Standing

 

 

 

Lucian speaks again before Félix has time to formulate another question. He speaks more slowly than usual, as if this time he wanted to stay ahead of any interpretation.
— You see, Félix, this is a journey of Don Carotte’s, as Igniatius told it to me. A journey Don Carotte does not choose.
He points to the drawing with the tip of his fingers, without touching it.
— He is taken. Carried. In an unstable balance, like a rider–vaulter standing upright on his horse… except that this is not a horse. These are roots. Roots that trace their path through the ocean, among the waves, which sometimes carry them, sometimes assail them.
Félix listens attentively. He mentally notes the precision of the vocabulary. Taken. Does not choose. Carried.
He is struck by the coherence of the narrative, as though the image had already found its words.
— Igniatius insists a great deal on this balance, Lucian continues. On the fact that Don Carotte does not fall. That he cannot fall. Not because he would be master of the situation, but because something holds him, despite himself.
Félix inclines his head slightly.
— Something… or someone? he asks cautiously.
Lucian does not respond immediately. He goes on.
— The roots are not anchors. They fix nothing. They move forward. They search. And the ocean is not an obstacle, but a medium. That is important for Igniatius. He says Don Carotte is not fighting the sea. He is fighting to remain standing while it does its work.
Félix feels an interpretive temptation arise. He recognizes it—and sets it aside.
— And Sang Chaud? he asks. Is he present in this journey?
Lucian sketches a smile.
He nods.
— Yes. Igniatius says he is looking backward. Or rather, that he is looking at what he leaves behind, without being able to cling to it.
Félix then feels, very distinctly, that something has shifted in the session. Lucian is no longer asking him to comment. He is explaining. He is giving access to the internal logic of the drawing, as if he wanted to reclaim its authority.
— And you, Lucian, Félix asks after a moment, what do you make of this journey?
The question is simple, almost casual. But it engages something else. Lucian hesitates. Not long. Just long enough for Félix to notice.
— I’m trying not to recognize myself in it too much, he finally replies.
The answer is not without ambiguity. Félix does not smile. He does not comment.
He notes inwardly the phrasing: not too much, the use of a reflexive verb…
— And Igniatius? he resumes. Does he recognize himself in Don Carotte?
Lucian shakes his head.
— No. He says Don Carotte is braver than he is. That he accepts what Igniatius refuses.
Félix remains silent.
He senses that the session could tip over if he went any further. He limits himself to one last question, almost factual.
— Does Igniatius know who drew this scene?
Lucian looks him straight in the eyes.
— No, he replies. He only says that this drawing existed before he told the story of the journey.
The silence that follows is no longer the same.
It is neither peaceful nor tense. It is charged.
Félix understands then that, this time, it will not be up to him to restart things. The session has entered a zone where the images speak for themselves, and where each person, in their own way, is still trying not to be their author.
— Was Don Carotte accompanied by Sang Chaud?
— No. Not this time. Igniatius says Sang Chaud stayed on land, and I suppose—though this is only a hypothesis—that he would not have withstood that kind of crossing.
A silence settles in.
Félix looks again at the drawing. The stylized, almost decorative waves contrast with the density of the roots. He surprises himself by thinking that it is they, more than the ocean, that truly carry the body.
— What strikes me, Félix finally says, is that Don Carotte is not looking ahead. He does not seem to know where he is going.
He was mistaken… about Don Carotte… and about Sang Chaud…