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Roland Barthes — noted obscurantist, died in a street accident. But was it an accident? Did he die then or later? Indeed, what is death?

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Why were Bulgarians there on the zebra crossing? Where is the notebook that Barthes always carried with him as he read the signs? But evidently not the one in front of him which said 'Ne march pas.

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Why are several witness short of fingers? Is Michel Foucault completely nuts? Why do those two over there always carry umbrellas? Did the Gulf War occur? Such a lot of questions, it must be a seminar. The President of the Republic himself assigns the investigation of this accidental death to Commissar Jacques Bayard!

Bayard soon finds that he has landed on Mars. They all delight in reviling him in polysyllabic words while proclaiming their humanity.

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Bayard cracks a tooth clenching his jaw while trying to get one of these useless clowns to answer a simple question. He resists the temptation to slap them around. Though his self-control weakens when he remembers the good old days in Algeria when a slap was the start of an interrogation in a basement room that could be hosed out later. To navigate this world of extra-terrestrials Bayard press-gangs a cicerone and translator, a Phd student from the mud heap of Vincennes, Simon Herzog, and off this mismatched pair goes: First to Bologna to interview the master reader of signs, semiologist Umberto Eco who can tell them nothing useful at great length.

And behind the moustaches are more Bulgarians. How Binet managed to publish this libellous and delightful book is the real mystery here.

Who would have thought that was possible. Of course the joke is on all those PhDs who incant their names with reverence. Ten thousand men — doughboys — a day were entering the Western Front.


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