A Bulgarian, Mitya. He doesn’t understand French. He can only pronounce bits of words. He speaks Russian. His dark, bulging eyes shine on his pale, hollow-cheeked face. It is as if a fever is burning him from the inside. He is constantly in a state of nervous agitation. His face is always in motion. He lives under a tent in the park and eats exclusively from the Restos du Cœur. He waves his arms and turns his head. He laughs. He jumps up and down and puts his hands above his head when he sees the drawing. He tries to explain to me in a mixture of French and Russian how to make money in Paris. You have to take something somewhere and sell it as a souvenir. Steal? No, no! Take what you see!

The Marseilles merchant, even skinnier than before, comes running. He takes a copy of his portrait, shows it to everyone with shining eyes, and poses with it for me to photograph. He is happy. Made with talent! He will keep it as a souvenir.

Jean-Pierre didn’t recognise me. Then he remembered and promised to show me what his framed portrait looks like.

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