The Seventh Function of Language

5—My discourse finds/completes its own textuality through R.B. in a game of smoke and mirrors.

French: I speak fluent Roland Barthes.

Bayard gets the gist: Roland Barthes’s language is gibberish. But in that case why waste your time reading him? And, more to the point, writing a book about him?

6—The “sublimation” (the integration) of this as (my) code constitutes the “third break” of a doubling of cupido, my desire.

French: I would like to learn this language.

7—Does the R.B. as macrology serve as “fenceage” to the enclosed field of Gallicist interpellation?

French: Is Roland Barthes too difficult for a French person to learn?

8—The scarf of Barthesian style tightens “around” the code as it is confirmed in its repetition/duplication.

French: No, it’s pretty easy. But you have to work at it.

The superintendent’s perplexity increases. He doesn’t know who he hates more: Barthes or the two comics who felt the need to parody him. He puts the book down, stubs out his cigarette. The waiter is back behind the bar. Holding his glass of red, the customer objects: “Yeah, but Mitterrand’ll stop them at the border. And the money will be confiscated.” The waiter scolds the customer, frowning: “You think the rich are idiots? They’ll pay professional smugglers. They’ll organize networks to ship their money out. They’ll cross the Alps and the Pyrenees, like Hannibal! Like during the war! If it’s possible to get Jews over the border, they won’t have any trouble getting bundles of cash over, will they?” The customer does not seem too convinced, but as he obviously doesn’t have a comeback he settles for a nod, then finishes his glass and orders another one. The waiter takes out an open bottle of red and puffs himself up: “Oh yes! Oh yes! Personally, I don’t give a toss. If the pinkos win, I’m out of here. I’ll go and work in Geneva. They won’t get my money, no way. Over my dead body! I don’t work for pinkos! What do you take me for? I don’t work for anyone! I’m free! Like de Gaulle!”

Bayard tries to remember who Hannibal is and notes mechanically that the little finger on the waiter’s left hand is missing a phalanx. He interrupts the waiter’s speech to order another beer, opens the René Pommier book, counts the word nonsense seventeen times in four pages, and closes it again. In the meantime, the waiter has begun opining on another subject: “No civilized society can get by without the death penalty!” Bayard pays and exits the café, leaving his change on the table.

He passes the statue of Montaigne without seeing it, crosses Rue des Écoles and enters the Sorbonne. Superintendent Bayard understands that he understands nothing, or at least not much, about all this rubbish. What he needs is someone to explain it to him: a specialist, a translator, a transmitter, a tutor. A professor, basically. At the Sorbonne, he asks where he can find the semiology department. The person at reception sharply replies that there isn’t one. In the courtyard outside, he approaches some students in navy-blue sailor coats and boat shoes to ask where he should go to attend a semiology course. Most of them have no idea what it is or have only vaguely heard of it. But, at last, a long-haired young man smoking a joint beneath the statue of Louis Pasteur tells him that for “semio” he has to go to Vincennes. Bayard is no expert when it comes to academia, but he knows that Vincennes is a university swarming with work-shy lefties and professional agitators. Out of curiosity, he asks this young man why he isn’t there. The man is wearing a large turtleneck sweater, a pair of black trousers with the legs rolled up as though he’s about to go mussel fishing, and purple Dr. Martens. He takes a drag on his joint and replies: “I was there until my second second year. But I was part of a Trotskyite group.” This explanation seems to strike him as sufficient, but when he sees from Bayard’s inquiring look that it isn’t, he adds: “Well, there were, uh, a few problems.”

Bayard does not press the matter. He gets back in his 504 and drives to Vincennes. At a red light, he sees a black DS and thinks: “Now, that was a car!”

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