Laure laughed. ‘And?’
‘I think I mentioned I was expected to marry a trust fund.’
‘I want to ask you a question,’ said Laure.
There was a perceptible hesitation. ‘Ask away.’
‘OK. May Eugenie Marcia Williams, what would you bring to the museum?’
It was May’s turn to laugh. A little uneasily. ‘I’ll think about it.’
‘If you want my cooperation, I need to know.’
‘That’s not the way it works,’ said May, sounding off balance.
‘It is with me,’ said Laure.
‘I’ll get back to you.’
‘That’s my tactic.’
The second glass of red was finished. Time to go.
Later in the week, Laure made her customary notes as she walked through the museum. The windows needed cleaning and a hinge on a cabinet was on the cusp of breaking.
Making practical decisions was a soothing activity. She liked the order that was necessary to take them. She liked the neatness of the schedules and objectives.
In Room 2, a couple of girls were staring at the ‘Ron Maiden’ T-shirt and exchanging views in low voices. At Laure’s entrance, they scurried out. A tall, bulky man was standing in front of the recently displayed bridal veil. A short-sleeved shirt strained across his stomach and the belt holding up his jeans was doing sterling service. His head was bowed and he had laid the palm of his hand against the glass, something that visitors were asked not to do.
Laure made to step forward and checked herself. The man’s shoulders were heaving and she suspected it was the spurned bridegroom. Or someone in the same boat. In which case, he should be allowed licence. There was a temptation to tap him on the arm and to tell him: this, too, will pass.
Except, in her experience, that was not the case and to lie about it was almost worse than the offence.
She backed out of the room and left in peace a weeping, grieving man to gather himself together.
In Room 1, a gaggle of schoolchildren with rucksacks that they should have left in the cloakroom were pressed up against the cabinets. Children were a mixed blessing in the museum. Very often they were bored but some asked remarkably pertinent questions. There were squeals from this contingent and it was a fair bet that they were absorbing zero. An exasperated teacher with fair hair scraped back into a bun was trying to engage their attention. Giving up the attempt, she chivvied them to the door. Laure buttonholed her and asked her politely to deposit the rucksacks into the cloakroom.
Nic was in the office, absorbed by a document on his screen. He did not look up at her entrance. ‘There’s something that might interest you.’
She was anxious to transfer her notes to the screen. ‘Can it wait?’
‘Yup.’
The phone went. Nic answered and handed it over to Laure. ‘Jacques Bertrand.’
Laure made a face. Jacques Bertrand was their lawyer and he usually only made contact when there was a problem – as indeed there was. Jamie’s father was objecting to the milk tooth in the matchbox and the implication conveyed by its labelling that he was a negligent parent.
The conversation having wound to its close, Laure dropped her chin into her hands. Jamie’s father was furious and insulted. ‘So insulted,’ said Laure, ‘that he must be guilty.’
‘In what era did you become a cynic?’
She made a face at him.
It was late and Nic began to pack up. He took his time to switch off his computer and to stow his laptop. ‘I never knew you were interested in rock.’
It was a left-of-field question and she had to search for an answer. ‘I’m not.’ She added, ‘Particularly.’
‘Never a wild child?’ Nic was smiling in an infuriating manner. ‘The bare-breasted rock chick?’
Laure leant back in the chair. ‘What is all this?’
Nic zipped shut his laptop bag. ‘“Tunnelling”.’
‘For God’s sake, what are you talking about?’
But Laure knew precisely what he was talking about and a frisson went through her.
‘“The nation is on its knees but we’re not. We’re upright”.’ He lowered his voice. ‘“The raw emotional power of music is superior to the word”.’
She pressed her hands down onto her desk. ‘Where did you dredge those up?’
‘Have you heard of the internet?’
‘Stop it, Nic.’
His answer was to toss an envelope down in front of her. It was addressed to her personally. ‘Look inside, Laure.’
The envelope was bulky and had an elusive scent but not a feminine one. A herb? An aftershave? For some reason, her pulse was raised as she extracted from it a black-and-white photograph sandwiched between two leaves of cardboard.
It was taken in evening sunshine in a large park or garden in front of a building probably built in the late eighteenth century. The space was crammed with people – young and middle-aged, with one or two elderly leavening the mix. Most were dressed conservatively: the men in ill-cut jeans or shorts, the women in knee-length skirts and blouses. But there was a good percentage who had got the bit between their teeth and were wearing T-shirts with plunging necklines, flowing skirts and leather fringes.
In the distance on a raised platform were three figures. They had unkempt hair, T-shirts and embroidered waistcoats. Two were on guitars and the third on the drums. One of them, a slight, handsome, rakish figure, had taken up position at the central microphone. The camera caught an absorption, a passion. A tension.
The press was thickest around the stage but several nearest to the camera had linked arms and swayed in a tightly constructed human chain across the foreground.
There was no litter and no vendors, at least in the camera’s sights. It looked hot, magical and raucous.
Nic was smiling in an irritating way. ‘Recognize?’
A painful lump forced its way into her throat. ‘Can’t say I do. A pop concert somewhere?’
Nic’s smile widened. ‘My mother always taught me to tell the truth.’ He bent over and tapped one of the figures closest to the camera. She had long hair, a flowing patterned scarf and huge shining eyes. ‘If I’m not mistaken that’s you.’
CHAPTER 12
Prague, 1986
LAURE’S ROUTE ACROSS THE CHARLES BRIDGE TO THE Old Town Square was becoming well worn. Straight on from the bridge, avoid the pothole by the crooked house and keep the Disney church towers in line of sight.
‘I’m often at the marionette theatre in the evenings. Or, someone there will know where I am. Will you come?’
Laure wanted to. Very much. But Petr and Eva’s warnings remained fresh in her mind. Where was this line running between the political and the personal? She had no idea. At home, the last thing she ever did was to question the status quo. In Prague, she was being set daily puzzles.
A fork was a fork was a fork? Apparently not.
Escaping the afternoon torpor, she had ferried the children to the marionette theatre twice and the outings had been a success. Hot and restless, they stepped into a place where the make-believe was what mattered. Eyes wide, Maria gasped and buried her head in Laure’s lap. Jan shouted with laugher. Their reactions gave Laure enormous pleasure and she surrendered to the magic too.
This evening, however, she was going there on her own.
A minor source of frustration was her skimpy wardrobe, her one good thing being a black cotton dress patterned with pink roses. Eva frowned when Laure emerged from her room in it.
‘The neckline’s too low,’ she said.
Laure had bought the dress in Paris and, for her, its cut, seams and drape exuded Left Bank and she was proud of it. Recollecting how she had nerved herself to enter the Parisian department store and how the assistant’s superior manner filleted her confidence as she decanted her stockpile of savings onto the cask desk, she went to its defence. ‘I think it’s fine.’
Battle lines sprang up between Laure and Eva and, being younger, much prett
ier, firmer bodied, Laure emerged the victor. It was a shabby victory. Of course it was, and she made an effort to damp down its satisfactions.
‘If you get us into trouble, I’ll never forgive you. The city is not safe at night.’ Eva was tight-lipped and her accented French wobbled.
She was seeping unhappiness like water from a sponge. Laure’s conscience stirred and she made an overture. ‘You must be pleased to be back home with your family and friends.’ Not that Laure was aware of any family or friends visiting the apartment.
‘Home,’ echoed Eva, as if the concept was an unfamiliar one. ‘Yes, of course.’
Laure fiddled with her neckline. ‘Eva, are you content if I stay on? Would you prefer someone who lives in Prague to look after the children?’
‘No… no.’ Eva’s response was genuine. ‘The children know you. They like you. Nothing’s more important. We’ve been given special permission to bring you with us.’ In a gesture that was becoming habitual, she clutched at her midriff. ‘I need help. You do understand?’
The doubts arrived. Should she escape the puzzling family setup and the apartment filled with plastic chairs and what, she now suspected, was looted china and glass? Should she take the chance to escape a city where, it seemed, facts only became facts if they were approved of by the authorities?
At the marionette theatre a notice scheduled an 8 p.m. performance. There was over half an hour to go but Laure singled out a bench in the auditorium and settled on it. Backstage, there were lively discussions going on, and the lights were being tested.
Dressed head to foot in puppeteer’s black, Lucia emerged. Black suited her and she looked magnificent. Like the warrior she was supposed to be. Sighting Laure, she frowned and came over. ‘Too early.’ Her English was comprehensible but heavily accented.
‘I don’t mind waiting.’
Lucia ran her eye over the dress and lifted an eyebrow. ‘It’s no use waiting for Tomas. He isn’t here.’
‘Right,’ said Laure, keeping her friendly smile fixed.
Lucia stuck her hands onto her hips. ‘You know something?’ Her accent deepened. ‘You are a nuisance and perhaps a problem.’
Even allowing for disparities in Lucia’s grasp of English, this was rude and Laure braced to fight back. ‘Don’t you like foreigners?’
‘They can make life difficult. They take revenge.’
Both were having trouble with the language which was slipping and sliding. ‘They? Who takes revenge?’
She shrugged. ‘Listen, you are not… us. We do not know how you think or what you believe. The foreigners he brings here are trouble. It happened before. Tomas should have nothing to do with you.’
‘Why don’t you find out what I think?’
‘No point.’
The hissed words were a challenge. Lucia turned on her heel and vanished, leaving Laure marooned on her bench.
‘Don’t worry,’ said a voice in English from backstage. ‘Tomas is coming later. He and Leo are trying to sober up Manicki.’ A stocky figure with receding sandy hair emerged into view. Like Lucia’s, his English was heavily accented but his was of a different order and more fluent. ‘I’m Milos. I look after the puppets and do set designs and lighting. I am so important they cannot do without me. And, to keep me in bread and vodka, I paint portraits of fat Party officials.’ He sent Laure a gap-toothed smile of singular sweetness. ‘You must not pay attention to Queen Lucia. She wants war and is hard on anyone who’s not in her army.’ He peered at Laure. ‘Don’t be upset. Why don’t I introduce you to some of my children?’
‘Children?’
‘Forgive me. I mean, the marionettes.’
He led Laure backstage to a small room where rows of marionettes of all shapes and sizes hung from the wall and shelves, stacked with boxes, reached from floor to ceiling. The windows had been thrown wide open to counter the heat and the sound of people passing filtered in.
‘Meet the Kaspars,’ said Milos, laying out a pair of marionettes on the table. ‘I think you will know them as Punch and Judy. They are the oldest ones in Europe. Not these, of course. But who they are.’
Splayed out, the Kaspars resembled small corpses.
‘And these…’ he pointed to a pair of marionettes with pig-like features and black suits hanging by the window, ‘these are father and son.’ With a gentleness usually reserved for babies, he touched the older-looking one with a finger. ‘This is Joseph Spejbl. He’s very stupid and says stupid things. This is his son, Hurvinek, who’s clever.’
Laure wiped the sweat off her cheek.
‘The Nazis hated the Spejbls. They arrested the man who made them and put him in prison. Then they came back and arrested the marionettes.’
‘Arrested marionettes!’
Milos looked at Laure. You have no idea.
That was true.
It was cripplingly hot inside and her armpits were damp. Milos was obviously busy and she thanked him and, as an emergency measure, dived into the garden. Here she lit a cigarette, a recently acquired habit. The cigarette was Czech and its smoke was rough on the back of her throat but she persevered. The smoke drifted upwards and its aroma mingled with that of the tobacco plant in the corner.
‘So, you came,’ said a voice.
Her heart thumped as she swivelled around. ‘As you see.’
Despite the heat, Tomas was wearing the linen waistcoat, which he took off and folded over the back of the garden bench. The light fell full over him. Slight of frame, eyes narrowed against the evening, thick eyelashes, hair slicked back, he exuded energy, boldness and… an irresistible unkempt quality.
‘Nice dress.’ He sounded approving. ‘Not bought in Czechoslovakia, I think.’
‘Paris.’
‘The goons will suspect it.’
She tugged at the neckline and felt a blush hi-jacking what cool she possessed.
He pulled her down onto the bench. He was smiling, as he so often was. ‘You like the marionettes? Marionettes and puppets, and the Laterna Magika are very strong in our traditions. Not so much in yours, I think.’
‘Punch and Judy.’ She wrinkled her forehead. ‘Not much else.’ Did she know anything about her own traditions? ‘But here is different. You have spells and enchantment.’ She struggled for coherence. ‘This is a place where, if you want to watch properly, you must forget yourself. It’s part of the experience.’
‘Then, you know.’
Emboldened, she continued. ‘You think you are watching one thing, but it’s really about something else.’
She had blundered. Tomas’s smile switched off and he pressed down on Laure’s arm. It was a warning to shut up. He removed his hand and said in a low voice. ‘I knew you were clever and that’s a smart observation but not one to discuss here.’
She opened her mouth to reply but he waggled his finger. Don’t.
A silence drifted and folded between them. Curiously, it wasn’t in the least awkward, which it could have been, but… exciting.
Tomas was the first to break it. ‘Would you like to help out here? For the summer?’
Her cigarette had burned dangerously close to her fingers. She dropped the butt and she placed a foot on it. As she extinguished its spark, another glowed. ‘What do you mean?’
He gestured to the auditorium. ‘We need messengers and furniture moving. Lots of mending. We need people to step in to help if there’s an emergency. There always is. You know, lighting or broken strings.’ He bent over, picked up her cigarette butt, wrapped it in a piece of paper and placed it in his pocket. Laure watched with some surprise. ‘I’m a mad old tramp? Yes. Tobacco is expensive here and we save things.’
‘Even the smallest traces?’
He searched her face. For what? To ascertain if she was a safe person? ‘The smallest traces build up into big things.’
She licked lips which had gone dry. ‘My employer has asked me to stay on the for the year. I’m thinking about it.’
‘I wonder why.’ Tomas’s
eyes narrowed. ‘And will you? Stay?’
She considered lighting up a second cigarette and reckoned it would make her appear nervous. ‘I would like to know more about this country.’
‘And would you like to know more about me?’
She seemed barely able to breathe. ‘Yes.’ Oh yes.
He shifted closer. ‘And I about you.’
Her response to the exchange must have appeared maladroit – that was because she didn’t know how to handle its intensity. ‘I should know more. About the country, I mean.’
He gave an unamused laugh. ‘There’s too much to know. But you will have noticed that our geography puts us at a disadvantage.’
The audience was beginning to file into the auditorium. Tomas glanced over to the door, got to his feet and raised his voice a touch. ‘What you must remember is that the State is a good and efficient one. It looks after its people. Have you got that?’
She was bewildered. ‘I think so.’
His smile was a thousand suns shining down on her. ‘I predict you will be a good pupil. Promise me, you will learn well.’
Even more muddled, Laure nodded. ‘I promise.’
‘If you stay in Prague, everything you hear will contradict the last thing you heard, and your employer will probably be using you.’
‘That’s—’ she cut herself off.
Tomas finished the sentence. ‘You were going to say that’s what he said about us.’ He didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Old tricks. Remember he’ll be checking on you.’ His eyes were now flinty. ‘For God’s sake, let’s not worry about it. If you stay and help here, I warn you that Lucia won’t like it. You mustn’t mind. She’s had bad experiences which makes her suspicious of people, particularly strangers.’ He touched Laure’s chin with a finger. ‘It’s natural and I think you’ll understand.’
Louche but not horrible with it, focused but seemingly not, Tomas’s charm was wrapping her ever more tightly. ‘Why do you take an interest in me?’
‘When I first saw you, you seemed lost. I mean out of place.’
The Museum of Broken Promises Page 14
