Mr. Gwyn by Alessandro Baricco Page A

that he would end up wanting her.
    â€œLet’s get to the point, did you find her?” asked the woman in the rain scarf as she unwrapped a citrus-flavored candy.
    â€œYes, I think so.”
    â€œAnd so?”
    â€œI have to find a way of asking her. It’s not that easy.”
    â€œIt’s a job, Mr. Gwyn, you’re not asking her to go to bed.”
    â€œI know, but it’s a strange job.”
    â€œIf you explain it to her, she’ll understand. And if she doesn’t understand, a generous compensation will help her clarify her ideas. Because you’ve provided for a generous compensation, right?”
    â€œI don’t exactly know.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, you’re becoming a skinflint?”
    â€œNo, it’s not that, come on, it’s that I don’t want to offend. Ultimately, it’s money in exchange for a naked body.”
    â€œOf course, if you put it like that…”
    â€œIt is like that.”
    â€œNot true. Only a puritan full of complexes like you could imagine describing the thing in those terms.”
    â€œDo you have a better idea?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œLet’s hear it.”
    â€œâ€˜Miss, in exchange for five thousand pounds, would you allow me to look at you for around thirty days, just the time to transcribe your secret?’ It’s not a sentence that’s difficult to utter. Practice in front of the mirror, it helps.”
    â€œFive thousand is a lot.”
    â€œWhat are you doing, starting that again?”
    Jasper Gwyn looked at her, smiling, and loved her dearly. For a moment he thought that it would have been simple with her, it would have been a perfect way to begin, with that woman.
    â€œForget it, I’m too old. You shouldn’t start with an old person, too difficult.”
    â€œYou’re not old. You’re dead.”
    The woman shrugged. “Dying is only a particularly exact way of getting old.”
    When he got home, Jasper Gwyn practiced a little in front of the mirror. Then he telephoned Tom Bruce Shepperd. It was two in the morning.

23
    â€œShit, Jasper, it’s 2 a.m. I’m in bed!”
    â€œWere you sleeping?”
    â€œSleeping isn’t the only thing you can do in a bed.”
    â€œAh.”
    â€œLottie says hello.”
    In the background he heard Lottie’s voice that, with no rancor, was saying Hi, Jasper. She was good-natured.
    â€œI’m sorry, Tom.”
    â€œForget it. What is it, are you lost again? Should I send Rebecca to get you?”
    â€œNo, no, I’m not lost anymore. But, in fact… to tell you the truth, I wanted to talk to you about her.”
    â€œAbout Rebecca?”
    What Jasper Gwyn thought was that that girl was perfect. He had in mind how the unquestionable beauty of her face provoked a desire that her body then denied, with its slow, placid manner: perfect. She was poison and antidote—in a sweet and enigmatic way. Jasper Gwyn hadn’t met her a single time without feeling a childlike desire to touch her, just slightly: but as he would have liked to put his fingers on a shiny insect, or a steamed-up window. In addition, he knew her, but he didn’t know her; she seemed to be at the right distance, in that intermediate zone where any further intimacy would have been a slow but not impossible conquest. He knew that he could look at her for a long time without feeling uneasy, without desire, and without ever getting bored.
    â€œRebecca, yes, the intern.”
    Tom burst out laughing.
    â€œHey, Jasper, we’ve got a weakness for fat girls?”
    He turned to Lottie.
    â€œListen to this, Jasper likes Rebecca.”
    In the background he heard Lottie’s sleepy voice saying Rebecca who?
    â€œJasper, big brother, you never stop surprising me.”
    â€œWill you cut out the vulgar remarks and listen to me?”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œIt’s serious.”
    â€œYou’re in