The Seventh Function of Language

“Ma no, you’re wrong, Georges. The interpretation of clues is not all science, but the semiological moment of all science and the essence of semiology itself. Roland’s Mythologies were brilliant semiological analyses because daily life is subject to a continual bombardment of messages that do not always manifest a direct intentionality but, due to their ideological finality, mostly tend to be presented under an apparent ‘naturalness’ of the real.”

“Oh, really? I don’t see why you insist on labeling as semiology what is ultimately just a general epistemiology.”

“Ma, that’s exactly it. Semiology offers instruments to recognize what science does, which is, first and foremost, learning to see the world as a collection of signifying events.”

“In that case, you might as well come out and say that semiology is the mother of all sciences!”

Umberto spreads out his hands, palms open, and a broad smile splits his beard: “Ecco!”

There is the pop, pop, pop of bottles being uncorked. Simon gallantly lights Bianca’s cigarette. Enzo tries to kiss his young student, who shies away, laughing. Stefano fills everyone’s glasses.

Bayard sees the man in gloves put down his glass without finishing it and disappear into the street. The store is arranged in such a way, with a closed counter denying access to the whole back half of the room, that Bayard deduces there is no customer toilet. So, by the look of things, the man in gloves does not want to do what the hippie did, and has gone outside to piss. Bayard has a few seconds to come to a decision. He grabs a coffee spoon from the counter and walks after him.

He has not gone very far: there is no lack of dark alleyways in this part of town. He is facing the wall, in the midst of relieving himself, when Bayard grabs him by the hair, yanks him backward, and pins him to the ground, yelling into his face: “You keep your gloves on to piss? What’s up, don’t like getting your hands dirty?” The man is of average build, but he is too stupefied to fight back or even cry out, so he simply stares wide-eyed in terror at his assailant. Bayard immobilizes him by pressing his knee into the man’s chest and grabs his hands. Feeling something soft under the leather of the left-hand glove, he tears it off and discovers two missing phalanges, on the pinkie and ring fingers.

“So … you like cutting wood, too, huh?”

He crushes his head against the damp cobblestones.

“Where is the meeting?”

The man makes some incomprehensible gurgling noises, so Bayard lessens the pressure and hears: “Non lo so! Non lo so!”

Perhaps infected by the climate of violence that permeates the city, Bayard does not seem in the mood to show much patience. He takes the little spoon from his jacket pocket and wedges it deeply under the man’s eye. The man starts to screech like a frightened bird. Behind him, he hears Simon running up and shouting: “Jacques! Jacques! What are you doing?” Simon pulls at his shoulders, but Bayard is much too strong to be moved. “Jacques! Fucking hell! What’s wrong with you?”

The cop digs the spoon into the eye socket.

He does not repeat his question.

He wants to cause distress and despair at maximum intensity, at maximum speed, taking advantage of the element of surprise. His aim is efficiency, as it was in Algeria. Less than a minute ago, the man in gloves thought he was going to have a nice, relaxed evening and now some French guy has appeared out of nowhere and is trying to enucleate him while he pisses all over himself.

When he feels the terrorized man is ready to do anything to save his eye and his life, Bayard finally consents to make his question more specific.

“The Logos Club, you little shit! Where is it?” And the man with the missing fingers stammers: “Archiginnasio! Archiginnasio!” Bayard does not understand. “Archi what?” And behind him, he hears a voice that is not Simon’s: “The Palazzo dell’Archiginnasio is the headquarters of the old university, behind the Piazza Maggiore. It was built by Antonio Morandi, known as Il Terribilia, perché…”

Bayard, without turning around, recognizes the voice of Eco, who demands: “Ma, perché are you torturing this pover’uomo?”

Bayard explains: “There is a meeting of the Logos Club tonight, here in Bologna.” The man in gloves emits a hoarse wheezing sound.

Simon asks: “But how do you know that?”

“Our services obtained this information.”

“‘Our’ services? The Renseignements Généraux, you mean?”