranks than the duelists). All three wear Venetian masks, like the men who attacked Simon, and he understands the advantage of organizing these meetings during Carnival: that way, one can preserve one’s anonymity with complete discretion.

The judges vote amid oppressive silence.

The first votes for Simon.

The second for his opponent.

So the verdict rests in the hands of the last judge. Simon stares at the sort of cutting board, stained red by the fingers of the previous competitors. He hears a murmur in the theater as the audience watches the third judge vote, and he dares not look up. For once, he is unable to interpret that murmur.

No one has picked up the machete lying on the table.

The third judge voted for him.

His opponent breaks down. He will not lose his finger, because Logos Club rules dictate that only the challenger risks his digital capital, but his rank was very important to him and he is clearly upset at the prospect of demotion.

The audience cheers as Simon is promoted to the rank of tribune. But above all, he is formally given an invitation for two people at the next day’s summit meeting. Simon verifies the time and the place, waves to the audience one last time, and joins Bayard in his box, while the theater begins to empty out.

In the box, Bayard reads the information on the invitation card and lights a cigarette, at least his twelfth of the evening. An Englishman pokes his head in to congratulate the victor: “Good game. That guy was tough.”

Simon looks at his hands, which are trembling slightly, and says: “I wonder if the sophists are much better.”

92

Behind Sollers is Paradise: Tintoretto’s gigantic canvas, which also, in its time, won a competition—to decorate the Chamber of the Great Council in the Doge’s Palace.

At the base of the picture is a huge platform where there are seated not three but ten members of the jury: the full complement of sophists.

In front of them, three-quarters turned to the audience, the Great Protagoras in person, and Sollers, leaning on a lectern.

The ten judges and the two duelists wear Venetian masks, but Simon and Bayard had no trouble recognizing Sollers. Besides, they already spotted Kristeva in the audience.

Unlike in La Fenice, the audience here is standing, gathered in this immense room designed in the fourteenth century to host more than a thousand nobles: 175 feet long, with a ceiling that makes viewers wonder how it is held up without a single column, inlaid with innumerable old master paintings.

The room’s effect on the audience is such that a sort of fearful hubbub can be heard. Everyone whispers respectfully under the gaze of Tintoretto and Veronese.