As she looks once more on the scene inside, she thinks of a violinist tucking his instrument beneath his chin.
Behold: M. Pujol is pressing his cheek upon the photographer's hand. The hand is resting, like a violin, against his collarbone. He does not rub his cheek against the hand, as though it were the rabbit trimming on a coat, nor does he dig his chin into the flesh, like a half-wit who wants nothing more than to sink his face into the warmth of his own shoulder. He simply holds the hand against him, and in his touch is the impatience with which musicians handle their instruments.
He closes his eyes. He takes a breath.
It is all about to begin.