ADRIEN BURSTS FROM behind his camera. With his foot, he stomps. With his hands, he claps.
With sympathy, the patient smiles.
Perhaps, whispers the director, a different method is required.
The photographer is apologetic: If only you knew Félix, he says. If only he were here.
But he is in Paris, on the boulevard des Capucines, where he is draping a length of dark velvet about the divine Sarah Bernhardt, so that her shoulders will not appear too skinny.
Oh Félix, he sighs. Félix.
Disappearing beneath his hood, Adrien continues to mutter the name, and each time he does so, it is with a new expression: meditatively, at first, but then in surprise, as if he has encountered, there in the darkness, the very person he happened to be thinking of. Félix! It is an exclamation of sheer and startled delight, and the reunion a happy one, if somewhat reproachful. The name is spoken in a playful, scolding tone, and then, Félix, he says, more mildly this time, to indicate that all is forgiven. But in the midst of this cheerful exchange, a note of worry is introduced. Félix? he asks. Félix? he says, with increasing agitation. Perhaps the friendly meeting has taken a turn. Perhaps old resentments are awakened, the brother's brow darkening, the brother pulling himself up to his full height. Félix, he squeaks. Félix, no! he says, now fully alarmed. But maybe the brother is not coming closer. Quite possibly, he is walking away. Quite possibly, he has tired of the encounter, has an appointment to keep, and wishes to continue on. Over and over again the photographer cries, and it is impossible to tell if his despair is that of a person menacingly approached, or that of a person left behind.
Félix! he cries. Félix! Félix! Félix!
The photograph is a success. In it, the patient wears an expression of fear.