The New York couple giggle as one. Lacan lifts his hand and squeaks like a little bird, but decides not to speak. Hélène, who like any good Communist is single-minded, asks: “And you think he likes libertines? Last I heard, he wasn’t very open on sexuality.” (She glances over at Kristeva.) “Politically, I mean.”
Sollers laughs noisily, the sign that he is about to embark on his usual strategy of abruptly changing the subject to pretty much anything that comes to mind: “That’s because he’s badly advised … Anyway, I’m sure he’s surrounded by homosexuals … The homosexuals are the new Jesuits … but on things like that, they’re not necessarily that well advised … Except … apparently there’s a new disease that’s decimating them … God said: be fruitful and multiply … The rubber johnny … What an abomination!… Sterilized sex … Horny bodies that don’t touch each other anymore … Pfft … I’ve never used a rubber in my life … Wrap up my dick like some meat in a supermarket?… Never!”
At this moment, Althusser wakes up:
“If the USSR attacked Poland, it was for highly strategic reasons. They had to prevent Hitler from moving close to the Russian border at all costs. Stalin used Poland as a buffer: by taking up a position on Polish soil, he was insuring himself against the coming invasion…”
“And that strategy, as everyone knows, worked like a dream,” says Kristeva.
“After Munich, the Nazi-Soviet Pact had become a necessity. More than that, an inevitability,” Althusser continues.
Lacan makes a sound like an owl. Sollers pours himself another drink. Hélène and Kristeva stare at each other. It is still not clear if the Chinese woman speaks French, nor, for that matter, the Bulgarian linguist or the Canadian feminist or even the New York couple, until Kristeva asks them, in French, if they’ve played tennis recently (they are, we discover, doubles partners, and Kristeva talks for quite a while about their last match, when she proved herself astonishingly combative, to her own surprise, as she is essentially not a very good player, she’s at pains to make clear). But Sollers, always happy to change the subject, does not let the couple reply:
“Ah, Borg!… The messiah who came in from the cold … When he falls to his knees on Wimbledon’s grass … arms outstretched … that blond hair … his bandana … his beard … it’s Jesus Christ on Centre Court … If Borg wins Wimbledon, it’s for the redemption of all mankind … And, as there’s a lot of redeeming to do, he wins every year … How many victories will it take to wash our sins away?… Five … Ten … Twenty … Fifty … A hundred … A thousand…”
“I thought you prefer McEnroe,” says the young New Yorker in his New York–accented French.
“Ah, McEnroe … the man you love to hate … a dancer, that one … the grace of the devil … But he should have actually flown around the court … McEnroe is Lucifer … the most beautiful of all the angels … Lucifer always falls in the end…”
While he embarks on a biblical exegesis in which he compares St. John with McEnroe, Kristeva slips into the kitchen with the Chinese woman on the pretext of serving the main course. Lacan’s young mistress takes off her shoes under the table. The Canadian feminist and the Bulgarian linguist look at each other questioningly. Althusser plays with the olive in his martini. BHL bangs his fist on the table and says: “We must intervene in Afghanistan!”
Hélène looks around at everyone.
She says: “And not in Iran?” The Bulgarian linguist adds mysteriously: “Hesitation is the mother of the fantastical.” The Canadian feminist smiles. Kristeva returns with the leg of lamb and the Chinese woman. Althusser says: “The Party was wrong to support the invasion of Afghanistan. You shouldn’t invade a country with a press release. The Soviets are smarter than that: they’ll withdraw.” Sollers asks mockingly: “The Party? How many divisions have they got?” The publisher looks at his watch and says: “France is slow.” Sollers smiles as he looks at Hélène and says: “One is not serious at seventy.” Lacan’s mistress uses her bare foot to caress BHL’s crotch. He is hard within seconds.
The conversation drifts toward Barthes. The publisher delivers an ambiguous eulogy. Sollers explains: “Lots of homosexuals have given me the same strange impression, now and then—as if they’re being eaten up from inside…” Kristeva points out to the eleven guests: “As I’m sure you know, we were very close. Roland adored Philippe and [she sounds suddenly modest and mysterious] he liked me very much.” BHL insists on adding: “He could never stand Marxism-Leninism.” The publisher: “He adored Brecht, though.” Hélène, venomously: “And China? What did he think of China?” Althusser frowns. The Chinese woman looks up. Sollers replies in a relaxed way: “Boring. But no more than the rest of the world.” The Bulgarian linguist, who knew Barthes welclass="underline" “Except for Japan.” The Canadian feminist, who did her master’s under Barthes, remembers: “He was very welcoming and very lonely.” The publisher says knowingly: “Yes and no. He knew how to surround himself … when he wanted to. He wasn’t without resources, in spite of everything.” Lacan’s mistress slides farther down her chair to massage BHL’s balls with her toes.
BHL is imperturbable: “It’s good to have a master. But you must know how to detach yourself from him. With me, for example, at the École Normale—” Kristeva interrupts him with a dry laugh: “Why are the French so obsessed with their education? They can’t go two hours without mentioning it. It reminds me of old soldiers.” The publisher agrees: “That’s true. In France, we’re all nostalgic for our school days.” Sollers says teasingly: “Well, some stay in school all their lives.” But Althusser doesn’t react. Hélène grinds her teeth at this middle-class compulsion: imagining their own experience holds for everyone. She didn’t like school, and she didn’t stay there long either.
The doorbell rings. Kristeva gets up to open it. In the entrance hall, she can be seen talking to a badly dressed man with a mustache. The conversation lasts less than a minute. Then she comes back to the table as if nothing happened, saying simply (and her accent resurfaces for a second): “Sorrrry, just some borrring work stuff. For my office.” The publisher goes on: “In France, academic success has too much influence on social success.” The Bulgarian linguist stares at Kristeva: “But thankfully, it is not the only factor. Isn’t that true, Julia?” Kristeva says something in Bulgarian. Then the two of them begin talking in their native language: brief, muttered replies. If there is any hostility between them, the ambience around the table makes it impossible for the other guests to detect it. Sollers intervenes: “Come on, now, children, no whispering, ha ha…” Then he addresses the Canadian feminist: “So, my dear friend, how is your novel going? I agree with Aragon, you know … The woman is the future of the man … and therefore of literature … because the woman is death … and literature is always on the side of death…” And while he vividly imagines the Canadian peeling back his foreskin, he asks Kristeva if she would like to go and fetch dessert. Kristeva gets to her feet and starts clearing the table, helped by the Chinese woman, and while the two women disappear once again into the kitchen, the publisher takes out a cigar and cuts the end off it with the bread knife. Lacan’s mistress continues to perform contortions on her chair. The New York couple hold hands and smile politely. Sollers imagines a foursome with the Canadian and tennis rackets. BHL, hard as a rock, says they should invite Solzhenitsyn next time. Hélène scolds Althusser: “You pig! You made a stain!” She wipes his shirt with a napkin dipped in a little sparkling water. Lacan quietly sings a sort of Jewish nursery rhyme. The others pretend not to notice. In the kitchen, Kristeva grabs the Chinese woman by the waist. BHL says to Sollers: “When you think about it, Philippe, you’re better than Sartre: Stalinist, Maoist, papist … He always seems to be wrong, but you!… You change your mind so quickly that you don’t have time to be wrong.” Sollers sticks a cigarette in his cigarette holder. Lacan mumbles: “Sartre does not exist.” BHL continues: “In my next book, I—” Sollers interrupts him: “Sartre said that all anti-Communists are dogs … I say that all anti-Catholics are dogs … Anyway, it’s very simple: there is not a Jew of any worth who hasn’t been tempted to convert to Catholicism … Isn’t that true?… Darling, are you going to bring us dessert?” From the kitchen, Kristeva’s muffled voice replies that it’s coming.