We'll Never Have Paris

by Andrew Gallix

  “Ruth. One second. I’m calling long-distance from Paris, and it’s a hotel phone.” Mentioning this felt like pennypinching. “Ruth, I wanted to tell you personally, out of respect for our long friendship, but I can’t help. I’ve never read Derrida. Frankly, these days I wouldn’t know where to begin reading him.”

  “Of course you haven’t read him! No one reads Monsieur Derrida outside of Cultural Studies departments.” Her voice was louder and slower as she pronounced the words Cultural Studies.

  “I also wanted to call to express my horror if it’s true you suffered anti-Semitic abuse from Derrida.”

  “Who told you that? Norris? Can’t that man ever get his facts straight? Monsieur Derrida is Jewish, Martin. Of course, he’s never had the least problem cosying up to the most odious anti-Semitic snobs at Yale. But that’s a different matter.”

  Ruth spoke to Martin as though he was an idiot, which he was, he supposed.

  “I’m sorry, Ruth. Norris only told me half a story. So what is this about? Not the affair with John Searle?”

  “Well, of course it is about John Searle. In the broadest sense, it’s all about John Searle. Monsieur Derrida took refuge in the most bizarre straw-men arguments rather than deal with Searle directly, as though debating an American philosopher was beneath him. And that is the point, because it is his preferred modus operandi, avoiding rigour and clarity and instead going for showy put-downs and ad hominem attacks.”

  How often had Ruth Barcan suffered condescension and ridicule in her career? It had always been a struggle for her. Her greatest achievement was a proof of the necessity of identity, but no one paid it the least attention until Saul Kripke offered what amounted to the exact same proof. You could not even argue that Kripke had plagiarised Ruth. No one had paid the least attention to Ruth’s work, but everyone was bowled over by Kripke’s. God knows why she had never got so angry when Kripke was lauded as a genius.

  Martin was woken by a boot kicking at his door. He had fallen asleep across his bed, wearing his underwear and a sweater. There were books scattered across the bedspread and others spines akimbo on the floor.

  Norris was yelling from the corridor. “Marty! Marty! Are you alive or dead?”

  Martin opened the door. “I was asleep. What time is it?” “It’s past three.” Norris looked past him to the room. “You didn’t hear the phone? Oh, mate. You only unplugged the bloody phone.”

  Martin opened and closed both his eyes and his mouth. His mouth felt furry, his eyes felt as though they had been salt-cured, they were so dry and sore. Norris pushed past him and plugged the phone back in to the wall. It immediately started ringing. Norris answered it.

  “He’s fine. He was fast asleep like Goldilocks, while I’m stood like a fool outside the Louvre waiting for him.”

  He replaced the phone.

  “Jesus, Marty! Did you pull an all-nighter.” Norris at last saw the names on the book covers. “Oh, fuck, mate. You’ve not been reading Derrida?”

  “I don’t think I had a choice.”

  “Christ! Marty, mate! No wonder you look like shit. How many books are there? You must have emptied the shelves at Shakespeare and Company. Did you spend the whole night reading?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So what did you learn?”

  “Van shouldn’t have a problem with Derrida. They have the same criticism of symbolic logic.”

  “Oh, mate, no! One sleepless night and you’re seduced? Jacques bats his eyes and now you want to bridge the Anglo-American European divide?”

  “Derrida isn’t called Jacques, and he’s not European, either. He’s Jackie from Algeria, and the reason he’s using Van’s argument is because he was sat in Van’s class with us.”

  This pulled Norris up. “He’s Jackie! Jacques Derrida is Algerian Jackie?”

  Norris knew who Martin was talking about. They were the three Stooges at Harvard. Fat Norris. Thin Martin. Little Jackie.

  “You’ve got to be mistaken, Marty. It’s a different bloke. Jackie was a mathematician. And he was at Harvard to avoid the Algerian war.”

  “He had got into an elite French university on a maths scholarship. And he had come to Harvard to avoid the French draft. You remember: he was a North African, Arab-speaking Jew. He would have been on the losing side however the war turned out.” Martin looked for a book with a photograph on the flyleaf. He handed it to Norris.

  Norris stared at the picture. “How am I supposed to tell? The guy’s got all this bouffy white hair.”

  “Jackie was twenty-eight when we were at Harvard. That book is his memoirs. There’s not much in it, but he does talk about growing up in Algeria under the Vichy-backed government. He missed two years of education because they kicked the Jews out of state schools. It was a miracle that he got the maths scholarship.”

  The book was called Circumfession. A pun on Jackie’s bris. You could complain about the dick joke, but then Kripke’s circle were always smirking over their dick jokes: their rigid and flaccid designators. Dick jokes bridged the Anglo-American Continental divide.

  Norris said, “Where’s his criticism of formal logic?”

  The collection containing the essay was on the bed. Martin thumbed through to the opening page.

  Norris peered at the title. “Is that how they spell ‘difference’ in French?”

  “No. He changed the spelling by switching one of the ‘e’s’ for an ‘a’. ‘Différance’. But it doesn’t alter the pronunciation. Either way, ‘a’ or ‘e’, the words are indiscernible. It’s an essay on logic and indiscernibility, and it uses Van’s objection to Ruth and Kripke.”

  “Oh, fuck’s sake, mate. The two words are spelled different: they aren’t indiscernible at all.” Norris read out the first line of Jackie’s essay. “‘I will speak therefore of a letter. Of the first letter.’’ He groaned and snapped the book shut. “You’ve lost it, Marty. That’s nothing to do with the Willard Van Quine I know.”

  “Van argues that any notion of identity depends upon an unspoken appeal to immediacy: to the space and time in which two similar objects will be revealed as one and the same. That’s what Jackie’s calling ‘différance’, it’s his word for a difference that defers identity.”

  Norris cast the book on the bed. “You’re saying that the Jackie we used to know is living in Paris, inhabiting Jacques Derrida’s body? And when we catch them together, they become one and the same?”

  “Or they never do. Because our Jackie was a twenty-eight-year-old North African kid with neat black hair.”

  Norris clicked his fingers. “The fucker was with us when Ruth gave one of her papers. The three of us. If Derrida understands all of her shit, why doesn’t he just say so and put her petition to rest.”

  “Is that what we should tell him to do? Play up and play the game? Play by our rules? If they hate him, I can’t see a rational argument is going to help change anyone’s mind.”

  “We’re philosophers, we have to believe it could. What the fuck else except rational argument could change someone’s mind?” Norris picked up the memoirs again and took another look at the picture. “This is Jackie. Seriously? Thirty-five years later, and he’s still Van’s good son?”

  The Parting Sea

  Evan Lavender-Smith

  I walked across the park along the stone path, through the flock of pigeons. I approached the bench and sat down next to her. She looked angry. Had I done something wrong?

  “Have I done something wrong?” I asked her.

  “Why did you kick that pigeon?” she replied.

  Kick a pigeon? What’s she talking about? I didn’t kick a pigeon. I’m not a child.

  “I didn’t kick a pigeon.”

  “I saw you do it. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “I walked through the flock and they all moved out of the way. It must have been the angle you were watching me from.”

  “Don’t lie,” she said. “Just admit it. And then we can move on.”

 
Move on from what? I’m not a child, obviously, nor am I the type of adult to kick a pigeon — especially here, where kicking pigeons is the type of behavior I’ve been trying so hard to avoid. American behavior. Although I can barely speak any French, I’ve been using as little English as possible, gesturing with my hands, with my head, with my face. My sneakers haven’t seen the light of day since we arrived. I’m not even wearing my baseball cap.

  No, of course I didn’t kick a pigeon. Who does she think I am?

  “But I can’t admit to something I didn’t do,” I said.

  “You’re lying,” she said. “I can tell. I can always tell.”

  “Obviously you can’t. Because I’m telling the truth.”

  She scoffed, turned away.

  Had my foot touched a pigeon, without my realizing it? But I distinctly remember walking through the flock and making a mental note of what happened: the parting sea of pigeons. I remember wishing I had some birdseed on my person. Why would I have wished for a pigeon’s sustenance, on the one hand, and its harm, on the other? Why would I have made a mental note in opposition to that which I perceived?

  “Look,” I said, pointing in the direction of the tower, “I walked from over there, straight toward you. Even if I had kicked a pigeon, you wouldn’t have been able to tell, because from your perspective, you wouldn’t have been able to see the gap between my foot and the pigeon. Couldn’t it be the case that the angle you watched me from simply made it appear as if I’d kicked a pigeon, when in reality I hadn’t? Can’t you admit that you might be wrong?”

  “I saw you swing your leg back,” she said. “I saw the pigeon fly through the air. Not because it was flying, but because it had been kicked. First you were walking at a normal pace. And then you trained your sights on a pigeon, sped up, and kicked it. Like a soccer ball.”

  Impossible. I hate soccer — and with a special passion lately. France playing in the World Cup is the reason we’ve run into all these cordoned off streets and squares. So many rowdy spectators everywhere, peering up at impromptu jumbotrons. We haven’t been able to get to where we need to go. When it comes to sports, I thought it was Americans who were supposed to be the crazy ones, but we’re way more civilized about them than the French are. Our cities never come to a screeching halt like this. We don’t gather in huge crowds to watch a bunch of guys in short shorts stand around doing nothing for hours on end. Boot, French for goal, is one of the few words I’ve learned while here, despite my having heard the word shouted only two, maybe three times. I know I would never pretend that a pigeon — or anything else, for that matter — is a soccer ball. It would never occur to me.

  She continued, “Or a football.”

  But I do like football. The American kind. Every year from September to February I try to keep my Sundays free. I was even on a football team in middle school. I guess I could see myself pretending something other than a football is a football. In fact, I know I’ve done that very thing many times in my life. Running up to something other than a football, pretending it’s a football on a kickoff tee, kicking it as hard as I can. But just because I’ve done that in the past doesn’t mean I did it just now, with a pigeon. Besides, I made the mental note. I wished for birdseed.

  “You’re so embarrassing to me,” she said. “I’m sick of it. You need to admit to the childish things you do if you’re ever going to become a real adult. People in Paris don’t kick pigeons.”

  But I’m a person in Paris. And she’s claiming I kicked a pigeon. She’s not being logical.

  “You mean people native to Paris,” I said. “Otherwise, it would follow that I didn’t kick one.”

  She turned away.

  I closed my eyes, trying to visualize having walked toward her along the stone path. My walk across the park had happened only moments before, and yet the memory of it now felt very distant. As distant as breakfast. No, even more distant than that. Years distant, perhaps. As distant as middle school. But I can still remember things from way back then, can’t I? Yes, of course I can. So why wouldn’t I be able to remember having kicked a pigeon just now, if I had?

  We had croissants for breakfast. She had one, I had two. One of my croissants was a regular croissant, the other, like hers, a chocolate croissant. A pain au chocolat. And coffee. I smoked a cigarette afterward. When I was finished with it, I suggested that she dump the water from the stylish white ashtray and place the ashtray in her purse. We were the only ones seated at the café’s little patio; the waiter hadn’t been by in ages. “Don’t forget we’re leaving tomorrow,” I whispered to her. “Who knows whether we’ll get another chance like this?” She zipped up her purse, flamboyantly, without the ashtray inside.

  And what about middle school? In seventh grade, I remember, we were forced to memorize the capitals of all the European nations. Paris was always difficult because somehow I’d gotten it in my head that France was a city rather than a country. And I knew that a city couldn’t be the capital of another city. What was the name of the imaginary country I imagined Paris to be the capital of, I wonder?

  I turned to her. She was still looking away.

  I bet it was Texas. I also remember Mr Payton giving me a C in geography.

  “Listen,” she said, turning back to me. “I know you think that you’re right and I’m wrong, or that we’ve reached some sort of impasse due to the subjective nature of human perception, but the fact of the matter is this. You kicked that pigeon and you just don’t want to admit it. Or — and I’d like to believe this isn’t the case, because to my mind it would be worse than if you’re lying — you’re the type of person who kicks a pigeon and it counts as such a trivial, unremarkable event, like turning a doorknob or tying your shoes, that it doesn’t even get recorded in your memory banks.” She paused, took a breath, continued. “What I need you to do is choose one of the following two options. Either you’re A, a liar, or B, a sociopath. If you don’t choose right now, then I’m afraid this relationship isn’t going to last much longer. I’m sick of your shenanigans, of all your nonsense. I’m at the end of my rope here.”

  Shenanigans? Nonsense? Liar or sociopath — that’s nonsensical. Aren’t I being the logical one here? What am I missing?

  I was coming from that little bodega or whatever. I bought a pack of cigarettes. I remember the cashier placing the pack on the counter. He spoke a number I didn’t understand. I fished through my wallet for an amount of euros I imagined to be enough to cover the cost. I placed the bills on the counter. He looked down at them, then he looked up at me, and then he said something I didn’t understand. Except for the word américain. He slid two of the bills back across the counter in my direction.

  How is that memory any more or less trivial than a memory of turning a doorknob or tying my shoes?

  I thought of my shoes, these very uncomfortable boots I’ve been wearing for two weeks straight. My feet hurt so bad; I should be wearing my Nikes. Can I remember lacing up my boots this morning?

  I strained my memory to picture us back in the hotel room. I was so glad to be putting on a fresh pair of underwear, having finally done laundry the night before. I put on my shirt — but then I had to take it off again because I’d forgotten to put on deodorant. I didn’t want to accidentally touch the white chalky deodorant stick to my shirt, because this is a black shirt, and I worried that were I to do the thing where I reach up through the bottom of the shirt with the stick of deodorant in my hand, the white of it might touch the black of my shirt and leave a mark. My uncomfortable skinny jeans were crumpled on the floor; I struggled to shimmy them on. I put on a fresh pair of socks. I put on my boots. But, it’s true, I don’t remember tying them. And I certainly don’t remember turning the doorknob to the hotel room as we headed out to breakfast.

  So maybe she’s right, after all. Maybe I am a sociopath. I looked down at my boots. Wait a minute, I thought to myself, these are Chelsea boots. They don’t even have laces. That’s why I don’t remember tying them!

  �
��But look,” I said, motioning to my feet. “The only reason I don’t remember tying my shoes is because these boots don’t have any laces!”

  “Liar,” she said, “or sociopath.”

  I could see the stone path in the distance. Closing my eyes again, I tried to picture myself walking along it. I watched my laceless boots carry me forward, through the parting sea of pigeons. But is that a real memory? Or am I imagining a series of events that didn’t actually occur? Is what I’m seeing in my head right now a series of events that bears only some vague structural resemblance to the events as they actually occurred? Am I merely borrowing selective details from the real events, like the texture of the stone path as I remember it, the height of the green grass, the pebbled leather of my uncomfortable Chelsea boots? But I had wished for birdseed — that’s a real memory, I’m sure of it. And I’d made the mental note. I hadn’t noted, the parting sea of pigeons, save one, the pigeon I kicked out of the way, with this extremely uncomfortable boot, like a teed-up football.

  So, assuming I did kick a pigeon, which I know I didn’t, I guess I’d have to go with sociopath, even though I’m pretty sure I’m not a sociopath. But, still, B would be the better choice, because I’m more certain that I’m not lying about kicking a pigeon than I am about not remembering having kicked a pigeon. Unless she’s willing to concede that she might be in the wrong, which, clearly, she’s not willing to do. Or unless she’s up for giving me a third option. C, intermittent amnesiac. Or, better, C, benevolent mnemonic revisionist. But I know that if I ask for a third option she’s likely to stand up from the bench and walk away. Probably for good.

  I turned to her and asked, “Do you think I could have a third option?”

  She stood up from the bench, grabbed her purse, and walked away in the direction opposite the park.

  I sat still for a long moment. I tried to feel regret about having asked for a third option, but I couldn’t, because I felt so victimized by having been given only two.

  I removed a cigarette from my pack and lit it. My thoughts returned to middle school. Coach had positioned me at placekicker, I remember, not because I was any good at kicking a football, but because it was the position reserved for the scrawniest kid on the team. Placekickers aren’t often tackled, nor are they often required to tackle somebody else. The problem I’d had was that my kickoffs and field goal attempts suffered from a pronounced, seemingly incurable slice. As a right-footed kicker, whenever I kicked the ball it spun and curved wildly to the right. This was because my legs weren’t strong. They still aren’t. My legs don’t look so skinny just because of these ridiculous skinny jeans she’s forcing me to wear, but because they’re actually very skinny. A strong-legged right-footed kicker would be able to pull his kickoffs and field goals, I imagine—that is, have the football spin and curve to the left — something I’ve never been able to do.