The Seventh Function of Language

“No. Mitterrand asked us, Debray and me, not to open it. I wouldn’t have had time anyway, because as soon as I took it from Barthes, I gave it to Debray.”

Jack Lang remembers the scene: he had to watch over the cooking of the fish, help keep the conversation ticking over, and steal the function without anyone noticing.

“As for Debray, I don’t know if he obeyed the presidential order, but he didn’t have much time either. Knowing how loyal he is, I would bet that he followed instructions.”

“So, theoretically,” says Bayard, sounding dubious, “Mitterrand is the last person still alive who knows the function?”

“Along with Jakobson himself, obviously.”

Simon says nothing.

Outside, the people chant: “To the Bastille! To the Bastille!”

The door opens and Moati’s head appears. “Are you coming? The concerts have started. Apparently, the Bastille is packed!”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

Lang would like to rejoin his friends, but Simon still has one more question: “The false document forged by Derrida … was it intended to mess up whoever used it?”

Lang considers this: “I’m not sure … The most important thing was that it seem plausible. It was already quite a feat on Derrida’s part to write a credible imitation in such a short space of time.”

Bayard thinks back to Sollers’s performance in Venice and says to Simon: “Anyway, Sollers was a bit messed up to start with, wasn’t he?”

With all the courtesy he can muster, Lang asks permission to leave, now that he has satisfied their curiosity.

The three men exit the dark office and go back to the celebrations. Outside the former Gare d’Orsay, egged on by passersby, a man staggers around repeatedly yelling: “Giscard the loser! Let’s dance the Carmagnole!” Lang asks Simon and Bayard if they would like to accompany him to the Bastille. On the way, they bump into Gaston Defferre, the future minister of the interior. Lang makes the introductions. Defferre says to Bayard: “I need men like you. Let’s meet this week.”

The rain is bucketing down, but it does not dampen the euphoria of the crowds in the Bastille. Even though it is already night, people shout: “Mitterrand, sunlight! Mitterrand, sunlight!”

Bayard asks Lang if he thinks Kristeva and Sollers will be troubled by the long arm of the law. Lang pulls a face: “Quite frankly, I doubt it. The seventh function is now a state secret. The president has no interest in stirring this up. Anyway, Sollers has already paid a heavy price for his ambitions, don’t you think? I met him several times, you know. A charming man. He had the insolence of a courtier.”

Lang smiles his charming smile. Bayard shakes his hand, and the soon-to-be minister of culture can at last go off to join his comrades in celebrating their victory.

Simon contemplates the human tide that fills the square.

He says: “What a waste.”

Bayard is surprised: “What do you mean, what a waste? You’re going to be able to retire at sixty now—isn’t that what you want? You’ll have your thirty-five-hour workweek, your extra week’s vacation every year, your nationalizations, your abolition of the death penalty … Aren’t you happy?”

“Barthes, Hamed, his friend Saïd, the Bulgarian on the Pont-Neuf, the Bulgarian in the DS, Derrida, Searle … They all died for nothing. They died so Sollers could have his balls chopped off in Venice because he had the wrong document. Right from the beginning, we were chasing a mirage.”

“Well, not entirely. The sheet in Barthes’s apartment, the one inside the Jakobson book, that was a copy of the original. If we hadn’t intercepted the Bulgarian, he’d have given it to Kristeva, who would have realized there’d been a substitution when she compared the two texts. And Slimane’s cassette: that was a recording of the original too. It was important it didn’t fall into the wrong hands.” (Shit, thinks Bayard, stop talking about hands!)

“But Derrida wanted to destroy it.”

“But if Searle had got his hands on it”—seriously, what the fuck is wrong with me?—“who knows what would have happened?”

“They know in Murano.”

An oppressive silence, despite the singing crowd. Bayard doesn’t know what to say. He remembers a film he saw when he was a kid—The Vikings, with Tony Curtis as a one-armed man who kills the two-armed Kirk Douglas—but he is not sure that Simon would appreciate this reference.

There was nothing wrong with their investigation, no matter what anyone thinks. They tracked down Barthes’s murderers. How could they have guessed that they didn’t have the real document? No, Simon is right: they were barking up the wrong tree from the very start.

Bayard says: “Without this investigation, you wouldn’t have become what you are.”

“Disabled?” sneers Simon.

“When I first met you, you were a little library rat, you looked like a hippie virgin, and now look at you! You’re wearing a decent suit, you meet loads of girls, you’re the rising star of the Logos Club…”

“And I lost my right hand.”