540 Jacques Derrida 1984–2004
was afraid to use. One morning, he anxiously said to Marguerite:
‘What’s that music? Is there a cabaret nearby?’ ‘He thought he
could hear Arabic music,’ she says. ‘Then he started to complain
about strange cooking smells. A bit later, he told me that three
men in black had got into his room and started to rummage about
everywhere. It needed a bit of Aldol to stop these hallucinations.’
Derrida could now no longer feed himself at all. He was suff er-
ing from an intestinal blockage that needed an operation lasting
over six hours. To Jean-Luc Nancy, who came to visit him just
after he had come round, Derrida announced – in allusion to his
friend’s heart transplant – that he now had a scar just as big. ‘He
was joking – he always liked to laugh – but his fatigue was so great,
and his anxiety too, that the tone wasn’t all that cheerful.’^54 In the
view of the medics, the operation had been a success and the treat-
ment could resume. But the situation changed dramatically and
Marguerite got a phone call the same night: ‘Your husband is in a
coma.’ By the time she could reach the Hôpital Curie, it was already
too late. In the ward, all the apparatus had already been discon-
nected. Jacques Derrida had died, on Saturday 9 October 2004, at
the age of seventy-four.
In Ris-Orangis, Marguerite found, slipped into an envelope, a letter
for her and her children that Jacques had written shortly before his
hospitalization. In particular, he gave instructions for his funeral,
with the wish that there not be many people and the greatest discre-
tion possible. Contrary to Jewish tradition, and with a last wink to
Jean-Luc Nancy, he asked not to be buried too quickly so as to give
resurrection a chance.
On 12 October, despite there having been no announcement, a
crowd gathered in the rue d’Ulm, blocking the pavements. But only
members of the family and close friends attended the cortège from
the Hôpital Curie, just a few yards away from the École Normale
Supérieure.
Jacques Derrida, as one may easily imagine, wished to be buried
rather than cremated. In the cemetery in Ris-Orangis, at the side of
the open grave, there was grief and disarray. People had come from
very far to pay a last homage, several had travelled all the way from
California, but everything seemed to be going too fast for them. As
Derrida had wished, there was nothing offi cial about the ceremony,
and if Jack Lang was there, this was in a private capacity. Pierre
had secretly hoped, if not that Daniel would attend, at least that he
would send some message. But nothing came, and no initiative was
taken.
Though a few yarmulkes could be seen in the crowd, Jackie Élie
Derrida had wished to be buried outside the Jewish section so as
not to be separated from Marguerite when her time came. René,