Very professorial: Bayard can sense that. He tries to grasp what the voice is talking about, but unfortunately he makes this effort just as Foucault says: “In such a way that the subject moving toward the truth, and attaching itself to it with love, in his own words manifests a truth that is nothing other than the manifestation in it of the true presence of a God who, Himself, can tell only truth, because He never lies, He is completely honest.”
If Foucault had been speaking that day about prison, or power, or archaeology, or green energy, or genealogy, who knows?… But the implacable voice drones on: “Even if, for various philosophers or views of the universe, the world might well turn in one direction or another, in the life of individuals time has only one direction.” Bayard listens without understanding, rocked gently by the tone, which is simultaneously didactic and projected, melodious in its way, underpinned by a sense of rhythm, an extremely precise use of silences and punctuation.
Does this guy earn more than he does?
“Between this system of law that governs actions and relates to a subject of will, and consequently the indefinite repeatability of the error, and the outline of the salvation and perfection that concerns the subjects, which implies a temporal scansion and an irreversibility, there is, I think, no possible integration…”
Yes, without a doubt. Bayard is unable to suppress the bitterness that instinctively makes him detest this voice. The police have to battle people like this for taxpayers’ funds. They’re functionaries, like him, except that he deserves to be remunerated by society for his work. But this Collège de France, what is it exactly? Founded by Fran?ois I, okay: he read that in the entrance hall. Then what? Courses open to all, but of interest only to work-shy lefties, retired people, lunatics, or pipe-smoking teachers; improbable subjects that he’s never even heard of before … No degrees, no exams. People like Barthes and Foucault paid to spout a load of woolly nonsense. Bayard is already sure of one thing: no one comes here to learn how to do a job. Episteme, my ass.
When the voice wraps up by giving the date and time of next week’s lecture, Bayard returns to Lecture Hall A, elbows his way through the flood of students pouring out through the swing doors, finally enters the lecture hall, and spots a bald, bespectacled man at the very back of the room wearing a turtleneck sweater under his jacket. He looks at once sturdy and slender. He has a determined jaw with a slight underbite and the stately demeanor of those who know that they are valued by the world. His head is perfectly shaved. Bayard joins him on the stage. “Monsieur Foucault?” The big baldy is gathering his notes in the relaxed manner of a teacher whose work is done. He turns welcomingly toward Bayard, aware of what levels of shyness his admirers must sometimes overcome in order to speak to him. Bayard takes out his card. He, too, is well aware of its effect. Foucault stops dead for a second, looks at the card, stares at the policeman, then goes back to his notes. In a theatrical voice, as if for the attention of what’s left of the audience, he declares: “I refuse to be identified by the authorities.” Bayard pretends he hasn’t heard him: “It’s about the accident.”
The big baldy shoves his notes in his satchel and exits the stage without a word. Bayard runs after him: “Monsieur Foucault, where are you going? I have to ask you a few questions!” Foucault strides up the steps of the lecture hall. He replies without turning around, loud enough for all the remaining students to be able to hear him: “I refuse to be confined by the authorities!” The audience laughs. Bayard grabs his arm: “I just want you to give me your version of the facts.” Foucault stands still and says nothing. His entire body is tensed. He looks down at the hand gripping his arm as if it were the most serious human rights violation since the Cambodian genocide. Bayard does not loosen his hold. There are murmurs around them. After a minute or so of this, Foucault finally speaks: “My version is that they killed him.” Bayard is not sure he’s understood this correctly.
“Killed him? Killed who?”
“My friend Roland.”
“But he’s not dead!”
“He is already dead.”
From behind his glasses, Foucault stares at his interrogator with the intensity of the shortsighted. And slowly, emphasizing each syllable, as if concluding a long argument whose secret logic he alone knows, he announces:
“Roland Barthes is dead.”
“But who killed him?”
“The system, of course!”
The use of the word system confirms to the policeman exactly what he feared: he’s surrounded by lefties. He knows from experience that this is all they talk about: society’s corruption, the class struggle, the “system” … He waits unenthusiastically for the rest of the speech. Foucault, magnanimously, deigns to enlighten him:
“Roland has been mercilessly mocked in recent years. Because he had the power of understanding things as they are and, paradoxically, inventing them with unprecedented freshness, he was criticized for his jargon, he was pastiched, parodied, caricatured, satirized…”
“Do you know if he had enemies?”
“Of course! Ever since he joined the Collège de France—I brought him here—the jealousy has intensified. All he had were enemies: the reactionaries, the middle classes, the fascists, the Stalinists, and, above all, above all, the rancid old critics who never forgave him!”
“Forgave him for what?”
“For daring to think! For daring to question their outdated bourgeois ideas, for highlighting their vile normative functions, for showing them up for what they really were: prostitutes sullied by idiocy and compromised principles!”
“But who, in particular?
“You want names? Who do you think I am? The Picards, the Pommiers, the Rambauds, the Burniers! They’d have executed him themselves given the chance. Twelve bullets in the Sorbonne courtyard, beneath the statue of Victor Hugo!”
Suddenly, Foucault strides off again and Bayard is caught off-guard. The professor gets a head start of several yards, leaves the lecture hall and races up the stairs. Bayard runs after him, close behind. Their footsteps ring loudly on the stone floors. The policeman calls out: “Monsieur Foucault, who are those people you mentioned?” Foucault, without turning around: “Dogs, jackals, mules, morons, nobodies, but above all, above all, above all! the servants of the established order, the scribes of the old world, the pimps of a dead system of thought who seek to make us breathe the stench of its corpse forever with their obscene sniggers.” Bayard, clinging to the banister: “What corpse?” Foucault, storming up the stairs: “The corpse of the dead system of thought!” Then he laughs sardonically. Trying to find a pen in the pockets of his raincoat while keeping up with the professor, Bayard asks him: “Could you spell Rambaud for me?”
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