I am in the apartment of a neighbour on this floor – Madame the Colonel’s widow, an artist of sorts who has been painting since long before I was born. A hundred paintings crowd the double room that serves as her studio. Practically her entire oeuvre, drying and cracking on canvas, board, paper.

Madame paints extravagant floral motifs.

"Like Van Gogh in his Japanese period," she says.

This is a comparison of which I secretly disapprove. Per-sonally, I would have chosen Renoir, but not because of the lady’s art, which is not impressionist. No, I would have preferred a comparison with the Auguste Renoir of the latter years, the frail old man, because of his infirmity, in particular, his disabilities.

The chair to which Madame is confined rolls back, rather swiftly, executes an about-face, emits a squeak. Its occupant stretches out the hand holding the brush.

"Untie it."

I undo the knot in the string, remove the brush from her fingers misshapen by arthritis, slip on the bit of polyester that protects a transparent skin so fragile you could tear it with one harsh glance. There was a time the lady would wear a glove when painting. But no more – her hand no longer even resembles a hand.

Madame controls the movements of her chair with a lever she simply has to push, usually with her elbow, in the right direction. She is fond of this device. Her doctor maintains she would still be able to stand if she truly wished to. Perhaps she does so when she is alone. Otherwise, how is one to explain the shifting of her souvenirs, postcards, sepia photos – almost daguer-reotypes – on the passage walls, or of objects perched high on the shelves or in the cupboards over the kitchen counter?

"Now the bottle, and two glasses."

I might be tempted to tell her to go fetch them herself. But then there are her hands. I draw the Pernod from its hiding place, the trunk in her bedroom, that museum of death’s countdown, under the military blankets reeking of naphthalene, blood-soaked flags, and what else? Uniforms with their decorations: ten or so ribbons and medals, those little biting insects that cluster around a hero’s heart, silks from the Far East, a ragged night robe, a few old brushes, and, of course, an officer’s cap, a helmet, some weapons swathed, enveloped in wax paper, gre-nades, gadgets that make you shudder just to look at them, rolls of barbed wire. I did not dig to the bottom of the trunk, for fear of finding the corpse there. I straighten up, take two liqueur glasses from a display cabinet, fill one to the brim for Madame the Colonel’s widow, and forget the other.

"Tell me about our voyage."

The "our" irritates me. There was never any question of her accompanying me: I am travelling alone. But she is the one who is speaking. And drinking. Madame’s moustache has become covered with yellow pearls, her old bony arse rolling all over the place. She is slipping away.

The next morning I receive a telephone call from the travel agency confirming my departure. The director would like to meet me in the mid-afternoon to work out the details. Only later will I go to see Madame the Colonel’s widow.

• • •

There is wet snow falling. At 3 p.m., completely drenched, I enter the reception room of the large hotel where I am to meet the director. Factory-wrinkled cotton suit, hi-tech glasses, fair – almost white – face, eyebrows thick but not overly so, smiling:

"Why Auvers-sur-Oise, France, 27 July 1890?" she begins.

I clear my throat before answering:

"I would like to attend the suicide of Vincent Van Gogh."