HAVING SORTED OUT THE FACTS, Madeleine whispers to the photographer: I plan to build him a stage. In my town, where they will love him. Then you can show him the poster, with his name on it, and he will be persuaded to come.
A stage? repeats the photographer, half-asleep. He finds her hand; he holds it up to the dim windows.
You? Build a stage?
He presses his mouth against her hand and kisses it.
Yes, Madeleine says, a real stage, inside a grand theatre, large enough to fit all the people in my town. There will be little footlights, and a velvet curtain, a printed program, and—
A poster. His name. A picture: a man delicately parting the tails of his coat. And letters, she is saying, tall red ones, as Adrien slips off to have a dream about his brother. In his dream he moves more freely than usual, leaping over things, yelping, swinging his arms high above his head. If he runs, he is able to keep up with Félix quite easily. And off they go crashing into a pond, where they slap the water's surface with their outstretched arms, as though they had grown the heavy wings of a swan.
When he wakes, light pouring through the windows, he finds himself spread selfishly across the cot, sheets bunched at his feet, and she, with her sticky hands, already gone.