• And finally, the last function is the “poetic” function. This considers language in its aesthetic dimension. Plays on the sounds of words, alliteration, assonance, repetition, echo or rhythm effects, all belong to this function. We find it in poems, of course, but also in songs, oratory, newspaper headlines, advertising, and political slogans.
Jacques Bayard lights a cigarette and says, “That’s six.”
“Sorry?”
“That’s six functions.”
“Ah … yes. Quite.”
“Isn’t there a seventh function?”
“Well, uh … apparently, there is, yes…”
Simon smiles stupidly.
Bayard wonders out loud what Simon is being paid for. Simon reminds him that he did not ask for anything and that he is there against his will, on the express orders of a fascist president who sits at the head of a police state.
Nevertheless, after thinking about it, or rather after rereading Jakobson, Simon Herzog does come up with a possible seventh function, designated as the “magic or incantatory function,” whose mechanism is described as “the conversion of a third person, absent or inanimate, to whom a conative message is addressed.” And Jakobson gives as an example a Lithuanian magical spelclass="underline" “May this stye dry up, tfu tfu tfu tfu.” Yeah yeah yeah, thinks Simon.
He also mentions this incantation from northern Russia: “Water, queen of rivers, aurora! Take the sadness beyond the blue sea, to the bottom of the sea, and never let it weigh down the happy heart of God’s servant…” And, for good measure, a citation from the Bible: “Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon. And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed” (Joshua 10:12).
Fair enough, but that all sounds pretty anecdotal. You can’t really consider it a separate function; at most, it is a slightly crazy use of the conative function for an essentially cathartic effect, poetic at best, but completely ineffective: the magical invocation works only in fairy tales, by definition. Simon is convinced that this is not the seventh function of language, and in any case Jakobson only mentions it in passing, in the interests of completeness, before returning to his serious analysis. The “magical or incantatory function”? A negligible curiosity. A nonsensical footnote. Nothing worth killing for, in any case.
33
“By the spirits of Cicero, tonight, let me tell you, my friends, it is going to rain enthymemes! I can see some have been revising their Aristotle, and I know some others who know their Quintilian, but will that be enough to overcome the lexical snares in the slalom race of syntax? Caw caw! The spirit of Corax is speaking to you. Glory to the founding fathers! Tonight, the victor will win a trip to Syracuse. As for the defeated … they will have their fingers trapped in the door. Well, it’s always better than your tongue … And don’t forget: today’s orators are tomorrow’s tribunes. Glory to the logos! Long live the Logos Club!”
34
Simon and Bayard are in a room that is half-laboratory, half-armory. In front of them, a man in a white coat is examining the mustachioed man’s pistol, which should have obliterated Simon’s brain. (“He’s Q,” thinks Simon.) The ballistics expert commentates as he inspects the weapon: “Nine millimeter; eight shots; double action; steel, finished in bronze, walnut butt; weight: 730 grams without the magazine.” It looks like a Walther PPK, he says, but the safety is the other way around: it’s a Makarov PM, a Soviet pistol. Except that …
Firearms, the expert explains, are like electric guitars. Fender, for instance, is an American firm that produces the Telecaster used by Keith Richards or Jimi Hendrix’s Stratocaster, but there are also Mexican or Japanese models produced under franchise, which are replicas of the original U.S. version: cheaper and generally less well finished, although often well-made.
This Makarov is a Bulgarian, not a Russian, model, which is probably why it jammed: the Russian models are very reliable, the Bulgarian copies slightly less so.
“Now, you’re going to laugh, Superintendent,” says the expert, showing him the umbrella that was removed from the man’s chest. “You see this hole? The point is hollow. It functions like a syringe, fed through the handle. All you have to do is press this trigger and it opens a valve that, with the aid of a compressed air cylinder, releases the liquid. The mechanism is impressively simple. It’s identical to the one used to eliminate Georgi Markov, the Bulgarian dissident, two years ago in London. You remember?” Superintendent Bayard does indeed remember that the murder had been attributed to the Bulgarian secret services. At the time, they were using ricin. But now they have a stronger poison, botulinum toxin, which acts by blocking neuromuscular transmission, thus provoking muscle paralysis and causing death in a matter of minutes, either by asphyxia or by stopping the heart.
Bayard, looking pensive, fiddles with the umbrella’s mechanism.
Would Simon Herzog happen to know any Bulgarians in the academic world?
Simon thinks.
Yes, he does know one.
35
The two Michels, Poniatowski and d’Ornano, have reported for duty in the president’s office. Giscard stands anxiously by the ground-floor window, looking out on the Élysée Gardens. As d’Ornano is smoking, Giscard asks him for a cigarette. Poniatowski, sitting in one of the luxurious armchairs in the informal part of the office, has poured himself a whiskey, which he puts down on the coffee table in front of him. He speaks first: “I talked to my contacts, who are in touch with Andropov.” Giscard says nothing because, like all men with this much power, he expects his employees to save him the bother of asking important questions. So Poniatowski replies to the silent question: “According to them, the KGB is not involved.”
Giscard: “What makes you think that opinion is credible?”
Ponia: “Several things. The most convincing being that in the short term they would not have any use for such a document. At a political level.”
Giscard: “Propaganda is critical in those countries. The document could be very useful to them.”
Ponia: “I doubt it. You can’t really say that Brezhnev has encouraged freedom of expression since he succeeded Khrushchev. There are no debates in the USSR, or only within the Party, and the public aren’t aware of those. So what counts is not the power of persuasion but the relative strengths of political forces.”
D’Ornano: “But it’s perfectly imaginable that Brezhnev or another member of the Party might want to use it internally. The central committee is a vipers’ nest. It would be a considerable asset.”
Ponia: “I can’t imagine Brezhnev wanting to assert his preeminence in that way. He doesn’t need to. The opposition is nonexistent. The system is locked in place. And no Central Committee member could order such an operation for his own profit without the authorities being informed.”
D’Ornano: “Except Andropov.”
Ponia (irritated): “Andropov is a shadowy figure. But he has more power as head of the KGB than he would have in any other position. I can’t see him embarking on a political adventure.”
D’Ornano (ironic): “True. Shadowy figures rarely do things like that. Talleyrand and Fouché had no political ambitions at all, did they?”
Ponia: “Well, they didn’t realize those ambitions.”
D’Ornano: “That’s debatable. At the Congress of Vienna—”