Hallucinating Foucault Read Online Free

dawn.
    “Oh, everything. Her work. My work. She’s got two fathers.”
    “I suppose one of them is Zeus,” said Mike.
    She was never affectionate. She never used any terms of endearment, never told me that she loved me, and never held my hand. When she took me to bed she kissed me as if there was some distance to be covered and she was intent on getting there without interference.
    It was the end of May, exam time for the undergraduates. We were all infected with exam paralysis as well as thesis paranoia. I was playing chess with Mike in our kitchen on the freshly bleached formica table from which the Germanist had eliminated all traces of stickiness, when she bounced in unannounced. This was unheard of. If she intended to come around she rang up in advance and made meticulous arrangements. If I wasn’t there she left messages with Mike, which she recited at dictation speed as if he were an illiterate secretary.
    “Get dressed sweetheart and put on your best glad rags. The Bank of England just rang from Saffron Walden. He’ll be arriving in his Merc within the hour.” She danced around the table. “And he’s taking us both out to dinner.”
    I had never seen such uncharacteristic bumptiousness. I sat there thinking, she called me sweetheart. Mike was stunned. I thought I might soon need a blood transfusion.
    The prospect of meeting your girlfriend’s father, or at least one of her fathers, is very intimidating. I began to panic.
    “Should I put on a tie? I haven’t got a tie.”
    “Then you can’t wear one,” she said with devastating logic, through a cloud of smoke.
    “I could borrow one off Mike.”
    “Oh, don’t bother. Father doesn’t care. We’re students. Anyway, none of his boyfriends wear ties.”
    “But I’m not his boyfriend. I’m yours.”
    “Oh? Are you?” she said scornfully.
    “You called me sweetheart,” I accused.
    “Did I? Slip of the tongue.”
    We stood on the steps of the Fitzwilliam peering down Trumpington Street in the golden evening light. Her father really did drive a sleek black Mercedes, equipped with car phone, CD player and a locking system which responded to a radar device on his car keys. If he pressed the control the car answered, even at long distance, with a hum and a click, a quick flash of the lights all around, and rested, open and waiting. I wondered if it worked around corners.
    She didn’t look like her father, but they had the same grin. He was about fifty, grey-haired, clean-shaven, handsome and unnervingly sinister, rather like a CIA agent in a 1960s film. He had all the trimmings, dark suit, pearl cufflinks and expensive French shirt. He got out of the car and stretched out his arms. I’d never seen her so happy. She let out a great shout of uncomplicated joy and he engulfed her in a hug. He even dislodged the glasses.
    “How long can you stay?” she demanded, without introducing me.
    “Just tonight.” He kissed her on both cheeks, like the French do. Then turned to me.
    “Now, my girl, let me take a look at this young man who has captivated my daughter.”
    I suddenly felt oily, coated in dandruff and spots, but I was delightedto hear this statement. I was under the impression that the Germanist didn’t have any passions. She certainly hadn’t appeared amenable to captivation. He shook my hand, then suddenly gave me a hug too. I was very taken aback and very pleased.
    “If she doesn’t give you a good time, boy, cruise on down to us in London.” He delivered his pick-up line with the same broad, mischievous grin she had lavished upon me.
    “Give over, Dad. I saw him first,” she giggled and poked her father in the ribs. I changed color several times with embarrassment.
    All my ideas about the Bank of England underwent a sudden and rapid transformation. The evening, depending upon your morals, went downhill from there. I now understood where my Germanist’s absolute sense of license and liberty came from. She was her father’s