...of patience

‘I once knew a real painter,’ said Tobie; ‘it was ten or eleven years ago, in New York. I must have been sixteen then, or about that - not quite, perhaps. My father had sent me to the States for my education. That’s where I met this fellow, in New York. His name was Gobel, and I never found out where he came from. He spoke English very badly, I think he must have been Armenian or something of the kind. He was a sort of lunatic, he lived like a tramp, bumming all over the States. He only drew on the pavements, with bits of chalk. He drew extraordinary pictures, just like that, in the street, with his chalk, and then sat down beside them and waited for people to throw him a few coins. That was all he wanted. And yet in that way he made the most beautiful pictures in the world. Next day, everything disappeared. People had walked over it, or it had rained, or the sidewalk had been washed. And not a thing was left. But Gobel didn’t give a damn. He started another picture somewhere else, and waited for people to throw him a few cents.’ Tobie took another sip of coffee.
‘I don’t know what became of him. He must be somewhere around, in America or somewhere. I watched him working like that as long as I stayed in New York. He hardly talked at all. I think I got on his nerves in the end, standing there every day, watching him work. And yet he was a kind of genius, if there’s a meaning in the word. I’d have liked to be like him. Poor Gobel!’
The drawing was nearly finished now. Tobie touched it up here and there, rapidly, with the tip of the charcoal.
‘He was a very gentle type,’ he said; ‘I never saw him lose his temper. Sometimes people would walk over his drawing, dragging their feet, to needle him. He didn’t say a word. Just repaired the damage, as though it were quite natural. But I think really he was a little cracked.’

[Fever, Le Clézio, J. M. G.]