Free All Days Are Night by Peter Stamm

took inGillian. The man was standing directly in front of the door and only moved aside at the very last moment.
    Are you looking for someone? asked the young woman.
    I’ve got an appointment, said Gillian, though the expression sounded a little absurd here.
    The long passageway was dimly lit. Gillian walked down to the end, knocked on Hubert’s door, and walked in without waiting to be admitted. Hubert had tidied up since the last time she’d been here. He had set up the easel in front of the sofa and put a big piece of chipboard on it.
    Did you find the way all right? he asked casually and helped Gillian out of her coat. He looked at her. A dress without pleats would have been easier, technically speaking. How much time have you got?
    Till midday, said Gillian.
    He asked her to sit on the sofa, any way that was comfortable. No sooner had she sat down than he told her not to slump. He went up to her, laid his hand very gently on her shoulders, and pulled her upper body forward a little.
    Is this all right?
    When she nodded, he marked the position of her feet with red tape. Then he paced about the room in silence and looked at her from different angles. He put a film in his camera and took a few pictures.
    Just to have something to fall back on, he said.
    Finally, he moved the easel back from the sofa a little, marked its position with tape as well, and clipped a piece of packing paper to the board. Her position quickly became uncomfortable.
    Is it all right if I take my shoes off?
    Hubert nodded, and Gillian slipped off her pumps. After a while, her feet felt cold, and she put them on again.
    Do you mind sitting still? asked Hubert. And don’t smile. But no sooner had she changed her expression than he complained again. This isn’t a photo shoot. Can’t you just look normal? As if you were alone?
    Gillian asked him if he was already working on her face.
    It’s your whole posture, he said. I can’t see you if you’re acting.
    Gillian had been photographed many times, but it had always been a matter of playing a part, first in the theater, then in publicity shots. She struck a pose in front of the camera, got into positions she had seen in magazines. The best pictures were ones in which she could hardly recognize herself. Now that she wasn’t allowed to move, she had no real sense of how Hubert was seeing her.
    You have an enormous head, he said matter-of-factly. He unclipped the sketch, let it fall to the floor, and put up a new piece of packing paper on the backboard. After three-quarters of an hour they took a break.
    Can I have a look? asked Gillian.
    Sure, said Hubert, as he took an old espresso can apart. Do you want coffee?
    Marked on the paper in charcoal she could see the shape of the room and the furniture. Her body was roughly sketched but it looked astonishingly lifelike. Even so, she wasn’t satisfied. She had hoped the picture would tell her something new.
    I wonder what you’re going to discover in me, she said to Hubert, who had filled the espresso can and put it on the hot plate.
    I don’t see anything in you. I’ll be pleased if I manage the exterior half decently.
    Gillian knelt on the floor and leafed through the sketches. Hubert brought two full cups of espresso. He stopped just in front of her and said, stay like that. He set the cups on the floor, got a big sketchbook off a shelf, and started drawing her in quick strokes. By the time Gillian was allowed her coffee, it had gone cold.
    Maybe it’s better if you’re standing up. He drank his coffee all in one go, left the dirty cups in the sink, and clipped a fresh piece of paper on the board.
    They tried out all sorts of poses that morning: Gillian sitting on a chair, standing behind the chair leaning against the back, looking at Hubert, looking out the window, with her back to him or sideways. Sometimes he just looked at her without drawing her. Sometimes he took one or two photos. The poses tired Gillian, but she enjoyed the atmosphere of