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then talk again.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI have to metabolize it.”
    â€œYes, I understand.”
    â€œOtherwise everything’s fine?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you need anything?”
    â€œNo. That is, one thing, maybe.”
    â€œTell me.”
    â€œDo you know a real-estate broker?”
    â€œSomeone who looks for houses?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œJohn Septimus Hill, he’s the best. You remember him?”
    Jasper Gwyn seemed to remember a very tall man, with impeccable manners, dressed with meticulous elegance. He was at the wedding.
    â€œGo to him, he’s perfect,” said Tom.
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œWhat is it, are you moving?”
    â€œNo, I thought of renting a studio, a place for attempting that portrait.”
    Tom Bruce Shepperd rolled his eyes.

16
    When John Septimus Hill handed him the form to fill out, in which the client was asked to specify his requirements, Jasper Gwyn tried to read the questions, but finally he looked up from the papers and asked if he could tell him.
    â€œI’m sure I’d manage to explain better.”
    John Septimus Hill took the form, looked at it skeptically, then threw it in the wastebasket.
    â€œI’ve never yet met anyone who had the kindness to fill it out.”
    Then he explained that it had been an idea of his son’s. His son had been working with him for several months; he was twenty-seven, and had decided to modernize the style of the firm.
    â€œI tend to believe that the old way of doing things worked very well,” continued John Septimus Hill, “but you can imagine how one always behaves with a sort of mad indulgence toward one’s children. Do you have children, by any chance?”
    â€œNo,” said Jasper Gwyn. “I don’t believe in marriage and I’m not fit to have children.”
    â€œVery reasonable position. Would you begin by telling me how many square feet you need?”
    Jasper Gwyn was prepared and gave a precise answer.
    â€œI need a single room half as big as a tennis court.”
    John Septimus Hill didn’t turn a hair.
    â€œOn what floor?” he asked.
    Jasper Gwyn explained that he imagined it facing on an interior garden, but he added that maybe also a top floor would work, the important thing was that it should be absolutely silent and peaceful. He would like it to have, he concluded, an uncared-for floor.
    John Septimus Hill didn’t take any notes, but seemed to be piling up in some corner of his mind all the information, as if it were ironed sheets.
    They talked about heating, bathrooms, doorman, kitchen, trim, fixtures, and parking. On every subject Jasper Gwyn demonstrated that he had clear ideas. He was categorical in stating that the space had to be empty, in fact very empty. The mere term furnished annoyed him. He tried to explain, and succeeded, that he wouldn’t mind some water stains, here and there, and maybe some pipes, preferably in a state of disrepair. He insisted on blinds and shutters on the windows, so that he could regulate the light in the room as he wished. Traces of old wallpaper on the walls he wouldn’t mind. The doors, if they were really necessary, should be of wood, possibly a bit swollen. A high ceiling, he decreed.
    John Septimus Hill piled up everything carefully, his eyes half-closed, as if he had just finished a heavy lunch, then he was silent for a bit, apparently satisfied. Finally he reopened his eyes and cleared his throat.
    â€œMay I be permitted a question that could legitimately be called reasonably private?”
    Jasper Gwyn didn’t say yes or no. John Septimus Hill took it as encouragement.
    â€œYou have a job that requires an absurdly high degree of precision and perfectionism, right?”
    Jasper Gwyn, without really understanding why, thought of divers. Then he answered that yes, in the past, he had done a job of that sort.
    â€œMay I ask you what it was? It’s simply