The Seventh Function of Language

Simon crosses the Île de la Cité, passes the law courts, and reaches Châtelet. He asks Hamed why he came to Paris. Hamed explains that Marseille is a tough place for queers; Paris is better, even if it’s no panacea (Simon notes the gigolo’s use of the word panacea): queers are treated better here, because in the provinces, being queer is worse than being Arab. And besides, in Paris, there are loads of queers with loads of money, and there’s more fun to be had. Simon drives through a yellow light at the Rue de Rivoli crossing and the black DS behind him runs the red to remain in close pursuit. The blue Fuego, though, stops. Simon explains to Hamed that he teaches Barthes at university and says carefully: “What’s it about, that document?” Hamed asks for a cigarette and says: “To be honest, I don’t know.”

Simon wonders if Hamed is stringing them along, but Hamed tells him that he learned the text by heart without seeking to understand it. His instructions were that if anything ever happened to Barthes, Hamed had to go somewhere to recite the text to one particular person, and no one else. Simon asks him why he hasn’t done this. Hamed asks what makes him think he hasn’t. Simon says he doesn’t believe Hamed would have gone to the police if he had. Hamed admits that he hasn’t done it, because the place is too far away: the person doesn’t live in France, and he didn’t have enough money. He chose to spend the three thousand francs Barthes gave him on other things.

In his rearview mirror Simon notices that the black DS is still behind them. At Strasbourg-Saint-Denis, he runs a red light and the DS does the same thing. He slows down, it slows down. He double-parks, just to be sure. The DS stops behind him. He feels his heart begin to pound a little. He asks Hamed what he wants to do later, when he has enough money, if that ever happens. Hamed doesn’t understand why Simon has stopped the car, to begin with, but he doesn’t ask questions and tells him that he’d like to buy a boat and organize trips for tourists, because he loves the sea, because he used to go fishing in little coves with his father when he was young (but that was before his father threw him out). Simon starts up suddenly, making his tires screech, and in his rearview mirror he sees the large black Citroën’s hydraulic suspension lifting it up from the tarmac. Hamed turns around and catches sight of the DS and then he remembers the car parked below his apartment, and below the party in Bastille, and he realizes that it has been following him for weeks and that they could have killed him ten times by now, but that that doesn’t mean they won’t kill him the eleventh time, so he grabs hold of the handle above the passenger-side window and says simply: “Take a right.”

Simon turns without thinking and finds himself in a little side street parallel to Boulevard Magenta, and what scares him most now is that the car behind him is not even attempting to conceal its presence. And so, as it moves closer again, guided by a vague inspiration, he slams on the brakes and the DS crashes into the back of the R16.

For a few seconds, the two cars are immobile, one behind the other, as if they had lost consciousness, and the passersby, too, seem petrified, stunned by the accident. Then he sees an arm emerge from the DS and a shiny metallic object and he thinks: that’s a gun. So he shoves the car into gear, missing first, which produces a horrible crunching noise, and the R16 leaps forward. The arm disappears and the DS also takes off.

Simon runs every traffic light he sees, honking his horn constantly, so much so that it sounds like an air-raid siren warning the Tenth Arrondissement of an imminent bombardment. Behind, the DS stays close to him, like a fighter plane that’s locked an enemy plane in its crosshairs. Simon hits a 505, bounces off a van, skids onto the pavement, almost runs over two or three passersby, and enters Place de la République. Behind him, the DS weaves between obstacles like a snake. Simon slaloms through traffic, avoiding pedestrians, and yells at Hamed: “The text! Recite the text!” But Hamed can’t concentrate; his hand is clinging to the handle above the window and not a single word escapes his lips.