The Kobes were Czech. Not Slovak – Eva had made a point of the national difference when conducting the interview with Laure over the phone – and had been living in Paris for the past five years. ‘My husband works for a pharmaceutical company and travels all over France. I need help with the children, particularly as we are planning to spend much of the summer in Prague.’ She spoke so rapidly that Laure had trouble following her. ‘We will return to Paris in the autumn.’ She paused and added something which Laure found odd. ‘We must return to Paris in the autumn.’
Eva was precise in her requirements which included fluent French. The details of terms and conditions of employment were laid out in a letter of contract which arrived on headed writing paper. ‘Petr Kobes. Director of Exports, Potio Pharma.’ They included the specification: ‘no nail varnish’.
No nail varnish it was.
Eva was blonde, faded and given to brooding and long periods of silence. Since returning to Prague, she had also appeared distracted and distressed. Laure had no precedent on which to pin it down other than to say that she couldn’t help feeling that Eva was concentrating on something far removed from the everyday but which did not lie within the remit of her experience. So far.
Eva’s husband was the opposite to his wife. He was tall with flat, good-looking features, eloquent brown eyes, wore his French clothes elegantly, sported an expensive haircut and used aftershave. He had good manners and seemed genuinely pleased that she was working for the family.
‘In Paris, we are communists in a capitalist country,’ Eva explained, speaking very rapidly as she sometimes did. ‘And have to be careful. But when we go to Prague you must be careful. You will be the foreigner. We’ve had to get special permission to allow you to accompany us.’
If the treatment of the Kobes on arrival at Prague airport was anything to go by, Petr was a player in his country. It didn’t take her more than a few minutes to deduce that some communists were more equal than others. The family had been ushered past the arrival queue to a special exit where a glossy black car awaited. As Laure climbed in and sat back on the leather seats, she noticed that the steering wheel looked like it was made from ivory.
None of these recollections were helping her to obtain ice cream.
‘J’ai envie d’une glace…’ said Jan.
‘Pipi…’ whispered Maria clutching at Laure.
‘Hold on and I’ll try and find somewhere.’
One side of the square was taken up with a row of old buildings behind which was a church whose spires rose up with fairy-tale crenulations. The sight took Laure’s breath away and she longed to be on her own to take it in.
Imagine walking through the cool interior and, like the prince in search of Sleeping Beauty, climbing up into the towers.
Maria began to wail in earnest and she bent over to wipe the hot little face. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find somewhere for you to go.’
She shepherded the children over to the monument dominating the square, which she knew from the late-night reading (Prague on a Shoestring was becoming a bible) was a memorial to Jan Huss.
The monument was big. Too big, she thought. And in need of restoration. ‘It was a symbol of defiance against repressive regimes.’ Or so said this new bible. Whatever it was, the people sitting on its step behaved oddly. A relay appeared to be under way. One person would sit down, remain stationary for a minute or so, and jump up. He or she was then replaced and the process was repeated, as if they were observing a hidden rota.
She made Jan and Maria sit on its steps while she figured out what to do and checked the time. Only three o’clock. In desperation, and with some difficulty, she bought a packet of boiled sweets from the nearest shop and, hoping they would divert them, doled them out to the children. They were oddly coloured and tasted of nothing much.
‘Look,’ said Jan, pointing to an arched doorway, guarded by a full-sized wooden witch figure with a beaked nose, over which a wooden notice had been nailed. Painted onto it was a puppet in a Pierrot costume and the word: Marionety.
With a sigh of relief, Laure asked, ‘Do you two like puppets?’
Fifteen minutes later, having emerged from the negotiations at the ticket booth, and taken poor Maria to the lavatory, all three were ensconced with a dozen or so other children and adults.
Originally, the room with seating for seventy or so must have been part of a private house and traces of former grandeur in the cornicing were evident. Benches had been set out for the audience in front of a raised stage protected by a pair of curtains of virulent yellow onto which a hammer and sickle had been painted.
The walls were hung with wide strips of black material. In the spaces in between were several black-paper silhouettes pasted down onto white paper. One was of a girl with a pony tail. Another was of a male head with swept-back hair. Another showed an enchanting cut-out scene with a coach and horses dashing through a starlight night. Another was of a demon with staring eyes rearing up in front of a girl whose hair flowed down her back like a waterfall.
It was even hotter inside the room, the sort of thick heat that made you super aware of your body. A door leading into a garden had been propped open as wide as it would go.
Maria and Jan had lapsed into silence. To Laure’s surprise, Maria slid her hand into hers. Laure stroked her fingers. ‘Not long now,’ she said.
Dressed in black from head to foot with her hair hidden by a bandeau, a girl drew a curtain across the door and the lights dimmed. Backstage, a couple of recorders struck up with a folk tune. Maria’s fingers clenched in Laure’s.
The stage curtains winched back, revealing a black backdrop lit by a single overhead light. The children in the audience rustled like wheat in the wind.
After a few minutes, Laure realized that she was watching a version of Sleeping Beauty. In this one, the Good Fairy was dressed in dungarees and a peasant scarf. The Bad Fairy was male, wore a pinstriped suit and a papier mâché bowler hat.
Jan giggled at the sight. ‘Funny.’
As the story developed, Laure spotted an emerging agenda. The king and queen were demanding aristocrats, the courtiers were stupid and lazy, and Princess Aurore was spoilt and treated her nurse shockingly. Still, her scream when she pricked her finger was very convincing. Convicted of neglect, her parents were led off to prison before the courtiers fell asleep.
If the story had veered from the traditional, the puppetry was superb. After her initial resistance to having the story so altered, Laure gave in and laughed and gasped aloud with the best of them.
Having learnt her lesson, she made sure the children visited the lavatory in the interval. When they returned, their original seats had been taken and the only spaces left were beside the open door leading outside. Before she could stop him, Jan bolted through it and she followed.
The garden, such as it was, was a modest rectangle wedged between larger ones on either side. It admitted only partial sunlight but someone with green fingers tended it. Plants had been trained up the wall. Scarlet pelargoniums and ornamental grasses had been planted in a pair of rusting dustbins. A clematis grew in and out of the railing dividing the rectangle from the neighbouring garden. At its centre was a stone sun-dial, a beautiful object which looked antique, set on a pillar carved with stone flowers. The bench ranged against the back wall had been colonized by a male figure perched on its arm, smoking a cigarette.
Laure barely registered him as she was busy cajoling Jan back into his seat. When the lights had dimmed, however, he returned inside – and, then, she did sit up and take notice. Wearing a striped linen waistcoat with bone buttons that had seen better days, he was young, shambolic, sexy.
He indicated the seat next to her. ‘OK?’
She nodded and turned away to deal with Jan who was poking his sister. ‘Stop it.’ In her confusion, she had lapsed into English and she noticed that the stranger gave a sharp look. She corrected herself. ‘Arrête.’
Act Two began with a peasant family toiling in
a cornfield, singing a cheerful song. Mother and Father were unremarkable in sand-coloured dungarees. In contrast, their son had lustrous dark hair and eyes, a sensitive-looking mouth, blue trousers and a red-checked shirt.
The family were joined by villagers who – unlike the lazy courtiers – threw themselves into the toiling. The man in the waistcoat leant over and whispered to Laure in fluent but accented English. ‘If you would like to know, they’re singing about how joyful it is to work.’
‘That’s excellent,’ she whispered back, ‘but what’s that to do with Sleeping Beauty?’
The dark made this exchange oddly intimate.
‘It makes the point they’re not corrupt aristocrats. The parents are also telling how fortunate they are because their handsome son helps them out and keeps them cheerful.’
Was this a joke? The Kobes had warned about this sort of thing. Best not to take chances, she decided, glancing at her charges. Maria was chewing her hair and Jan was watching the stage with rapt attention. Since she had arrived in the country, she was ever more conscious of being ignorant, but she did know enough to know that she had to be careful.
There was a lull on stage and the curtains swished shut but the lights remained off.
He eased closer to Laure and she breathed in tobacco, fresh male sweat and a hint of lavender. ‘He believes in the power of collective work,’ he said, ‘and in the goodness of the State.’
She would have liked to have replied, oh, that fairy tale, but stopped herself.
He tapped his foot and she felt an energy pulse her way. ‘Don’t worry, it’s the music that matters, not the lyrics.’
His English was very good.
‘I’m Tomas,’ he said into her ear.
She could feel the warmth of his body, feel his breath on her cheek.
‘I’m Laure,’ she replied before she could stop herself.
A silence fell, as if each was turning over this new information in their minds.
Maria’s nose was running, and Laure searched her bag for a handkerchief. ‘Isn’t this fun?’ she said in French.
The proximity of their two bodies was unnerving.
‘Terrible-coloured curtains.’ She said the first thing that came into her head.
He shifted away. ‘Beggars can’t choose in this country.’
A gap appeared between them and, to her surprise, Laure minded.
‘Sorry.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she looked Tomas over. In addition to the waistcoat, he was wearing a battered pair of jeans and a cheesecloth shirt.
‘No need.’ He flashed her a smile and, suddenly, she was drawn into a complicity.
Laure drew Maria close. She needed to put her arms around someone – a child, a lover – and to feel them as they would feel her. To hold someone, or to be held, was proof of being alive. For too long she had felt herself to be a mute, cold thing.
Maria’s head fell back against Laure’s chest.
‘Here,’ said Tomas. ‘You can stretch her out across our laps.’
The curtains pulled back. Jan sat up. Offstage the recorder played a marching tune as the handsome peasant son embarked on his search to find the princess, which included making friends with a black bear who helped him hack through the hedge of thorns. Eventually, he discovered a comatose Princess Aurora. Strings swaying, wooden knee joints buckling, he bent over to kiss her awake. A child in front of them bellowed in delight. Maria sat up.
A memory pushed to the front of her mind, so unwelcome that she closed her eyes. It was of Rob Dance dressed from head to foot in black, sitting in his studio at Brympton. She could summon every detail: tins of tobacco shedding their guts over the floor, Rizlas on every surface, and photos pinned up like scales on the walls.
First love had to be got over, and as quickly as possible. Laure had read that somewhere and agreed. But it hadn’t felt quick.
At the touch of the peasant-prince, Aurora woke up and their marionette shadows merged on the backdrop behind them.
Despite the heat in the room, Laure was in a cold sweat. Rob had taken her virginity. Very rapid. Very indifferent. Almost dutiful. Afterwards, feeling cheated of the sensations about which she had so often speculated, she had wriggled back into her jeans and watched him buckle his belt. ‘You have to leave’, he said. ‘See you.’
At the finale, Tomas eased Marie gently upright and she bounced on the bench with delight. Children and adults were applauding noisily and so did Laure. ‘I’m glad you approve of the company,’ said Tomas, brushing back damp hair from his forehead. ‘It’s destined for great things.’ He peered at Laure and his smile widened. ‘I can truthfully tell them that we play to an international audience.’
‘Any time you like,’ she replied. ‘I can be French or English.’
He put his head on one side and took a good look at her. ‘Sexy French or sensible English. I’ll have to think about which,’ he said. ‘And I’ll let you know.’
She couldn’t help the grin that stretched across her mouth.
He held up an arm that had a half-sucked boiled sweet stuck to it. ‘What’s that?’
‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. One of the children must have spat it out.’ She grabbed the handkerchief, wrapped up the sweet in a corner and dabbed at his arm with the rest. ‘There wasn’t any ice cream,’ she said, by way of explanation, which he appeared to understand.
The puppeteers, two men and the girl in black, took their bow. The latter saw Tomas and beckoned. He got to his feet and Laure saw that he was only just taller than she was, and very slight. Fragile even.
Joining the company in front of the stage, he linked hands with them and all four took a bow, with the applause still sounding.
She told herself later that it was purely by chance that he turned his head and caught her eye.
The square in the Malá Strana was dominated by the eighteenth-century church of St Nicholas, built by the Jesuits as part of the fightback against the spread of Protestantism, so said the ‘bible’. Judging by its size, its massive green dome and interior ornamentation, it was a mighty fight-back in glittering gold, pilasters, frescos and sinuous arches.
St Nicholas divided the square that sloped upwards towards the castle. A former palace took up the entire west side, and a series of broad arcades the south side. The Kobes’ apartment was tucked into a galleried courtyard leading in from the street, and took up two storeys of light, airy rooms.
What struck her when she first arrived were the beautiful and elaborate parquet floors, which were speckled and crazed with sun damage. Someone should have protected them. The next thing she noticed were the cracks in some of the walls, which, in one or two places, looked alarming.
In the bedroom she had been assigned under the eaves, the sun had done its worst and the floor beneath the window was bleached white in places. But the view out of her window enchanted her – rooftops, odd bits of the Charles Bridge and, beyond it, the towers and spires of the old town.
Tonight, she and the Kobes were eating supper together, which they did from time to time. They were in the dining room with an alternative view facing up towards the church and the crouching castle above it. They sat in hideous plastic chairs and ate Eva’s pasta off porcelain plates and drank lemonade out of Bohemian glass.
Eva had piled up Laure’s plate and she was finding it hard to get through it. She put down her fork. ‘Is it always so hot in Prague?’
‘No,’ said Eva. Her voice shook in a strange manner.
‘In the summer, yes.’ Petr threw his wife a look.
Laure’s gaze wandered to the peeling plaster cartouche above the double doorway. It must have been an original and showed a stag fighting with a bear. ‘This is a lovely apartment. Do you know who used to live here?’
Petr forked up sticky meat sauce. ‘Why do you wish to know?’
The words were uttered pleasantly enough but there was an undercurrent. Of what? She wasn’t sure. Laure felt herself colour up. ‘Just curious.’
Eva patted her hair which was twisted into an unsuccessful bun. She was looking a lot less smart than she had in Paris. ‘A family lived here for many generations, but they vanished during the war. Lots of people did. They left without taking any of their possessions. Afterwards, Potio Pharma acquired this and other places because they thought it would be a good home for its workers.’ She turned to Petr. ‘And so it is, isn’t it, darling?’
‘That’s right,’ said Petr, his gaze levelled directly on Laure’s face. She had a feeling that she was being reassessed, clinically and unemotionally, which was unpleasant. Then he smiled in his friendly fashion and everything changed. ‘How were the children today?’
‘I took them to a marionette theatre in the Old Town Square. It was good. Sleeping Beauty.’
Eva drank a mouthful of water. ‘Is that the company which that group, Anatomie, is involved with?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Anatomie?’ asked Laure.
‘A rock group. They’re well known in the country,’ said Petr. ‘Eva went to see them perform and came back in love with the lead singer.’
‘Petr, I did no such thing.’
Petr’s grin lit up his eyes. ‘Yes, you did.’
Eva seemed alarmed. ‘Be careful what you say.’
Laure must have looked puzzled and Petr helped her out. ‘Rock stars are considered deviants and subversives. It’s unwise to get mixed up with them.’
Eva looked out of the window. Then she began to laugh, an unpleasant, even unhinged, sound.
‘Eva, you’re tired.’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Why don’t you go and have a bath?’
‘I don’t want one.’
‘I insist,’ he said, ushering his wife out of the room.
Having washed up, Laure went to her room to read. She could hear the murmur of her employers’ conversation in their bedroom opposite. At one point, there were raised voices and feet padding down the corridor. Then, she could she could have sworn she heard Eva cry out. Wooden doors were not exactly soundproof. She wondered if Eva was wearing one of the French nightdresses that made up part of her tasks to launder and which were so much more sophisticated than anything that either Laure or her mother possessed.
The Museum of Broken Promises Page 6