The Street Painter – Part 1: Ten Euros

"Ten euros," said Camille. "Ten minutes. Don't smile."

"Why not?"

"Because everyone smiles like a passport photo. Try thinking of something you love."

The man in the folding chair frowned, then closed his eyes. He was thirty-three, an accountant from Dublin, in a navy raincoat with a tourist guide in his pocket and a very serious jaw. Hugo. He had walked into the square in Montmartre that morning, past the café tables and the string of easels, and stopped in front of the only painter who wasn't shouting at passers-by.

Camille worked quickly, in charcoal, on a rough sheet of paper. She was twenty-nine, in a paint-streaked smock and a beret she wore for the tourists, with ink-dark hair, a quick laugh and a stubborn chin. The square was bright and noisy. Pigeons strutted. An accordion played somewhere.

"What are you thinking of?" she said.

"A harbour."

"Which one?"

"Dún Laoghaire. My grandfather used to take me sailing."

"Keep thinking."

His face softened, slowly, from stiff to tender. She drew the line of his cheek, the faint crease by his mouth, the shadow of a boy under the grown man's eyes. When she held the sketch up, he looked at it for a long time without speaking.

"That's not me."

"It's you without the raincoat."

"It's much better than me."

"It's exactly you," said Camille.

He paid, folded the portrait carefully and tucked it into his guide. The next morning, he was back.

"Another?" she said.

"I'd like to be drawn again."

"It's the same face."

"Not the same thought."

She laughed. This time he thought of a bicycle, and she drew him grinning, a little embarrassed. The day after, a cup of coffee. The day after that, he brought two.

"Can I ask you something?" said Hugo.

"Yes."

"How many portraits does it take to get one right?"

"Green?" said Camille, a paint tube, a colour.

"Green," said Hugo, smiling. "Very green. Draw me again."

Continue the story: Part 2 – The Last Portrait.