Free Mr. Gwyn by Alessandro Baricco

on in a brilliant red color that transformed the studio into a bordello, slowly faded until they stabilized at a shade between amber and blue that could not be described as anything other than childlike .
    The old man muttered something, satisfied.
    â€œIncredible,” said Jasper Gwyn. He was genuinely moved.
    Before leaving, he turned on the system that David Barber had prepared for him, and in the big room a current of sounds began to flow that apparently dragged along, at an astonishingly slow rate, piles of dry leaves and hazy harmonies of children’s wind instruments. Jasper Gwyn gave a last glance around. It was all ready.
    â€œNot to pry into your business, but what do you do in here?” asked the old man.
    â€œI work. I’m a copyist.”
    The old man nodded. He was noticing that there was no desk in the room and, instead, a bed and two armchairs were visible. But he knew that every craftsman has his particular style.
    â€œI once knew someone who was a copyist” was all he said.
    They didn’t go into it further.
    They ate together, in a pub across the street. When they said goodbye, with dignified warmth, it was two forty-five. Rebeccawould arrive in just a little over an hour, and Jasper Gwyn prepared to do what he had been planning, in detail, for days.

26
    He headed toward the Underground, took the Bakerloo line, got out at Charing Cross, and for a couple of hours browsed some used-book stores, seeking, without finding, a handbook on the use of inks. By chance he bought a biography of Rebecca West, and stole an eighteenth-century anthology of haiku, hiding it in his pocket. Around five he went into a café because he needed a bathroom. At the table, drinking a whiskey, he paged through the anthology of haiku, wondering for the hundredth time what sort of mind you needed to pursue a type of beauty like that. When he realized that it was already six, he left and went to a small organic supermarket in the neighborhood, where he bought four things for dinner. Then he went to the nearest tube station, stopping to visit a Laundromat that he came across on the way: he’d been cultivating the idea of compiling a guide to the hundred best places to do your laundry in London, so he never missed an opportunity to bring himself up to date. He got home at seven twenty. He took a shower, put on a Billie Holiday record, and cooked dinner, reheating on a slow flame some lentil soup, which he buried under grated parmesan. After he ate, he left the dishes on the table and stretched out on the couch, choosing the three books that he would devote the evening to. They were a Bolaño novel, the complete Donald Duck stories by Carl Barks, and Descartes’s Discourse on Method . At least twoof the three had changed the world. At nine fifteen the telephone rang. Usually Jasper Gwyn didn’t answer, but it was a special day.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œHello, it’s Rebecca.”
    â€œGood evening, Rebecca.”
    A long moment of silence slid by.
    â€œI’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. I just wanted to say that I went to the studio today.”
    â€œI was sure of it.”
    â€œBecause I began to wonder if I’d got the day wrong.”
    â€œNo, no, it was today.”
    â€œOkay, good, I can go to bed in peace.”
    â€œCertainly.”
    Another gust of silence went by.
    â€œI went and I did what you told me to.”
    â€œVery good. You didn’t turn off the lights, right?”
    â€œNo, I left everything as it was.”
    â€œPerfect. See you tomorrow.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œGood night, Rebecca.”
    â€œGood night. And I’m sorry if I bothered you.”
    Jasper Gwyn went back to reading. He was in the middle of a fantastic story. Donald Duck was a traveling salesman and had been sent to the wilds of Alaska. He scaled mountains and journeyed down rivers, always carrying a sample of his wares. The great thing was the type of wares he was