Louis protests vehemently when I remind him I’m paying for dinner, but I hold my ground. I invited him for a date, and no matter how much he grumbles, I count my euros, place them on the table, and tell him he can repay me by helping me find this painting.
His hand finds mine the moment we exit the restaurant. At his touch, my whole arm tingles. A few girls walk past us on their way inside and give Louis a look. Yeah, I know, I want to tell them. I can’t believe it, either. Because here’s the thing: I can’t. Since I’ve been in Paris, nothing has turned out how I imagined it would. I spent months dreaming of this summer here, but I could never have pictured anything like this, and I refuse to think about the fact that I’m leaving this all behind soon.
“I’d offer to take you home,” Louis says as we stand in front of his Vespa, “but I don’t think the night is over yet.”
I shake my head; my mouth is too dry to say anything.
“Would it be really cheesy if I took you to the most touristy neighborhood in Paris?” Louis asks with a bright smile. “We’re close by.”
No matter how nervous I get around him, he always has a way to put me at ease. “I like cheese. Especially French cheese.”
Countless stairs later, we find ourselves at the front of the Basilique du Sacré-C?ur, in the heart of Montmartre. We’re still panting after the climb up here, but it’s the view of the entire city that really takes my breath away. The sun is just setting on all the slate rooftops. I scan the endless horizon, and Louis must guess what I’m looking for, because he pulls on my hand and silently points toward the right, in the direction of the Tour Eiffel, which is just visible in the distance.
“Is this for real?” I ask.
Louis stands behind me and wraps his arms around my waist as we keep admiring the view. “I hope so,” he whispers in my ear.
I feel his heart beat against my back, and breathe him in as he leans closer. He rests his head on my shoulder, and I could stay like this all night. Actually, that’s not true: I want to turn around and kiss him, but there are so many people here that we barely have elbow room.
“Come on,” he says, breaking the spell of the moment.
He leads me down the twisted little streets of Montmartre, lined with restaurants, art galleries, and tourist shops. I notice crêperies on almost every corner. But the main attraction is a cobblestoned square called Place du Tertre, where many artists are exhibiting their work. It’s bustling with people, so we have to slow down and admire the pieces—some modern and abstract, others classic depictions of our surroundings. But something else catches my eye.
“What’s that about?” I ask Louis, pointing at an artist drawing a caricaturist portrait of a young girl sitting in front of him. Her parents look on proudly as he sketches gigantic ears and extra long teeth. We’ve already passed by several other people getting their portraits done in various styles, but caricatures seem to be the most popular.
Louis shrugs. “It’s just the thing to do around here.”
“Let’s get one!” I say, suddenly excited. I look around for the perfect artist, and notice a woman who’s just finishing up a portrait.
“What? No,” Louis says, blushing slightly. “It’s for tourists.”
But when I pull his hand, he doesn’t resist.
“I’m a tourist,” I say, pointing at the now-empty stool in front of the artist, and asking her if we can be next. “And I told you, I’m all about the fromage.”
Louis chuckles and rolls his eyes at the same time.
“Comme ?a,” the artist says as she positions us, sitting me down slightly angled, and Louis kneeling behind me.
The woman frowns deeply as she looks from us to the pad in front of her, the black charcoal making swooshing sounds as it brushes the paper, and I have to force myself not to look back at Louis.
“Et voilà,” she says a while later as she puts on the finishing touch. She looks up, smiling, and I practically leap off my stool to see the result. For me, she drew a bun so large that it almost looks like a halo around my head, and very full dark lips, to mimic my red pout. Louis got very thick eyebrows that practically cover his eyes, and a razor-sharp jawline.
“You look beautiful,” Louis says, looking at it over my shoulder.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” I reply.
Louis pays for the sketch before I have time to pull out my wallet.
“A gift for you,” he says, handing me the now-wrapped sketch. “A memory of your time in Paris.”