I had literally organized my meeting with Jean Lambert. Very quickly, I feared he would die. Hadn’t he tried to warn me: Choosing such an old friend is not wise. That night, we listened to dance tunes until the fear dissipated. We had, in any case, laughed about it a lot in front of the camera standing there stupidly filming us. Seven years after Jean’s death, in this very house, a kind of daily life (fixed times, the same people, forms and places of devotion) lead to eerie thoughts.