Photographer

“Life isn’t easy,” Couprie said slowly, his deep voice carrying a weight of sorrow that made every word feel more regretful. “Not for me, not for you, and not for anyone who never got what they wanted.”

Sofie lit a cigarette on the edge of the bed, right beside the floor-to-ceiling window that covered most of the wall. She pushed it open slightly, letting in a thin current of cold air, then looked back at him with a careless smile. “If you keep complaining, I swear I’ll throw you out of it,” she said. “And honestly, you should be grateful. Most men would wish they were half as lucky as you tonight.”

Couprie yawned and arched his back, entirely unbothered by her threat. “Sometimes,” he said, “you ought to put yourself in another girl’s shoes. Somewhere out there, plenty of them are probably lying in bed jealous of you—for having such a remarkable companion tonight.”

Sofie’s eyes narrowed, said “How dare you? Careful. You’re only giving me more reasons to throw you out of that window.” For a moment it was hard to tell whether she was joking or truly annoyed.

“Sorry, sorry,” Couprie said, raising a hand in surrender. “Forgive me. I still have work tomorrow morning, and I’d rather not crawl home at two in the morning.”

“You’re always like this,” she said. “Next time you dare behave this way, I swear I’ll throw you out myself.”

“All right, you win,” Couprie said, his voice softening. “Let’s sleep. I didn’t mean to make you angry—I just like the way your cheeks puff up when you are.” He smiled faintly. “Come on. We’ll have plenty of time to argue tomorrow.”

“Hmph.”

Sofie shut the window and snatched the quilt from Couprie, wrapping it around herself without the slightest guilt.

Couprie kept his eyes closed, determined not to admit defeat. His hand searched lazily for the quilt, once, then again, but found nothing. At last, abandoned by warmth, he could only lay one arm across his stomach and accept the cold in silence.

The other day, near the Hotel Metropole in Brussels, Belgium, you could hear arguments rising from morning until late at night.

Einstein said, “God does not play dice.”

Bohr answered, “Stop telling God what to do.”

If you did not know it was the Solvay Conference, you might have mistaken the whole thing for an art auction, a courtroom drama, or some strange performance.

At last, the conference was over.

In front of the Hotel Metropole, the scientists gathered in stiff coats and serious faces, still carrying the dust of arguments from the rooms behind them. Curie stood near the middle, calm and unsmiling, as if even the camera deserved discipline.

“Remember,” someone said dryly, “we are scientists. We do not smile. This will be in books one day. Do not let them think we were joking.”

Then the photographer called out, “Quantum!”

Click.

And just like that, one of the most iconic photographs in the history of science was taken.

Life is never easy for great minds who cannot get what they want. But it is surprisingly gentle to those who do not insist on having everything. As Couprie, the photographer, I found it a great relief to stand safely outside their “great debate.”

When Couprie came home that night, Sofie was already reading the newspaper. The moment he entered, she raised it in the air and knocked her knuckle against the photograph on the front page.

“Well done!”

Couprie looked at his own work for a second, then shrugged. “Coffee won’t be cheaper tomorrow because of that.”