In person, Loiseleur was a remarkably good match for his subject. I have never met anyone so reminiscent of the comic-strip hero Cosinus. With his long, grey, dirty hair, his Coke-bottle glasses, and his mismatched suits, generally in a state that approached the unhygienic, he inspired a kind of pitying respect. It’s not that he was trying to play a character: that’s just the way he was, he couldn’t help it. For all that, he was the kindest, sweetest man in the world, and completely without vanity. The act of teaching – implying, as it did, a certain amount of contact with people of different backgrounds– had always terrified him. How had Rediger managed to get him back? I would go to the cocktail party, at least; I wanted to know.
With their modest historical cachet, and genuinely prestigious address, the reception rooms at the Sorbonne were never used for academic functions in my day, although they were often hired out at indecent rates for catwalk shows and other red carpet events; it may not have been very honourable, but it paid the bills. The new Saudi proprietors had put an end to all that. Thanks to them, the place had regained a certain scholarly dignity. As I entered the first room, I was happy to spot the logo of the Lebanese caterers who’d kept me company the entire time I was working on my preface. By now I knew the menu by heart, and I ordered with authority. The guests were the usual mix of French academics and Arab dignitaries, but this time there were plenty of Frenchmen. It looked as if the entire faculty had come. That was understandable enough. Many people still considered it slightly shameful to bow down to the new Saudi regime, as if it were an act of collaboration, so to speak; by gathering together, the teachers showed strength in numbers and gave one another courage. They took special satisfaction in welcoming a new colleague into their midst.
No sooner had I been served my mezes than I found myself face-to-face with Loiseleur. He had changed. Although not exactly presentable, his exterior was much improved. His hair, still long and dirty, almost looked as if someone had combed it; his jacket and trousers were the same colour, pretty much, and unembellished by any grease stain or cigarette burn. One couldn’t help detecting a woman’s hand at work – at least that was my guess.
‘Um, yes …’ he answered, without my having asked him anything. ‘I took the plunge. Funny, I’d never thought of doing it before, but it’s actually very pleasant. I’m very glad to see you, by the way. How are you?’
‘You mean you’re married?’ I needed to hear him say it.
‘Yes, yes, married, exactly. Strange, when you get right down to it – one flesh and everything. Strange, but awfully nice. And you, how are you?’
He might as well have said he was a junkie, or a professional figure skater, nothing could really surprise me when it came to Loiseleur; still, it came as a shock, and I repeated stupidly, staring at the Légion d’Honneur barrette in the buttonhole of his revolting gas-blue jacket, ‘Married? To a woman?’ I’d always assumed he was a virgin, a sixty-year-old virgin, which after all may have been the case.
‘Yes, yes, a woman – they found me one.’ He nodded vigorously. ‘A student in her second year.’
While I stood there, speechless, Loiseleur was intercepted by a colleague, a little old man, also eccentric in his way, but cleaner – a seventeenth-century scholar, as I remembered, a specialist in burlesques and the author of a book on Scarron. A few moments later I caught sight of Rediger in a small group at the other end of the gallery. Lately I’d been so absorbed in my preface that I hadn’t thought much about Rediger. I noticed that I was truly happy to see him. He greeted me warmly, too. Now I had to call him ‘Monsieur le ministre,’ I joked. ‘How is it?’ I asked him, more seriously. ‘Politics, I mean. Is it really hard?’
‘Yes. Everything they say is true. I thought I knew about turf wars from academia, but this is something else. Still, Ben Abbes really is an incredible guy. I’m proud to be working with him.’
I thought of Tanneur and what he’d said about Augustus, that night in the Lot. The comparison seemed to interest Rediger. I’d given him something to chew on. The negotiations with Lebanon and Egypt were going well, he told me, and feelers had been put out to Libya and Syria, where Ben Abbes had rekindled old friendships with the local Muslim Brothers. Indeed, he was trying to accomplish, in one generation, through diplomacy alone, what had taken the Romans centuries. And he would add the vast territories of northern Europe, including Estonia, Scandinavia and Ireland, without shedding a drop of blood. What’s more, he had an eye for symbolism. He was about to propose that they move the European Commission to Rome and the Parliament to Athens. ‘Rare are the builders of empire,’ Rediger mused. ‘It is a difficult thing to hold nations together, when they’re separated by religion and language, and to unite them in a common political project. Aside from the Roman Empire, only the Ottomans really managed it, on a smaller scale. Napoleon could have done it. His handling of the Israelite question was remarkable, and during his Egyptian expedition he showed that he could deal with Islam, too. Ben Abbes, yes … you could say he was cut from the same cloth.’
I nodded energetically. He may have lost me a little with the Ottomans, but I felt at ease in the ethereal, heady atmosphere. We were two well-informed people having a polite conversation. Naturally we went on to discuss my preface; it was hard for me to detach myself from my work on Huysmans, which had preoccupied me, more or less secretly, for years. It was the entire purpose of my life, I thought with some melancholy, but I kept the thought to myself. It might sound melodramatic, but it was true. He listened closely to everything I did say, without showing the least sign of boredom. A waiter refilled our glasses.
‘I read your book, too,’ I said.
‘Ah … I’m pleased you made the time. It’s not my usual thing, writing for a general audience. I hope you found it clear.’
‘Very clear, on the whole, though I did have a couple of questions.’
We moved over to one of the windows, just far enough away to take us out of the main flow of guests, who circulated from one end of the gallery to the other. Through the casement we could see the columns and the dome of Richelieu’s chapel, all bathed in cold white light. I remembered reading somewhere that his skull was preserved inside. ‘He was a great statesman, too, Richelieu …’ I said. I hadn’t really thought about it, but Rediger’s face lit up. ‘I couldn’t agree more. It’s amazing how much Richelieu did for France. Our kings were sometimes mediocre – that’s just genetics – but their chief ministers never could be. Even now that we live in a democracy, it’s odd, you see the same discrepancy. You know how highly I think of Ben Abbes – but Bayrou really is an idiot and a complete media whore. Thank God Ben Abbes has all the actual power. You’re going to say I’m obsessed with Ben Abbes, but Richelieu is what made me think of him, because like Richelieu he will have done a great service to the French language. With the addition of the Arab states, the linguistic balance of Europe is going to shift towards France. Sooner or later, you’ll see, the EU will make French the other working language of European institutions, along with English. But forgive me, I keep talking about politics … You wanted to ask about my book?’
‘Well …’ I began, after a prolonged silence, ‘it’s sort of embarrassing, but naturally I read the chapter on polygamy, and the thing is, I just can’t see myself as a dominant male. I was thinking about it just now, when I got to the reception and saw Loiseleur. Frankly, academics …?’
‘I have to say, you’re wrong. Natural selection is a universal principle, which applies to all living things, but it can take all sorts of forms. It exists even in the plant world, where it’s a matter of access to nutritious soil, to water, to sunlight … Man is an animal, as we know, but he’s not a prairie dog or an antelope. His dominance doesn’t depend on his claws, or his teeth, or how quickly he can run. What matters is his intelligence. So – and I tell you this in all seriousness – there is nothing unnatural about classing academics among the dominant males.’
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 well: 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 muammadan 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.
The cocktail party would be festive, and would last into the night.
A few months later there would be new classes and new students – pretty, veiled, shy. I don’t know how students find out which teachers are famous, but they always, inevitably, did, and I didn’t think things could be so different now. Each of these girls, no matter how pretty, would be happy and proud if I chose her, and would feel honoured to share my bed. They would be worthy of love; and I, for my part, would come to love them.
Rather like my father a few years before, I’d be given another chance; and it would be the chance at a second life, with very little connection to the old one.
I would have nothing to mourn.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I did not attend university, and everything I know about academic life I learned from Agathe Novak-Lechevalier, maître de conférences at the University of Paris X-Nanterre. If the backdrop to these inventions of mine is at all cr
edible, it is entirely thanks to her.
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Epub ISBN 9781473535077
Version 1.0
Published by William Heinemann 2015