a topic that our Moroccan, notwithstanding his lack
of rigour on this occasion, could claim to know backwards. This
monograph of his sought to focus on a particular point, a point
so baffling it had thrown all you highbrows into a tizzy: to wit,
what obligation, if any, bound a city, a town or a rural district
to allow its population (rustics, occasionally shopfolk) a status
abjuring any kind of distinction that had, ipso facto, a Roman
outrank a Saharan nomad? Although not wholly satisfactory,
notably in its conclusions, his work, confirming Marc
Bloch's intuition vis-a-vis Donjon-Vassal's study, Mauss's on
75
Chaman-Tribu unification and also Chomsky's on that famous
Insignificant-Significant junction, was ironclad proof that no such
obligation was binding (it was at most an option among many),
thus proving in its turn that any analysis (from a soi-disant dog-
matic notion of Law) of a substratum which would contain colon-
isation, romanisation or barbarisation was automatically illusory.
It was, thus, important to avoid any sort of a priori thinking and,
most of all, to distinguish what about it was truly infrastructural.
It was a paradoxical situation: Karl Marx an Immortal! Nobody
thought to find such a day coming to pass. But a majority of
jurors had no difficulty swallowing it, and it was only Carcopino
(known at Quai Conti as Cola Pinada or Copacabana) who was
said to cry out 'Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!'"
"But what about that oration?" murmurs Amaury.
"I know. I admit I found that surprising. I must say I thought
our Immortal would slip in a handful of cryptic allusions to it.
But not at all!"
"Shhh!" says Olga, who has stood apart from this discussion.
"It's winding up now."
This man formally doffs his panama, that man his shako, a third
his homburg. An old fogy of an admiral, obviously gaga, starts
saluting nobody in particular. Ottaviani bashfully sniffs into his
cotton hanky. Olga sobs again. Paparazzi rush about, snapping
away at Amanda von Comodoro-Rivadavia who, with pinpoint
timing, falls into a swoon in Urbain d'Agostino's awaiting arms.
Now, first, a sacristan in a bright canary cappa magna and
waving a solid gold thingamajig . . . urn, you know, that sprink-
ling thing, walks forward; following him, a trio of chaplains
brandishing a slightly shopworn crucifix with its kitschy canopy
of swishily rusding frills; finally six human caryatids hoisting up
a mahogany coffin by its shiny brass knobs.
A clumsy pratfall - and Hassan's coffin slips, falls, its lid swings
up. Holy Christmas! No Hassan Ibn Abbou!
* * *
7 6
Talk of kicking up a row! What with diplomats accusing cops,
cops accusing Matignon, Matignon accusing Maison Roblot,
Maison Roblot accusing Maison Borniol, Maison Borniol
accusing - try to work this out if you can - Foch Hospital,
Foch Hospital accusing Carcopino, Carcopino accusing Baron
d'Aiguillon's Anglo-Iranian Bank and that bank accusing Pompi-
dou, Pompidou compromising Giscard, Giscard blaming Papon,
Papon in his turn lodging a strong complaint against Foccard
. . . it's a daisy-chain that could go on ad infinitum!
"I can't stand it!" says Ottavio Ottaviani. "First Ibn Barka,
now Ibn Hassan. Ibn forbid a third such calamity!"
It's a difficult job hushing up such a murky affair, but within
days a curtain of fog and iron, as Winston Churchill would say,
is drawn down tight. Nobody claims to know anything at all of
Anton Vowl's abduction - if abduction it was. And now, simi-
larly, nobody claims to know anything at all of Hassan Ibn
Abbou's body-snatching.
7 7
III
DOUGLAS HAIG
C L I F F O R D
10
In which an amazing thing occurs to an unwary
basso profundo
A day or two on - with, for company, that curious individual
who had had such an illuminating talk with him at Hassan Ibn
Abbou's burial - Amaury Conson pays a call on Olga who, laid
low with both a sniffly cold and a crippling bout of lumbago, is
vacationing in a small family
of rigour on this occasion, could claim to know backwards. This
monograph of his sought to focus on a particular point, a point
so baffling it had thrown all you highbrows into a tizzy: to wit,
what obligation, if any, bound a city, a town or a rural district
to allow its population (rustics, occasionally shopfolk) a status
abjuring any kind of distinction that had, ipso facto, a Roman
outrank a Saharan nomad? Although not wholly satisfactory,
notably in its conclusions, his work, confirming Marc
Bloch's intuition vis-a-vis Donjon-Vassal's study, Mauss's on
75
Chaman-Tribu unification and also Chomsky's on that famous
Insignificant-Significant junction, was ironclad proof that no such
obligation was binding (it was at most an option among many),
thus proving in its turn that any analysis (from a soi-disant dog-
matic notion of Law) of a substratum which would contain colon-
isation, romanisation or barbarisation was automatically illusory.
It was, thus, important to avoid any sort of a priori thinking and,
most of all, to distinguish what about it was truly infrastructural.
It was a paradoxical situation: Karl Marx an Immortal! Nobody
thought to find such a day coming to pass. But a majority of
jurors had no difficulty swallowing it, and it was only Carcopino
(known at Quai Conti as Cola Pinada or Copacabana) who was
said to cry out 'Idiot! Idiot! Idiot!'"
"But what about that oration?" murmurs Amaury.
"I know. I admit I found that surprising. I must say I thought
our Immortal would slip in a handful of cryptic allusions to it.
But not at all!"
"Shhh!" says Olga, who has stood apart from this discussion.
"It's winding up now."
This man formally doffs his panama, that man his shako, a third
his homburg. An old fogy of an admiral, obviously gaga, starts
saluting nobody in particular. Ottaviani bashfully sniffs into his
cotton hanky. Olga sobs again. Paparazzi rush about, snapping
away at Amanda von Comodoro-Rivadavia who, with pinpoint
timing, falls into a swoon in Urbain d'Agostino's awaiting arms.
Now, first, a sacristan in a bright canary cappa magna and
waving a solid gold thingamajig . . . urn, you know, that sprink-
ling thing, walks forward; following him, a trio of chaplains
brandishing a slightly shopworn crucifix with its kitschy canopy
of swishily rusding frills; finally six human caryatids hoisting up
a mahogany coffin by its shiny brass knobs.
A clumsy pratfall - and Hassan's coffin slips, falls, its lid swings
up. Holy Christmas! No Hassan Ibn Abbou!
* * *
7 6
Talk of kicking up a row! What with diplomats accusing cops,
cops accusing Matignon, Matignon accusing Maison Roblot,
Maison Roblot accusing Maison Borniol, Maison Borniol
accusing - try to work this out if you can - Foch Hospital,
Foch Hospital accusing Carcopino, Carcopino accusing Baron
d'Aiguillon's Anglo-Iranian Bank and that bank accusing Pompi-
dou, Pompidou compromising Giscard, Giscard blaming Papon,
Papon in his turn lodging a strong complaint against Foccard
. . . it's a daisy-chain that could go on ad infinitum!
"I can't stand it!" says Ottavio Ottaviani. "First Ibn Barka,
now Ibn Hassan. Ibn forbid a third such calamity!"
It's a difficult job hushing up such a murky affair, but within
days a curtain of fog and iron, as Winston Churchill would say,
is drawn down tight. Nobody claims to know anything at all of
Anton Vowl's abduction - if abduction it was. And now, simi-
larly, nobody claims to know anything at all of Hassan Ibn
Abbou's body-snatching.
7 7
III
DOUGLAS HAIG
C L I F F O R D
10
In which an amazing thing occurs to an unwary
basso profundo
A day or two on - with, for company, that curious individual
who had had such an illuminating talk with him at Hassan Ibn
Abbou's burial - Amaury Conson pays a call on Olga who, laid
low with both a sniffly cold and a crippling bout of lumbago, is
vacationing in a small family
Similar Books
