He smiled again. ‘You know … That afternoon we spent at my house, we discussed metaphysics, the creation of the universe, et cetera. I’m well aware that this is not, generally speaking, what interests men; but as you were just saying, the real subjects are embarrassing to bring up. Even now, here we are discussing natural selection — we’re trying to keep things on an elevated plane. Obviously, it’s very hard to come out and ask, What will you pay me? How many wives do I get?’
‘I already have some kind of idea about the pay.’
‘Well, that’s basically what determines the number of wives. According to Islamic law, wives have to receive equal treatment, which imposes certain constraints in terms of housing. In your case, I think you could have three wives without too much trouble — not that anyone would force you to, of course.’
This was food for thought, obviously, but I had one more question, and it was even more embarrassing. Before I went on, I looked around to make sure no one could hear us.
‘There’s something else … But, well, this is really awkward … The thing is, Islamic dress has its advantages, it’s made social life so much more restful, but at the same time, it’s very … covering, I’d say. If a person were in a situation where he had to choose, it could pose certain problems …’
Rediger smiled even more broadly. ‘There’s no reason to be embarrassed! You wouldn’t be a man if you didn’t worry about these things … But let me ask you something that might sound strange: Are you sure you want to choose?’
‘Uh … yeah. I mean, I think so.’
‘But isn’t this an illusion? We know that men, given the chance to choose for themselves, will all make exactly the same choice. That’s why most societies, especially Muslim societies, have matchmakers. It’s a very important profession, reserved for women of great experience and wisdom. As women, obviously, they are allowed to see girls naked, and so they conduct a sort of evaluation, and correlate the girls’ physical appearance with the social status of their future husbands. In your case, I can promise, you’d have nothing to complain about …’
I didn’t say anything. The truth is, I was at a loss for words.
‘Incidentally,’ Rediger went on, ‘if the human species has any ability to adapt, this is due entirely to the intellectual plasticity of women. Man is completely ineducable. I don’t care if he’s a language philosopher, a mathematician or a twelve-tone composer, he will always, inexorably, base his reproductive choices on purely physical criteria, criteria that have gone unchanged for thousands of years. Originally, of course, women were attracted by physical advantages, just like men; but with the right education, they can be convinced that looks aren’t what matters. They already find rich men attractive — and after all, getting rich tends to require above-average intelligence and cunning. To a certain degree, women can even learn to find a high erotic value in academics …’ He gave me his most beautiful smile. For a second I thought maybe he was being ironic, but no, I don’t think he was. ‘On the other hand, we can always just pay teachers more, which simplifies things.’
He had shown me, you might say, new horizons, and I found myself wondering whether Loiseleur had used a matchmaker, but the question answered itself. Could I imagine my old colleague hitting on his students? In a case like his, arranged marriage was clearly the only option.
The reception was winding down, and the night was surprisingly balmy; I walked home without really thinking, in a sort of reverie. Yes, my intellectual life was finished, though I could still participate in vague colloquia and live on my savings and my pension; but I started to realise — and this was a real novelty — that life might actually have more to offer.
~ ~ ~
A few more weeks would go by, like a sort of pretend waiting period, and in those weeks the weather would grow milder day by day, and it would be spring in Paris; and then, of course, I’d call Rediger.
He’d play up his own joy, mainly out of tact, because he’d want to seem surprised, to let me feel that I was a free agent; his happiness would be genuine, I knew that, but I also knew that he already took my acceptance for granted. No doubt this had been true for a long time, maybe even since the afternoon I’d spent at his house in the rue des Arènes. I had made no effort to hide how impressed I was by Aïcha’s physical charms, or by Malika’s canapés. Muslim women were devoted and submissive, that much I could count on, it’s how they were raised; they aimed to please. As for cooking, in the end I didn’t really give a fuck; on that score I was less discriminating than Huysmans; but in any case, they’d received the necessary training, and you’d be hard-pressed to find one who didn’t know her way around the kitchen.
The conversion ceremony itself would be very simple. Most likely it would take place at the Paris Mosque, since that was easiest for all involved. Given my relative importance, the dean would be there, or at least one of his senior staff. Rediger would be there, too, of course. The number of guests was entirely up to me; no doubt there would be a few ordinary worshippers as welclass="underline" the mosque wouldn’t close for the occasion. The idea was that I should bear witness in front of my new Muslim brothers, my equals in the sight of God.
That morning I would be specially allowed inside the hammam, which was ordinarily closed to men. Wrapped in a bathrobe, I would walk the long corridors with their archtopped colonnades, their walls covered in the finest mosaics; then, in a smaller room, also covered in mosaics of great refinement, bathed in a bluish light, I would let the warm water wash over my body for a long, a very long time, until my body was purified. Then I’d get dressed in the new clothes I’d brought with me; and I would enter into the great hall of worship.
Silence would reign all around me. Images of constellations, supernovas, spiral nebulas would pass through my mind, and also images of springs, of untouched mineral deserts, of vast, nearly virgin forests. Little by little, I would penetrate the grandeur of the cosmic order. Then, in a calm voice, I would pronounce the following words, which I’d have learned phonetically: Ašhadu an lā ilāha illā lahu, wa ašhadu anna mu
ammadan rasūluhu: I testify that there is no God but God, and Muhammad is the messenger of God. And then it would be over; from then on I’d be a Muslim.
The reception at the Sorbonne would be a much longer affair. Rediger was increasingly taken up with his political career, and had just been named foreign minister. He hadn’t much time to devote to his duties as president of the university; all the same, he’d taken it on himself to give the speech for my induction (and I knew, I was positive, that it would be an excellent speech, and that he’d enjoy giving it). All my colleagues would be there — the news of my Pléiade edition had spread in academic circles and now everybody knew. I certainly wasn’t the sort of acquaintance you’d neglect. And everyone would be in gowns, the Saudi authorities having recently re-established the wearing of ceremonial dress.
Before I delivered my acceptance speech (by tradition, these were very brief), I’d certainly give a last thought to Myriam. She’d live her own life, I knew, in circumstances much more difficult than mine. I sincerely hoped she would have a happy life — though that struck me as unlikely.