With their modest historical cachet, and genuinely prestigious address, the reception rooms at the Sorbonne were never used for academic functions in my day, although they were often hired out at indecent rates for catwalk shows and other red carpet events; it may not have been very honourable, but it paid the bills. The new Saudi proprietors had put an end to all that. Thanks to them, the place had regained a certain scholarly dignity. As I entered the first room, I was happy to spot the logo of the Lebanese caterers who’d kept me company the entire time I was working on my preface. By now I knew the menu by heart, and I ordered with authority. The guests were the usual mix of French academics and Arab dignitaries, but this time there were plenty of Frenchmen. It looked as if the entire faculty had come. That was understandable enough. Many people still considered it slightly shameful to bow down to the new Saudi regime, as if it were an act of collaboration, so to speak; by gathering together, the teachers showed strength in numbers and gave one another courage. They took special satisfaction in welcoming a new colleague into their midst.
No sooner had I been served my mezes than I found myself face-to-face with Loiseleur. He had changed. Although not exactly presentable, his exterior was much improved. His hair, still long and dirty, almost looked as if someone had combed it; his jacket and trousers were the same colour, pretty much, and unembellished by any grease stain or cigarette burn. One couldn’t help detecting a woman’s hand at work — at least that was my guess.
‘Um, yes …’ he answered, without my having asked him anything. ‘I took the plunge. Funny, I’d never thought of doing it before, but it’s actually very pleasant. I’m very glad to see you, by the way. How are you?’
‘You mean you’re married?’ I needed to hear him say it.
‘Yes, yes, married, exactly. Strange, when you get right down to it — one flesh and everything. Strange, but awfully nice. And you, how are you?’
He might as well have said he was a junkie, or a professional figure skater, nothing could really surprise me when it came to Loiseleur; still, it came as a shock, and I repeated stupidly, staring at the Légion d’Honneur barrette in the buttonhole of his revolting gas-blue jacket, ‘Married? To a woman?’ I’d always assumed he was a virgin, a sixty-year-old virgin, which after all may have been the case.
‘Yes, yes, a woman — they found me one.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘A student in her second year.’
While I stood there, speechless, Loiseleur was intercepted by a colleague, a little old man, also eccentric in his way, but cleaner — a seventeenth-century scholar, as I remembered, a specialist in burlesques and the author of a book on Scarron. A few moments later I caught sight of Rediger in a small group at the other end of the gallery. Lately I’d been so absorbed in my preface that I hadn’t thought much about Rediger. I noticed that I was truly happy to see him. He greeted me warmly, too. Now I had to call him ‘Monsieur le ministre,’ I joked. ‘How is it?’ I asked him, more seriously. ‘Politics, I mean. Is it really hard?’
‘Yes. Everything they say is true. I thought I knew about turf wars from academia, but this is something else. Still, Ben Abbes really is an incredible guy. I’m proud to be working with him.’
I thought of Tanneur and what he’d said about Augustus, that night in the Lot. The comparison seemed to interest Rediger. I’d given him something to chew on. The negotiations with Lebanon and Egypt were going well, he told me, and feelers had been put out to Libya and Syria, where Ben Abbes had rekindled old friendships with the local Muslim Brothers. Indeed, he was trying to accomplish, in one generation, through diplomacy alone, what had taken the Romans centuries. And he would add the vast territories of northern Europe, including Estonia, Scandinavia and Ireland, without shedding a drop of blood. What’s more, he had an eye for symbolism. He was about to propose that they move the European Commission to Rome and the Parliament to Athens. ‘Rare are the builders of empire,’ Rediger mused. ‘It is a difficult thing to hold nations together, when they’re separated by religion and language, and to unite them in a common political project. Aside from the Roman Empire, only the Ottomans really managed it, on a smaller scale. Napoleon could have done it. His handling of the Israelite question was remarkable, and during his Egyptian expedition he showed that he could deal with Islam, too. Ben Abbes, yes … you could say he was cut from the same cloth.’
I nodded energetically. He may have lost me a little with the Ottomans, but I felt at ease in the ethereal, heady atmosphere. We were two well-informed people having a polite conversation. Naturally we went on to discuss my preface; it was hard for me to detach myself from my work on Huysmans, which had preoccupied me, more or less secretly, for years. It was the entire purpose of my life, I thought with some melancholy, but I kept the thought to myself. It might sound melodramatic, but it was true. He listened closely to everything I did say, without showing the least sign of boredom. A waiter refilled our glasses.
‘I read your book, too,’ I said.
‘Ah … I’m pleased you made the time. It’s not my usual thing, writing for a general audience. I hope you found it clear.’
‘Very clear, on the whole, though I did have a couple of questions.’
We moved over to one of the windows, just far enough away to take us out of the main flow of guests, who circulated from one end of the gallery to the other. Through the casement we could see the columns and the dome of Richelieu’s chapel, all bathed in cold white light. I remembered reading somewhere that his skull was preserved inside. ‘He was a great statesman, too, Richelieu …’ I said. I hadn’t really thought about it, but Rediger’s face lit up. ‘I couldn’t agree more. It’s amazing how much Richelieu did for France. Our kings were sometimes mediocre — that’s just genetics — but their chief ministers never could be. Even now that we live in a democracy, it’s odd, you see the same discrepancy. You know how highly I think of Ben Abbes — but Bayrou really is an idiot and a complete media whore. Thank God Ben Abbes has all the actual power. You’re going to say I’m obsessed with Ben Abbes, but Richelieu is what made me think of him, because like Richelieu he will have done a great service to the French language. With the addition of the Arab states, the linguistic balance of Europe is going to shift towards France. Sooner or later, you’ll see, the EU will make French the other working language of European institutions, along with English. But forgive me, I keep talking about politics … You wanted to ask about my book?’
‘Well …’ I began, after a prolonged silence, ‘it’s sort of embarrassing, but naturally I read the chapter on polygamy, and the thing is, I just can’t see myself as a dominant male. I was thinking about it just now, when I got to the reception and saw Loiseleur. Frankly, academics …?’
‘I have to say, you’re wrong. Natural selection is a universal principle, which applies to all living things, but it can take all sorts of forms. It exists even in the plant world, where it’s a matter of access to nutritious soil, to water, to sunlight … Man is an animal, as we know, but he’s not a prairie dog or an antelope. His dominance doesn’t depend on his claws, or his teeth, or how quickly he can run. What matters is his intelligence. So — and I tell you this in all seriousness — there is nothing unnatural about classing academics among the dominant males.’