The Seventh Function of Language

Sollers opens his arms wide, as if beating his wings, and declares enthusiastically: “This pope is just my type!” (He bites into an asparagus spear.) “Isn’t it sublime when he gets off his plane and kisses the ground?… Whichever country he’s in, the pope gets down on his knees, like a beautiful prostitute preparing to give you a blow job, and he kisses the ground…” (He waves his half-eaten asparagus.) “What can you do? This pope is a kisser … How could I not like him?”

The New York couple giggle as one. Lacan lifts his hand and squeaks like a little bird, but decides not to speak. Hélène, who like any good Communist is single-minded, asks: “And you think he likes libertines? Last I heard, he wasn’t very open on sexuality.” (She glances over at Kristeva.) “Politically, I mean.”

Sollers laughs noisily, the sign that he is about to embark on his usual strategy of abruptly changing the subject to pretty much anything that comes to mind: “That’s because he’s badly advised … Anyway, I’m sure he’s surrounded by homosexuals … The homosexuals are the new Jesuits … but on things like that, they’re not necessarily that well advised … Except … apparently there’s a new disease that’s decimating them … God said: be fruitful and multiply … The rubber johnny … What an abomination!… Sterilized sex … Horny bodies that don’t touch each other anymore … Pfft … I’ve never used a rubber in my life … Wrap up my dick like some meat in a supermarket?… Never!”

At this moment, Althusser wakes up:

“If the USSR attacked Poland, it was for highly strategic reasons. They had to prevent Hitler from moving close to the Russian border at all costs. Stalin used Poland as a buffer: by taking up a position on Polish soil, he was insuring himself against the coming invasion…”

“And that strategy, as everyone knows, worked like a dream,” says Kristeva.

“After Munich, the Nazi-Soviet Pact had become a necessity. More than that, an inevitability,” Althusser continues.

Lacan makes a sound like an owl. Sollers pours himself another drink. Hélène and Kristeva stare at each other. It is still not clear if the Chinese woman speaks French, nor, for that matter, the Bulgarian linguist or the Canadian feminist or even the New York couple, until Kristeva asks them, in French, if they’ve played tennis recently (they are, we discover, doubles partners, and Kristeva talks for quite a while about their last match, when she proved herself astonishingly combative, to her own surprise, as she is essentially not a very good player, she’s at pains to make clear). But Sollers, always happy to change the subject, does not let the couple reply:

“Ah, Borg!… The messiah who came in from the cold … When he falls to his knees on Wimbledon’s grass … arms outstretched … that blond hair … his bandana … his beard … it’s Jesus Christ on Centre Court … If Borg wins Wimbledon, it’s for the redemption of all mankind … And, as there’s a lot of redeeming to do, he wins every year … How many victories will it take to wash our sins away?… Five … Ten … Twenty … Fifty … A hundred … A thousand…”

“I thought you prefer McEnroe,” says the young New Yorker in his New York–accented French.

“Ah, McEnroe … the man you love to hate … a dancer, that one … the grace of the devil … But he should have actually flown around the court … McEnroe is Lucifer … the most beautiful of all the angels … Lucifer always falls in the end…”

While he embarks on a biblical exegesis in which he compares St. John with McEnroe, Kristeva slips into the kitchen with the Chinese woman on the pretext of serving the main course. Lacan’s young mistress takes off her shoes under the table. The Canadian feminist and the Bulgarian linguist look at each other questioningly. Althusser plays with the olive in his martini. BHL bangs his fist on the table and says: “We must intervene in Afghanistan!”

Hélène looks around at everyone.

She says: “And not in Iran?” The Bulgarian linguist adds mysteriously: “Hesitation is the mother of the fantastical.” The Canadian feminist smiles. Kristeva returns with the leg of lamb and the Chinese woman. Althusser says: “The Party was wrong to support the invasion of Afghanistan. You shouldn’t invade a country with a press release. The Soviets are smarter than that: they’ll withdraw.” Sollers asks mockingly: “The Party? How many divisions have they got?” The publisher looks at his watch and says: “France is slow.” Sollers smiles as he looks at Hélène and says: “One is not serious at seventy.” Lacan’s mistress uses her bare foot to caress BHL’s crotch. He is hard within seconds.