The first votes for Simon.
The second for his opponent.
So the verdict rests in the hands of the last judge. Simon stares at the sort of cutting board, stained red by the fingers of the previous competitors. He hears a murmur in the theater as the audience watches the third judge vote, and he dares not look up. For once, he is unable to interpret that murmur.
No one has picked up the machete lying on the table.
The third judge voted for him.
His opponent breaks down. He will not lose his finger, because Logos Club rules dictate that only the challenger risks his digital capital, but his rank was very important to him and he is clearly upset at the prospect of demotion.
The audience cheers as Simon is promoted to the rank of tribune. But above all, he is formally given an invitation for two people at the next day’s summit meeting. Simon verifies the time and the place, waves to the audience one last time, and joins Bayard in his box, while the theater begins to empty out.
In the box, Bayard reads the information on the invitation card and lights a cigarette, at least his twelfth of the evening. An Englishman pokes his head in to congratulate the victor: “Good game. That guy was tough.”
Simon looks at his hands, which are trembling slightly, and says: “I wonder if the sophists are much better.”
92
Behind Sollers is Paradise: Tintoretto’s gigantic canvas, which also, in its time, won a competition—to decorate the Chamber of the Great Council in the Doge’s Palace.
At the base of the picture is a huge platform where there are seated not three but ten members of the jury: the full complement of sophists.
In front of them, three-quarters turned to the audience, the Great Protagoras in person, and Sollers, leaning on a lectern.
The ten judges and the two duelists wear Venetian masks, but Simon and Bayard had no trouble recognizing Sollers. Besides, they already spotted Kristeva in the audience.
Unlike in La Fenice, the audience here is standing, gathered in this immense room designed in the fourteenth century to host more than a thousand nobles: 175 feet long, with a ceiling that makes viewers wonder how it is held up without a single column, inlaid with innumerable old master paintings.
The room’s effect on the audience is such that a sort of fearful hubbub can be heard. Everyone whispers respectfully under the gaze of Tintoretto and Veronese.
One of the judges stands up, formally announces the start of the meeting in Italian, and draws the subject from one of the urns in front of him.
“On forcène doucement.”
One fanatics gently?
The subject seems like it ought to be French, but when Bayard turns to Simon, his partner makes a gesture that suggests he has no clue either.
A wave of perplexity moves through the 175 feet of the room. The non-Francophone spectators check that their simultaneous translation machine is tuned to the right channel.
If Sollers had a second’s hesitation behind his mask, he doesn’t let it show. In any case, Kristeva, who is standing in the audience, does not bat an eyelid.
Sollers has five minutes to understand the subject, to problematize it, to come up with a thesis, and to back it up with coherent and—if possible—spectacular arguments.
In the meantime, Bayard asks the people around him: What is this incomprehensible subject?
A handsome, well-dressed old man with a silk pocket handkerchief that matches his scarf explains: “Ma, the Frenchman is challenging il Grande Protagoras. Surely he can’t expect ‘for or against the death penalty,’ vero?”
Bayard is willing to agree with this, but he asks why the subject is in French.
The old man replies: “An act of courtesy by the Grande Protagoras. I’ve heard he speaks every language on earth.”
“He isn’t French?”
“Ma no, è italiano, eh!”
Bayard watches the Great Protagoras calmly smoking his pipe while scribbling a few notes. His figure, his appearance, the shape of his jaw (because the mask covers only his eyes) … all of this is vaguely familiar.
When the five minutes are up, Sollers stands tall behind his lectern, eyes the audience, makes a little dance step punctuated by a complete rotation, as if he wanted to verify the presence of the Ten behind his back, bows more or less soberly to his opponent, and begins his speech, a speech he already knows will remain in the annals as the speech made by Sollers in his duel with the Great Protagoras.
“Forcène … forcène … Fort … Scène … Fors … Seine … Faure (Félix) … Cène. President Félix Faure died of a blow job and a heart attack, which caused him to enter history but exit the stage. As a prolegomenon … A little appetizer … An introduction (ha ha!)…”
Simon thinks that Sollers is attempting a boldly Lacanian approach.
Bayard observes Kristeva out of the corner of his eye. Her expression betrays nothing but absolute attentiveness.
“La force. Et la scène. La force sur scène. [Strength. And the stage. Strength onstage.] Rodrigue, basically. Forêt sur Seine. (Val-de-Marne. Apparently they still nail crows to the doors there.) To squeeze or not to squeeze the Commander’s peepee? That is the question.”
Bayard gives Simon a questioning look. He replies in a whisper that Sollers has apparently chosen an audacious tactic of replacing logical connections with analogical connections, or rather juxtapositions of ideas, even sequences of images, rather than pure reasoning.
Bayard tries to understand: “Is it baroque?”
Simon is surprised: “Er, yes, I suppose it is.”
Sollers goes on: “Fors scène: hors la scène. Obscène. [Save for the stage: offstage. Obscene.] It’s all there. The rest is of no interest, naturally. The thundering article on ‘Sollers the obscene’ by Marcelin Pleynet? Without hesitation. Well, well, what? Oh there, oh! Gently … From where … seed … From where does the seed come? From up above, of course! [He points to the ceiling and Veronese’s paintings.] Art is the seed of God. [He points to the wall behind him.] Tintoretto is his prophet … D’ailleurs, il tinte aux rets … [What’s more, he rings the net…] Blessed is the age when the bell and thread will once again replace the hammer and sickle … After all, are these not the two tools of the fisherman?”
Does Bayard detect a faint wrinkle of concern on Kristeva’s Slavic face?
“If the fish could put their heads above the water, they would perceive that their world is not the only world…”
Simon is beginning to find Sollers’s strategy extremely audacious.
Bayard whispers in his ear: “A bit too Hollywood, isn’t it?”
The old man with the pocket handkerchief mutters: “He’s got coglioni, this francese. At the same time, if he’s going to use them, it’s now or never.”
Bayard asks him to elaborate.
The old man replies: “Clearly, he has not understood the subject any more than we have, vero? So he is trying to flamber à l’esbroufe—to bullshit his way through it, no? It’s brave.”
Sollers rests an elbow on the lectern, which obliges him to lean down lopsidedly. Curiously, however, this unnatural pose makes him look relatively relaxed.
“Je suis venu j’ai vu j’ai vomu.” I came, I saw, I vomited.
Sollers’s speech accelerates, becomes more fluid, almost musicaclass="underline" “God is really close without mystery gently oiled gently hand of mysfère glove of hell…” Then he says something that Simon and even Bayard find surprising: “The belief in tickle-wickle on the organ enables the corpse to be maintained as the sole fundamental value.” After uttering these words, Sollers licks his lips lasciviously. Bayard can now observe clear signs of tension on Kristeva’s face.