5 minutes with Carlos Fuentes

five minutes to sweat my shirt. A big city, a Roccoco Palace, time clocking before the meeting hour, the repporter not still in the place : you never be lonesome as in the middle of the great crowdy veranda preparing to do a great portrait of a worldwide famous mexican writer unknown by me... I really appreciate the today zen attitude I feel, sat and waiting for my flight back to France. Nothing to do comparing to yesterday at the same moment. It always seems to me difficult to share 5 minutes of a stranger’s life rather than 5 days of a friend’s one. I have to figure out that all the walls colapse between him and I. It was as if I’ll walk on the side of a road without any sight at the cars passing on my side, as if I would read the unwritten in the white margins of his books and my hand featherly gently lingning the edge of the book. I look at him, I talk about my nervosity beeing in front of him, I know he is more serein than I am. We decide to speak english together. I move on, I move back. I seats, I kneel. He talk to me, I whisper to him. I speak with the brilliant light of Madrid, he illuminates himself. I close the book with a handshake showing to Carlos Fuentes the last picture I took of him, the one you use to do after the press attendant said ‘ Now it’s over ’. He looked at it and gave me a ‘That’s the best I ever saw.’ it does my heart good and I went back to my hotel.