Read Online Mr. Gwyn by Alessandro Baricco - Free Book Online

minutes talking nonsense. A couple of sixteen-year-olds.

24
    The next day, at five, Jasper Gwyn appeared at the Stafford Hotel, but only out of courtesy, because in the meantime he had decidedto forget about it, having reached the conclusion that the idea of talking to that girl was completely outside his ability. Still, when Rebecca arrived, he chose a quiet table, right against a window that looked onto the street, and the first remarks—about the weather and the traffic that at that hour made everything impossible—weren’t difficult. Eager to order a whiskey, he ordered an apple juice with ice instead and remembered some little pastries they did very well there. “For me, coffee,” said Rebecca. Like all truly fat people, she didn’t touch pastries. She was radiant, in her aimless beauty.
    First they talked about things that had nothing to do with it, just to take the measure of things, as one does. Rebecca said that elegant hotels intimidated her somewhat, but Jasper Gwyn pointed out how there are few things in the world as nice as hotel lobbies.
    â€œThe people who come and go,” he said. “And all those secrets.”
    Then he let out a confession, something he didn’t usually do, and said that in another life he would like to be a hotel lobby.
    â€œYou mean work in a lobby?”
    â€œNo, no, be a lobby, physically. Even in a three-star hotel, it doesn’t matter.”
    Then Rebecca laughed, and when Jasper Gwyn asked her what she thought she’d like to be in the next life, she said, “An anorexic rock star,” and she seemed to have had the answer ready forever.
    So after a while everything was simpler, and Jasper Gwyn thought he could try it, say what he had in mind. He took a slightly roundabout route, but that was, in any case, his way of doing things.
    â€œMay I ask if you trust me, Rebecca? I mean, are you sure that you’re sitting across from a well-brought-up person who would never put you in situations that are, let’s say, disagreeable?”
    â€œYes, of course.”
    â€œBecause I’d like to ask you something rather strange.”
    â€œGo ahead.”
    Jasper Gwyn chose a pastry, he was searching for the right words.
    â€œYou see, I recently decided to try to make portraits.”
    The girl bowed her head almost imperceptibly.
    â€œNaturally I don’t know how to paint, and in fact what I have in mind is to write portraits. I don’t even know myself exactly what that means, but I intend to try it, and I had the idea that I would like to start by making a portrait of you.”
    The girl remained impassive.
    â€œSo what I would like to ask you, Rebecca, is if you would be willing to pose for me, in my studio, pose for a portrait. To get an idea, you could think of what would happen with a painter, or a photographer, it wouldn’t be very different, that’s the situation, if you can imagine it.”
    He paused.
    â€œShall I continue, or would you prefer to stop here?”
    The girl leaned slightly toward the table and picked up the coffee cup. But she didn’t bring it to her mouth right away.
    â€œContinue,” she said.
    So Jasper Gwyn explained to her.
    â€œI’ve taken a studio, behind Marylebone High Street, an enormous, peaceful room. I’ve put a bed in it, two chairs, not much else. A wooden floor, old walls—a nice place. What I would like is for you to come there, four hours a day for thirty days, from four in the afternoon till eight in the evening. Without skipping a day, not evenSunday. I would like you to arrive punctually and, whatever happens, stay for four hours, posing, which for me means, simply, being looked at. You won’t have to stay in a position that I choose, just be in that room, wherever you’d like, walking or lying down, sitting where you feel like. You won’t have to answer questions or talk, and I won’t ever ask you to do something