The Seventh Function of Language

Anastasia tells him her life story. She arrived in Paris when she was eight. Her father was head of the Champs-Élysées Aeroflot office. He was authorized to bring his family with him, and when Moscow summoned him back to headquarters, he applied for political asylum and they stayed, along with her mother and her little brother. Anastasia became a nurse; her brother is still in high school.

She orders tea. Simon still doesn’t know what she wants. He tries to calculate her age based on the date she arrived in France. She gives him a childlike smile: “I saw you through the window. I decided I had to talk to you.” The sound of a chair scraping on the floor at the back of the room. The Bulgarian gets up, to piss or use the phone. Simon leans forward and puts his hand to his temple to mask his profile. Anastasia dips her tea bag in the hot water and Simon sees something graceful in the movement of the young woman’s wrist. At the counter, a customer is talking about the situation in Poland, then Platini’s performance against Holland, then the invincibility of Borg at Roland-Garros. Simon can sense that he is losing concentration. This young woman turning up has unhinged him, and his nervousness is increasing every minute. And now, God knows why, he has the Soviet national anthem in his head, with its cymbal crashes and its Red Army choirs. The Bulgarian comes out of the toilets and goes back to his seat.

“Soyuz nerushimy respublik svobodnykh…”

Some students enter the café and join their friends at a noisy table. Anastasia asks Simon if he’s a cop. At first, Simon protests: of course he’s not a cop! But then—he has no idea why—he makes clear that he is acting as, let’s say, a consultant to Superintendent Bayard.

“Splotila naveki velikaya Rus’…”

At the table at the back, the policeman says “tonight.” Simon thinks he hears the Bulgarian reply with a short phrase containing “Christ.” He contemplates the girl’s childlike smile and thinks that, through storm clouds, the sunlight of freedom is shining on him.

Anastasia asks him to tell her about Barthes. Simon says that he was very fond of his mother and of Proust. Anastasia knows Proust, of course. And the great Lenin illuminated our path. Anastasia says that Barthes’s family was worried because he didn’t have his keys on him, so they wanted to change the locks, which would cost money. We were raised by Stalin to be true to the people. Simon recites this couplet to Anastasia, who informs him that, after Khrushchev’s report, the anthem’s words were altered and the reference to Stalin removed. (This did not happen until 1977, however.) Whatever, thinks Simon, we grew our army in battles … The Bulgarian stands up and puts on his jacket; he’s about to leave. Simon considers following him, but prudently decides to stick to his mission. We shall in battle decide the fate of generations. The Bulgarian looked him in the eyes when he tried to execute him. The policeman never did. It’s less dangerous, more certain that way, and he knows, now, that the cop is mixed up in the business somehow. On his way out, the Bulgarian stares at Anastasia, who smiles at him sweetly. Simon feels death brush past him. His whole body stiffens, he lowers his head. Then the policeman leaves. Anastasia smiles at him, too. Well, she’s a woman who is used to being looked at, Simon thinks. He watches the policeman head up toward Monge and knows he must react quickly if he doesn’t want to lose him, so he takes out a twenty-franc note to pay for the tea and the martini and, without waiting for his change (but pocketing the receipt), he takes the nurse by the arm and leads her out of the café. She seems a little surprised but lets him do it. “Partiya Lenina, sila narodnaya…” Simon smiles at her. He felt like getting some fresh air and he’s in a bit of a rush; would she like to accompany him? In his head, he finishes the chorus: “… Nas k torzhestvu kommunizma vedyot!” Simon’s father is a Communist, but he doesn’t see any need to mention this to the young woman, who thankfully seems amused by his slightly eccentric behavior.