The Seventh Function of Language

Bayard has come to interrogate him, at Simon’s suggestion, because he was born in Bulgaria.

Having grown up in a totalitarian country evidently aided the development of a very strong humanist conscience, which comes out even in his linguistic theories. For example, he believes that rhetoric can truly blossom only in a democracy, because it requires a venue for debate that, by definition, neither a monarchy nor a dictatorship can offer. As proof, he cites the fact that in imperial Rome, and later, in feudal Europe, the science of discourse abandoned its objective of persuasion, focusing not on the receiver’s interpretation but on the spoken word itself. Speeches were no longer expected to be effective, simply beautiful. Political issues were replaced by purely aesthetic issues. In other words, rhetoric became poetic. (This is what is known as the seconde rhétorique.)

He explains to Bayard, in immaculate French but with a still very noticeable accent, that the Bulgarian secret services (the KDC), as far as he knows, are active and dangerous. They are supported by the KGB and are therefore in a position to mount sophisticated operations. Assassinating the pope? Maybe not, but they are certainly capable of eliminating individuals whose existence is inconvenient. That said, he does not see why they would be involved in Barthes’s accident. What possible interest could they have in a French literary critic? Barthes was not political and had never had any contact with Bulgaria. Sure, he went to China, but you couldn’t say he returned a Maoist, any more than he did an anti-Maoist. He was neither a Gide nor an Aragon. When he came back from China, Barthes’s anger, Todorov remembers, was focused mainly on the quality of Air France’s in-flight meals: he even thought of writing an article on the subject.

Bayard knows that Todorov has pinpointed the central difficulty of his investigation: discovering a motive. But he also knows that in the absence of any other information he must make do with the objective evidence at his disposal—a pistol, an umbrella—and, even though in theory he sees no geopolitical implications in Barthes’s murder, he continues to interrogate the Bulgarian critic about the secret services of his country of origin.

Who is in charge of them? A Colonel Emil Kristoff. His reputation? Not especially liberal, but not particularly well versed in semiology either. Bayard has the unhappy impression that he is going farther down a dead end. After all, if the two killers had been from Marseille or Yugoslavia or Morocco, what would he have deduced from that? Without knowing it, Bayard is thinking like a structuralist: he wonders if the Bulgarian connection is relevant. He mentally reviews the other clues that he has not yet investigated. Just to be sure, he asks:

“Does the name Sophia mean anything to you?”

“Well, yes, it’s the city where I was born.”

Sofia.

So the Bulgarian lead really is a lead, after all.

At this moment, a beautiful young Russian woman in a dressing gown makes her appearance and crosses the room, discreetly greeting the visitor. Bayard thinks he can detect an English accent. So maybe this bespectacled egghead doesn’t lead such a boring life. He notes automatically the silent, erotic complicity between the Anglophone woman and the Bulgarian critic, the sign of a relationship that he assesses—not that he cares, it’s just a professional reflex—as being either nascent or adulterous or both.

While he’s at it, he asks Todorov if “echo,” the last word pronounced by Hamed, means anything to him. And the Bulgarian replies: “Yes, have you heard from him recently?”

Bayard does not understand.

“Umberto. How is he?”

43

Louis Althusser holds the precious sheet of paper in his hand. The discipline of the Party, which formed him, his obedient temperament, his years as a docile prisoner of war, all command him not to read the mysterious document. At the same time, his rather un-Communist individualism, his fondness for enigmas, his historical propensity to cheat, all encourage him to unfold the page. If he did, not knowing but suspecting what it contains, his act would join the long list of dishonesties that started with a fraudulent 17/20 on a philosophy dissertation in his classe préparatoire for the École Normale Supérieure (a sufficiently important episode in his personal mythology that he thinks about it all the time). But he is afraid. He knows what they’re capable of. He decides, wisely (spinelessly, he feels), not to read the document.