The Museum of Broken Promises Page 8

  She reprised May’s questions.

  ‘So why Czech?’

  ‘I lived there for a long summer.’

  ‘And that’s a broken promise?’

  ‘Actually, yes, as it turned out. It was.’

  She sat for a long time with the frame propped on her knee. Tomas refused to contemplate leaving the country until it became clear that he had no option. ‘I fight through the music,’ he said during one of their many discussions in the early days when they drank beer in the sun or wandered along the river. ‘The patriot stays. Anyway, what would happen if they caught me?’

  She knew enough to answer. ‘Prison.’

  He picked up a lock of Laure’s hair. ‘You’ve just proved you’re a Westerner from a soft, liberal culture. If I’m caught they will screw information out of me however hard I try to resist. I cannot put others in danger.’

  ‘Screw?’ She had made a joke of it.

  It wasn’t funny. It would never have been funny. ‘All right, get it out of me.’

  In Communist Prague there was one life playing out on the surface while another parallel one with its own language and myths was hidden from view.

  He shouldn’t have done but Tomas’s friend, Milos, had told her about the escape routes. By then they knew each other well enough.

  Drive the Trabant to Hungary and attempt to get over the border. The guard dogs were notorious.

  Get to Berlin, organize a contact from the West to come over with fake documents and do an exchange in the so-called Hall of Tears, the Tränenpalast, where the Ossis and Wessis were forced to say goodbye to each other. Very high risk and only recommended for German speakers.

  Get out by train from Prague to Austria. The Vienna option.

  Whoever it was on the run was instructed to go to the restaurant at the southern end of Wenceslas Square owned by Milos’s father, to walk through the tables and to let himself out of the back entrance. Next, they were to head for the telephone booth at the bottom of the street. If a piece of string was tied around the receiver, they were to dial the number they had been given and wait for the code word. (If no string, they were to abort.) Next, they were to make their way to the safe house used by dissidents on the move (rumour had it that it was run by the British) and once they had given the correct code word, they would be given new papers and a bicycle to get to the station.

  Results were fifty–fifty.

  But that time, someone released the information, maliciously or carelessly or innocently, and the carefully constructed chain fell apart. Where and by whom? Milos? Lucia, the Boadicea-like fighter for regime change? The nameless contact who was to supply the code word?

  Fatigue gritted her eyes and her limbs were heavy with exhaustion. Even so, she knew it would be one of those nights when she didn’t sleep much. (They used to send Xavier crazy.)

  Kočka woke several times, mewling and restless. On sentry duty on the floor, Laure calmed her as best she could. Towards dawn, she lost consciousness.

  Tomas was playing the piano. This puzzled Laure because his instrument of choice was the guitar.

  His hair was cropped uncharacteristically short and she noticed a strip of white skin above the sunburn on his neck.

  ‘The keys are too stiff,’ he was saying in his good, but accented, English. ‘I have to work doubly hard.’

  He was playing Beethoven’s ‘Ode to Joy’ which was not his music at all either. ‘I know it’s a cliché for the West,’ he said, swivelling to look at her. ‘But not for us.’ He turned back to the keyboard. ‘For us, the end of the war is a long way off.’ He played more. ‘Music is the best kind of warrior and will have to do the fighting.’

  It filled her ears with sublime sound.

  ‘My God,’ she heard herself say. ‘I’ve waited for you for so long.’

  ‘On arrive.’ His French was nowhere as good as his English and he would have struggled in Paris. ‘On arrive. I promise.’

  I have been awakened, she thought. I am dizzy, enraptured, without boundaries. I never dreamt that being in love meant to be exultant and at ease at one and the same time.

  Watching him at the keyboard drove the breath from her body.

  The notes became choppier as she swam up towards consciousness.

  So immersive and deep was the dream that it took Laure some time to reorientate herself, and, at first, Kočka’s face peering down at her from the chair made no sense.

  She struggled upright. Kočka would need the cat-litter tray and she lifted the still limp body from the chair and set her down in the tray that had been added to the staggering bill paid to the vet.

  Kočka protested but seemed to get the idea. Laure turned away. Even cats required privacy.

  CHAPTER 7

  AT THE MUSEUM THE CALLS CAME THICK AND FAST, mainly to do with the Maison de Grasse partnership.

  While she waited for Laure’s attention, May perched on Nic’s desk and the two of them talked. From over the phone, Laure observed their interaction, swapping jokes, allusions, teases. Something told her, and she was unsure why, that they were seeking sanctuary in each other.

  Nic laid his hand on May’s arm and May’s blue-grey eyes flew to Nic’s and they fell silent. A pang went through Laure. She, too, had experienced those wordless, electric exchanges that sent shocks through the body and soul.

  The calls continued late until lunchtime. ‘I’m sorry,’ Laure finally put the phone down. ‘I must check on my sick cat.’

  Nic did not take his eyes off May. ‘You denied having a cat when I asked.’

  ‘I didn’t then.’

  May suggested she walk over to Laure’s apartment with her from where she had arranged to continue on to her next interview with a dress designer in the Marais. ‘So exciting. I’m spending the afternoon in a Parisian garret.’

  Nic shot Laure a look that she interpreted as a warning. At the first opportunity, she took him aside. ‘What are you telling me?’

  She had never seen anyone looked so shell-shocked as the normally cool Nic. ‘Look, she’s pretty ruthless when it comes to work.’ Laure knew she should put him out of his misery but watching the tussle between his loyalties was irresistible. ‘But, at heart, she’s lovely.’

  This was as pitiful a case as Laure had ever seen and she almost felt sorry for the helpless Nic. Her lips twitched. ‘Shall I tell her that?’

  ‘No.’ Having clocked she was teasing, he added, ‘I just wanted to be sure that you knew that she can be… forensic.’

  She peered hard at Nic and reminded herself that it was Nic, not herself, who was diving into swirling, lust-saturated waters. But she did know about the astonishingly visceral responses, the anticipation mixed with breathlessness and, in the best sense, about desire. Reflecting so, she felt that old beat of regret. Yet, grief and secrets were part of the deal in life and she had taught herself to get on with it. She smiled at him. ‘And you should be careful, too.’

  Together Laure and May walked down to the canal before turning into Laure’s street. Laure asked about May’s assignments and May explained she would be doing pieces on the dressmaker who took her inspiration from Morocco and a new flea market that had opened nearby in Bastille. Excitement and professional hunger pulsed from her – and Laure heard an echo of her younger self talking, talking, as rapid and as intense as she had been.

  ‘Who sent you to Paris?’

  May stopped to scrape clogged leaves from her pink and black trainers. ‘No one. Saved up and took a chance.’

  ‘That was brave.’

  ‘Or desperate.’

  ‘To get away from your mother?’

  ‘The parrot on my shoulder, yes.’ She was edgy. ‘I wanted a life. I wanted a career.’

  For once, the street noises were at a minimum. The autumn sun was at its most glorious and Laure inhaled an odour of dry leaves, bakery, water and the faintest suggestion of spices.

  ‘You love Paris,’ observed May.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A
little? A lot?’

  ‘Paris has become part of me.’

  ‘Was Prague the same? Or Berlin?’

  Laure forced herself not to stop mid-stride. ‘Did I ever mention Prague or Berlin?’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ May skirted around a tent erected on the canal bank with a camping gas ring leaning drunkenly beside it. ‘I’ve done some homework. You had a boss who was a big commie chief? Right?’

  ‘No comment.’

  May said: ‘I know you hate talking about yourself, Laure, but this isn’t big intrusive stuff. Just background. I hope… I know … the article will be useful if I get it right. For both of us.’ Her gaze darted from trees, to the canal, to bridges… taking it all in. ‘It could be good. Really good. I feel it.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Laure. She retraced her steps to the tent, bent down and righted the gas ring. ‘They have so little,’ she explained on re-joining May.

  May tried again. ‘Did the British know you worked for a communist?’

  Laure swung round. ‘You’re stepping over the mark,’ she said. ‘That’s not your business.’

  ‘Except that history can’t be rewritten and it’s out there.’

  May had a point. ‘You’re right,’ Laure conceded.

  May looked only a trifle smug. ‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘I hope we can be honest with each other.’

  Did May mean it? In the apartment, a still weak Kočka was spread over the swimming towel on the sofa, much as Laure had left her. As Laure and May came into the room, she lifted her head and her pupils enlarged. Laure sat down beside her and stroked the swoop of fur between her eyes which, to her surprise, Kočka permitted.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said, pity and protectiveness churning inside her. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  May extracted a recording machine from her things.

  Kočka closed her eyes.

  ‘I can’t keep her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Laure explained. May, who had seen the point of Kočka at once, wedged herself down on the sofa beside her and touched the tip of her paw. Kočka accepted this tribute. ‘If she’s a feral cat, shouldn’t she be frightened of people?’

  Laure fetched a tray with glasses and offered May an apple juice. ‘I think she might have belonged to someone at some point. She seems to understand about being indoors and I don’t have too much of a fight getting a pill down her.’

  May eyed up Kočka. ‘How the hell do you get a pill down a cat?’

  ‘Get it into their mouth and make them sneeze.’

  ‘Stupid me. Why didn’t I think of it?’ Her drawl deepened. ‘Laure, I’ve read some cuttings. Some of them aren’t so flattering.’

  May was probably referring to a spiky profile in Madame Figaro. Their chief feature writer had not bought the idea of the museum, maintaining it was a waste of public resources. Representations of personal disaster that were not works of art per se should not, he maintained at some length, be subsidized with the taxpayers’ money which came via Nos Arts de France.

  For the first time, she had seen Nic angry. Why, oh why, he accused Laure, weren’t you more emollient?

  Notebook settled on her knee, May exuded good will and professionalism. The effect was calming. She was charming. But, as Laure knew from experience, it was no guarantee.

  Laure took the initiative. ‘You mentioned this was your first time in Paris? It can be an overwhelming experience. I used to come here as a child, then as a twenty-year-old, working as an au pair. I remember feeling faint for a lot of the time because everything was so overwhelming.’

  ‘It took me a day to prise open my jet-lagged eyes and then you couldn’t stop me.’ May crossed long tightly denimed legs. ‘I came to Paris on the off-chance that I could get some things going. It’s been great. Helped by being shown where to get the mind-blowing coffee. Now, I’m in it. Totally. What a city. I come from Birmingham, Alabama, which is way down the US food chain – don’t quote me – and has its share of the past to tussle with. But Paris is something else. Paris is layered in it. Everywhere you go, it’s in your face. Revolution, snap. Napoleon, snap. Dior, snap.’

  Laure understood.

  ‘You look every inch the Parisienne now.’ May gestured at Laure’s leather jacket. ‘Every darn inch. Bet it cost a fortune.’

  Laure recollected the time she had spent tracking down the boutiques she liked, the shoe shops, the hairdresser. ‘Thank you.’

  May’s finger hovered over Kočka’s paw. ‘You were born in 1966. Right?’

  Laure’s recent visit to the optometrist and the prescription issued for reading glasses had come as a jolt. ‘Yes.’ She sat down in the chair opposite May. ‘What do you want to ask me?’

  ‘You tell me. Give me the opening and we’ll take it from there.’

  Laure checked her watch. Was there a chance of getting away with only half an hour? She pointed to Kočka. ‘As you’ve found out, I’ve lived in two cities where it would have been beyond most people’s means to take in a feral cat.’

  May flicked on the recording machine. ‘Prague and Berlin.’

  The words arrived, surprisingly easily. ‘In 1986 I found myself in Prague for several months, just before the fall of the communist government. My father died suddenly, and I couldn’t cope at university. At that age, death doesn’t seem possible. It was a double blow. I was going to muck up my exams and my French mother arranged for me to take a year out in Paris as an au pair. As it turned out, my employers were Czech and that’s how I got to Prague.’

  May pushed the recorder a shade closer to Laure.

  ‘I joined the foreign office and, after the Wall was demolished, I worked in Berlin for the British Embassy in a minor capacity. Which I liked too, even though it was grim at times.’

  ‘A minor capacity,’ said May, sounding thoughtful. ‘I can’t see you in a minor capacity.’ She paused. ‘Were you a spy? At the time, they were crawling all over the city.’

  Laure said with a cold, quiet disdain, ‘I thought this was an adult interview.’

  May flinched visibly and shifted in her seat, which made Laure suspect that she was more rookie and at sea than she had supposed. Even so, when questioning, the trick was: to bait the hook to suit the fish. Maybe that was May’s schtick to give her leverage with the awkward questions?

  May rallied. ‘Needs asking though? Wasn’t Berlin an odd choice?’

  ‘You go where you’re posted. But I left the service when I was offered a very well-paid job as an interpreter in Paris.’ The half-truth slid off her tongue.

  ‘So, you developed a taste for living abroad. Or, preferred it.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Have you ever been back to Prague or Berlin?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  Laure shrugged. ‘Hasn’t been convenient.’

  ‘Or, you didn’t wish to.’

  Again, Laure shrugged.

  May asked if she could use the bathroom and Laure pointed down the passage. May took her time but when she returned, she asked, ‘How did it all begin?’

  She meant the museum.

  How?

  ‘Where do ideas come from? Who knows?’

  Divorce, sleeplessness, childlessness, weariness of working as an interpreter all played a part. But the reasons why they pushed Laure to action at that moment were too deeply buried for her to be exact. All she knew was they had rubbed against each other – wire wool on an encrusted fire grate – and produced a shiny idea.

  She concentrated on the practical details. ‘Once I had the idea and found the house, I buttonholed the bank and borrowed as much as I could, bought it and restored it. I hired a publicity agent to create a buzz about the museum and I applied to Nos Arts de France for funding which I was granted on an annual basis. Not so very remarkable. Just business.’

  May took down notes. ‘Can you give numbers?’

  ‘Sorry, confidential. I never knew from one year to the ne
xt if money was forthcoming. We had five years of steadily improving footfall which was so good and kept me going. Then, Nos Arts informed me that an anonymous sponsor wished to take on the funding for a further five years and what’s more he or she was giving enough money to pay for the entire operation.’

  Simon had rung to tell her. ‘What’s your magic, girl? Whatever it is, I’ll have some of it.’ He waited until her cries of ‘it can’t be true’ had died away before saying, ‘This is a big achievement, Laure. Few have managed it.’

  Describing the moment could not possibly convey the satisfaction, the sense that something had, after all, arrived at completion. ‘It was quite a day when you’re told there’s a staggering sum on which to call. We had got there. It was working.’

  May scented blood. ‘You’ve no idea who it might be? Or why they did it?’

  ‘We’ve hit a moment of change, I think. The museum is seen as fresh and anti-establishment. It offers an invitation to many who would normally feel excluded, who perhaps don’t go to museums. It can step over boundaries that other museums have to observe.’

  ‘Except you monitor the acquisitions.’

  ‘I do everything in my power to keep an open mind. There’re things in the museum that would never see the light of day in the established institutions. Nor would their stories.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ May fiddled with her recorder. ‘And the Maison de Grasse?’

  ‘That will dovetail well. The firm services the mass market—’

  ‘Those masses that can afford their quite pricey products,’ May opened up her notebook and tapped into it. ‘Paying… yes, fifty euros for a scented candle as it’s advertised here is probably not top of the list for most.’

  ‘But their floor cleaner is,’ countered Laure. ‘The trustees tell me they are delighted by the association. Remember, they’re not doing the funding, but providing patronage.’

  ‘What did you feel when it all took off?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Just good? Weren’t you over the moon? Praising Jesus?’

  Her lips twitched. ‘Nic and I needed a large glass of wine. OK, three.’

  She remembered the feeling of release – sweet and addictive – and that, at last, something had gone right in her life. Looking back, it was the moment when she pivoted away from pessimism towards the self with whom she liked to live.