In one of Buñuel’s cinematic classics, which I saw in my late teens or early twenties, there was an old man lamenting his fate. He married a woman on his belief that she was endowed with pointed breasts, but it turned out that she had deceived him. The rest of his life was utterly pointless. But how did I remember him after so many years? I just saw on the hotel terrace a woman who would be entirely to his exacting taste. She was Ukrainian, I guess. Braless, she could never deceive the poor man, either.