Mr. Gwyn by Alessandro Baricco Page B

love?”
    â€œIt’s serious in the sense that it’s about work.”
    Tom put on his glasses. Under the circumstances it was his way of opening the office.
    â€œShe persuaded you to do scenes from books that you’ll never write? I told you she was a smart girl.”
    â€œNo, Tom, it’s not about that. I need her for my work. But not that.”
    â€œTake her. Provided you go back to writing, it’s fine with me.”
    â€œIt’s not so simple.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œI want to make her my first portrait. You know, the thing about the portraits?”
    Tom remembered it very well. “I’m not mad about that idea, you know, Jasper.”
    â€œI know, but now it’s a different problem. I need Rebecca to come to my studio to pose for around thirty days. I’ll pay her. But she’ll tell me she doesn’t want to lose her job with you.”
    â€œTo pose ?”
    â€œI want to try it.”
    â€œYou’re crazy.”
    â€œMaybe. But now I need that favor. Let her work for me for a month or so, and then you’ll take her back.”
    They went on talking for a while, and it was a wonderful phone call, because they ended up discussing the profession of writing and things they both loved. Jasper Gwyn explained that the circumstances of the portrait appealed to him because they compelled himto force his talent into an uncomfortable position. He realized that the premises were ridiculous, but that was precisely what appealed to him, in the suspicion that if you removed from writing the natural possibility of the novel, it would do something to survive, a movement, something. He also said that the something would be what people would then buy and take home. He added that it would be the unpredictable product of a domestic and private rite, not intended to return to the surface of the world, and thus removed from the sufferings that afflicted the profession of writer. In fact, he concluded, we’re talking about a different profession. A possible name was: copyist.
    Tom listened. He tried to understand.
    â€œI don’t see how you will be able to get around the white arm resting softly on the hip or the gaze as luminous as an eastern dawn,” he said at one point. “And for that kind of thing, hard to imagine doing better than a Dickens or a Hardy.”
    â€œYes, of course, if I stop there defeat is certain.”
    â€œYou’re sure there’s something beyond?”
    â€œSure, no. I have to try, I told you.”
    â€œThen let’s say this: I hand over my intern and don’t get in your way, but you promise me that if at the end of the experiment you really haven’t found something, you’ll go back to writing. Books, I mean.”
    â€œWhat’s that, blackmail?”
    â€œA pact. If you don’t succeed, you’ll do as I say. Start with the scenes from books you’ll never write, or whatever you want. But you give the studio back to John Septimus Hill and sign a nice new contract.”
    â€œI could find someone else to come and pose.”
    â€œBut you want Rebecca.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo?”
    Jasper Gwyn thought that all in all he didn’t mind the little game. The idea that failure would take him back to the horror of the fifty-two things he never wanted to do again suddenly seemed to him galvanizing. In the end he agreed. It was almost three in the morning, and he agreed. Tom thought he was about to recover one of the few writers he represented whom he could truly consider a friend.
    â€œTomorrow I’ll send you Rebecca. In the Laundromat, as usual?”
    â€œMaybe a somewhat quieter place would be better.”
    â€œThe bar of the Stafford Hotel, then. At five?”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œDon’t stand her up.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid I already tell you I love you?”
    â€œNot tonight.”
    â€œStrange.”
    They spent another ten