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‘Bonnard. He painted them both five or six years before he died.’ I stood in front of them. He said, behind me, ‘These, I paid for.’ ‘They were worth it.’ ‘Sunlight. A naked girl. A chair. A towel, a bidet. A tiled floor. A little dog. And he gives the whole of existence a reason.’ I stared at the one on the left, not the one he had inventoried. It showed a girl by a sunlit window with her back turned, apparently drying her loins and watching herself in the mirror at the same time. I was remembering Alison, Alison wandering about the flat naked, singing, like a child. It was an unforgettable
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