The gondola finally reaches land and Bayard throws all his lire at the gondolier and jumps onto the dock, along with the Japanese, but there is a whole line of glassblowers’ workshops and they have no idea where Simon was taken. So they rush into each of them randomly, calling out to the craftsmen and salesmen and tourists, but no one has seen Simon.
The Neapolitan takes a drag on his cigar and orders: “Tutta la mano.”
The glassblower changes his tongs for a bigger pair and seizes Simon’s wrist in the cast-iron jaws.
Bayard and the Japanese burst into a workshop, where they have to describe the young Frenchman to Italians who do not understand them because they are talking too fast, so Bayard leaves the workshop and goes into the one next door, but there, too, no one has seen the Frenchman. Bayard knows perfectly well that rushing around in a panic is no way to carry out an investigation but he has a policeman’s intuition of urgency, even though he is not aware of exactly what is happening, and he runs from one workshop to the next, and from one shop to the next.
But it’s too late: the glassblower again closes the cast-iron jaws around Simon’s wrist and crushes the flesh, the ligaments, and the bones, until the latter break with a sinister cracking noise and his right hand is detached from his arm in a fountain of blood.
The Neapolitan contemplates his mutilated adversary as he collapses, and seems to hesitate briefly.
Has he obtained sufficient compensation, yes or no?
He takes a drag on his cigar, blows a few smoke rings, and says: “Let’s go.”
Simon’s screaming alerts Bayard and the Japanese, who find him at last lying inanimate on the floor of the glassblower’s workshop, bleeding profusely, surrounded by little broken horses.
Bayard knows there is not a second to lose. He is searching for the hand but he can’t find it. He looks all over the floor, but there is nothing but fragments of little glass horses that crack under his soles. If nothing is done in the next few minutes, he realizes, Simon will bleed to death.
So one of the Japanese men takes a sort of spatula from the still-hot oven and presses it to the wound. The cauterized flesh emits a hideous whistling noise. The pain wakes Simon, who screams deliriously. The smell of burned flesh reaches the shop next door, intriguing the customers, oblivious to the drama unfolding in the glassblower’s workshop.
Bayard thinks that cauterizing the wound has made any kind of hand transplant impossible and that Simon will remain one-handed for the rest of his life, but the Japanese man who performed the operation, as if reading his thoughts, shows him the oven, so that he will have no regrets: inside, like a Rodin sculpture, the curled-up fingers crackle and glow at the end of the charred hand.
PART V
PARIS
94
“I don’t believe it! That bitch Thatcher let Bobby Sands die!”
Simon hops about angrily as he watches Patrick Poivre d’Arvor announce, on the Channel 2 news, the death of the Irish activist after sixty-six days of hunger strike.
Bayard comes out of his kitchen and glances at the TV. He remarks: “Yeah, but you can’t really stop someone committing suicide, can you?”
Simon yells at him: “Can you hear yourself, you stupid pig? He was twenty-seven!”
Bayard tries to argue his point: “He belonged to a terrorist organization. The IRA kill people, don’t they?”
Simon almost chokes: “That’s exactly what Laval said about the Resistance! I wouldn’t have wanted a cop like you checking my papers in 1940!”
Bayard decides that it is better not to reply to this, so he pours his guest another glass of port, puts a bowl of cocktail sausages on the coffee table, and goes back into the kitchen.
PPDA talks about the assassination of a Spanish general and presents a report on Spaniards nostalgic for the Franco years, barely three months after the attempted coup d’état in the Madrid parliament.
Simon turns back to the magazine that he bought before coming here and which he began to read on the metro. It was the front-page headline that had made him curious: “Referendum: The Top 42 Intellectuals.” The magazine asked five hundred “cultural personalities” (Simon pulls a face) to name the three most important French intellectuals alive today. First comes Lévi-Strauss; second: Sartre; third: Foucault. After that, Lacan, Beauvoir, Yourcenar, Braudel …
Simon looks for Derrida in the rankings, forgetting that he is dead. (He imagines he would have been on the podium, though no one will ever know.)
BHL is tenth.
Michaux, Beckett, Aragon, Cioran, Ionesco, Duras …
Sollers, twenty-fourth. As there is a rundown of the votes and Sollers is also one of the voters, Simon notes that he voted for Kristeva while Kristeva voted for him. (Same reciprocal deal with BHL.)
Simon nabs a cocktail sausage and shouts at Bayard: “So, have you heard any news about Sollers?”
Bayard comes out of the kitchen, holding a dish towel: “He’s out of the hospital. Kristeva stayed at his bedside throughout his convalescence. From what I’ve heard, he’s leading a normal life again. According to my information, he had his balls buried on an island cemetery in Venice. He says he’ll go back twice a year to pay tribute to them—once for each ball.”
Bayard hesitates before adding, gently, without looking at Simon: “He looks like he’s recovering quite well.”
Althusser, twenty-fifth: the murder of his wife hasn’t made much of a dent in his credibility, Simon thinks.
“Hey, that smells good, what is it?”
Bayard goes back into the kitchen: “Eat some olives while you’re waiting.”
PPDA (who voted for Aron, Gracq, and d’Ormesson) says: “In Washington, where they are celebrating the rise in the dollar: five francs forty…”
Bayard pokes his head in: “Were you talking to me?”
Simon grumbles incoherently; Bayard returns to his kitchen.
PPDA’s program ends with the weather forecast, given by Alain Gillot-Pétré, who predicts some sunshine at last to brighten this freezing May (54 degrees in Paris, 48 in Besançon).
After the ads, the screen turns blue, bombastic music featuring brass and cymbals plays, and a message announces the great presidential election debate.
Then the blue screen gives way to the two journalists who will chair the debate. It is May 5, 1981.
Simon shouts: “Jacques, come on! It’s starting.”
Bayard joins Simon in the living room with beers and Apéricubes. He pops open two bottles while the journalist chosen by Giscard, Jean Boissonnat—Europe 1 commentator, gray three-piece suit, stripy tie, face of a man who will flee to Switzerland if the Socialists win—explains how the evening will unfold.
Beside him, Michèle Cotta—RTL journalist, black helmet hair, fluorescent lipstick, fuchsia blouse, and mauve waistcoat—pretends to take notes while smiling nervously.
Simon, who does not listen to RTL, asks who the pink Russian doll is. Bayard sniggers stupidly.
Giscard explains that he would like this debate to be constructive.
Simon tries to unwrap one of the ham-flavored cream-cheese cubes with his teeth, but can’t manage it and becomes annoyed. Bayard takes the Apéricube from Simon’s hand and removes the foil wrapper for him.
Giscard and Mitterrand taunt each other over their embarrassing allies: Chirac, who, at the time, is considered a representative of the hard Right, ultraconservative, borderline fascist (18 percent), and Marchais, the Communist candidate during the Brezhnev era of decomposing Stalinism (15 percent). Both finalists need their respective support in order to be elected to the second round.
Giscard points out that if he was reelected he would not need to dissolve the National Assembly, whereas his opponent would either govern with the Communists or be a president without a majority: “One cannot lead the people blindfolded. This is an important country and its people must know where they are going.” Simon notes that Giscard has problems conjugating the verb dissoudre (dissolve) and says to Bay
ard that Polytechnique graduates are illiterates. Reflexively, Bayard replies: “Send the Commies to Moscow!” Giscard says to Mitterrand: “You cannot say to the French people: ‘I want to deliver major change, but it could be with anyone … even including the current Assembly.’ In that case, don’t dissolve it.”
As Giscard hammers away at his point about parliamentary instability, because he cannot imagine that the Socialists could possibly win a majority in the Assembly, Mitterrand replies, rather formally: “I wish to win the presidential election, I believe I will win it, and when I have won it, I will do all that must be done within the law to win the legislative elections. And if you imagine that, from next Monday, that will not be France’s state of mind, its formidable desire for change, then it is because you do not understand anything that is happening in this country.” And while Bayard curses the Bolshevik vermin, Simon mechanically notes the coded message: Mitterrand is obviously not speaking to Giscard, but to all those who detest Giscard.
But they have been discussing the parliamentary majority for half an hour now, with Giscard’s game plan being to constantly suggest the bogeyman of Communist ministers, and Simon thinks it is getting rather boring, when suddenly Mitterrand—who’s been on the defensive up to that point—finally decides to launch a counterattack: “As for your anti-Communist outpourings, let me just say that they merit a few corrections. After all, it’s a bit too easy. [Pause.] You realize, there is a large number of Communist workers. [Pause.] Following your line of logic, you have to ask: What purpose do they serve? They serve to produce, to work, to pay taxes, they serve to die in wars, they serve to do everything. But they can never serve to make a majority in France?”
Simon, who was about to stuff another cocktail sausage into his mouth, stops with the sausage in midair. And while the journalists home in on another boring question, he realizes, just like Giscard, that perhaps the debate has shifted. Because Giscard finds himself on the defensive and changes his tone, aware as he is of what’s at stake now, in an era when the equation Worker = Communist is not even questioned: “But … I am not attacking the Communist electorate, not at all. In seven years, Monsieur Mitterrand, I have never said a single disobliging word about the French working class. Never! I respect it in its work, in its activities, even in its political expression.”
Simon laughs mockingly: “Oh yes, of course, every year you wolf down merguez at the Fête de l’Humanité. Between safaris with Bokassa, you like to toast the union metalworkers. Ha ha, yeah, right!”
Bayard glances at his watch and goes back into the kitchen to check the cooking while the journalists question Giscard on his record as president. According to him, it’s very good. Mitterrand puts his large glasses back on to demonstrate that, on the contrary, it is absolutely dreadful. Giscard responds by citing Rivarol: “It is a huge advantage to have done nothing. But one should not abuse it.” And he maintains the pressure where it hurts. “It is true that you have been minister of words since 1965. Since 1974, I have governed France.” Simon gets annoyed: “Yeah, and we’ve all seen how!” But he knows it is a difficult argument to counter. From the kitchen, Bayard replies: “It’s true that compared with ours the Soviet economy is booming!”
Mitterrand decides to twist the knife: “You have a tendency to repeat your old refrain from seven years ago: ‘the man of the past.’ It is rather awkward that, in the meantime, you have become the passive man.”
Bayard laughs: “He still hasn’t got over it, has he, eh? That ‘man of the past’ gibe. Seven years he’s been brooding on that.”
Simon says nothing because he agrees: it’s not a bad comeback, but it does have the feel of something too obviously prepared in advance. At least it has the effect of relaxing Mitterrand, though, like an ice-skater who has just pulled off a triple axel.
There follows a good battle over the French and global economies, and at least the viewers feel that the candidates have earned their keep. Bayard finally serves his main course: a lamb tagine. Simon is wide-eyed: “Whoa, who taught you to cook?” Giscard paints a horrifying picture of a future France under socialism. Bayard says to Simon: “I met my first wife in Algeria. You can play the smart-ass with your semiology, but you don’t know everything about my life.” Mitterrand reminds Giscard that it was de Gaulle who initiated mass nationalizations in 1945. Bayard opens a bottle of red, a 1976 Côte-de-Beaune. Simon tastes the tagine: “But this is really good!” Mitterrand keeps taking off his glasses and putting them back on. Bayard explains: “Seventy-six was a very good year for Burgundies.” Mitterrand declares: “Portugal nationalized its banks, and it is not a socialist country.” Simon and Bayard savor the tagine and the Côte-de-Beaune. Bayard deliberately chose a meal that would not necessitate a knife, the stewed meat being tender enough to be cut with the side of a fork. Simon knows that Bayard knows that he knows this, but the two men ignore it. Neither is keen to mention Murano.
While this is going on, Mitterrand shows his teeth. “The bureaucracy is down to you. You are the one in government. If you make all these speeches complaining now of all the administration’s misdeeds, where do you think the blame lies? You are governing, so you are responsible! You beat your chest three days before an election—of course you do, I understand perfectly why you do it, but why should I believe that in the next seven years you would do anything differently from what you have done during the last seven?”
Simon notes the shrewd use of the conditional but, absorbed by the delicious tagine and by more bitter memories, his concentration wavers.
Surprised by this sudden aggression, Giscard tries to parry it with his customary disdain: “Please, let us maintain an appropriate tone.” But now Mitterrand is ready to let rip: “I intend to express myself exactly as I wish.”
And he hits home: “One and a half million unemployed.”
Giscard tries to correct him: “Job seekers.”
But Mitterrand is no longer in a mood to let anything go: “I am well aware of how you can split hairs.”
He goes on: “You have had both inflation and unemployment, but what’s more—this is the flaw, this is the sickness that risks being fatal for our society: sixty percent of the unemployed are women … most of them are young people … it is a tragic attack on the dignity of man and woman…”
To start with, Simon does not pay attention. Mitterrand speaks faster and faster, he is more and more aggressive, more and more precise, more and more eloquent.
Giscard is on the ropes, but he is not about to give up without a fight. He suppresses his country squire accent and calls out his Socialist opponent: “The rise in the minimum wage—how much?” Small businesses will not survive it. All the more so since the Socialist program is irresponsible enough to plan to lower social thresholds and extend employees’ rights in companies with fewer than ten employees.
The bourgeois from Chamalières has no intention of surrendering.
The two men trade blows.
But Giscard makes a mistake when he asks Mitterrand to tell him the exchange rate of the deutsche mark: “Today’s.”
Mitterrand replies: “Here, I am not your student and you are not president of the Republic.”
Simon drains his glass of wine thoughtfully: there is something self-fulfilling, something of the performative, in that phrase …
Bayard goes off to fetch the cheese.
Giscard says: “I am against the suppression of family tax benefits … I am in favor of a return to a system of flat-rate taxation…” He reels off a whole series of measures with the precision of the good Polytechnique graduate that he is, but it’s too late: he has lost.
The debate goes on though, fierce and technical, over nuclear power, the neutron bomb, the Common Market, East-West relations, the defense budget …
Mitterrand: “Is Monsieur Giscard d’Estaing trying to say that the Socialists would be bad French people, unwilling to defend their country?”
Giscard, off screen: “Not at all.”
Mit
terrand, not looking at him: “If he didn’t mean that, then his speech was pointless.”
Simon is troubled. He grabs a beer from the coffee table, wedges it under his armpit, and tries to remove the cap, but the bottle slips out and falls onto the floor. Bayard waits for Simon to explode with rage because he knows how much his friend hates it when daily life reminds him that he is disabled, so he wipes up the beer that has spilled onto the floorboards and is quick to say: “No big deal!”
But Simon looks strangely perplexed. He points to Mitterrand and says: “Look at him. Notice anything?”
“What?”
“Have you listened to him since the beginning? Don’t you think he’s been good?”
“Well, yeah, he’s better than he was seven years ago, that’s for sure.”
“No, it’s more than that. He’s abnormally good.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s subtle, but since the end of the first half hour, he’s been maneuvering Giscard, and I can’t work out how he’s doing it. It’s like an invisible strategy: I can sense it, but I can’t understand it.”
“You’re not saying…”
“Watch.”
Bayard watches as Giscard busts a gut to show that the Socialists are irresponsible fools who must not under any circumstances be trusted with military hardware and the nuclear deterrent: “When it comes to defense, on the contrary … you have never voted with the government on defense, and you have voted against every bill relating to defense. Those bills were presented outside of the budgetary discussion and so it would be perfectly imaginable that either your party or your … or you yourself, aware of the very high stakes of national security, would make a nonpartisan vote on military bills. I note that you did not vote for any of the three military bills … notably that of January 24, 1963…”
Mitterrand doesn’t even bother responding and Michèle Cotta moves on to another subject, so an irritated Giscard insists: “This is very important!” Michèle Cotta protests politely: “Absolutely! Of course, Monsieur President!” And she moves on to African politics. Boissonat is visibly thinking about something else. No one cares. No one is listening to him anymore. It looks as if Mitterrand has completely demolished him.
The Seventh Function of Language Page 33