The Museum of Broken Promises

by Elizabeth Buchan

  It was chaos. A prone Leo snored on the sofa. Someone else was behind it, probably male judging by the heavy lace-up shoes. Dirty beer glasses were everywhere, the stub end of a sausage and breadcrumbs littered the table and the room stank of sweat, cigarettes and sour beer.

  Tomas aimed a kick at the body behind the sofa. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t meant to be this bad.’

  Still recovering from the way their conversation had gone wrong and, yes, revolted by the squalor, Laure said, ‘Should I go?’

  ‘No. But go for a walk while I get things straightened out here.’ She tried to smile. ‘You’ll have to forgive them.’

  Outside, she could breathe easy. The accumulated heat from the day washed over her bare arms and the sun was at its evening angle. Fringed by healthy-looking ash trees, the cross-roads that formed the centre of the hamlet had a number of chata fanning out from it towards the woods in the distance. There was nothing in the way of diversion, so she circled slowly around the hamlet. The summer undergrowth was dry and snappy and where they grew thickest the trees threw black shadows.

  In several of the gardens, families were eating to the accompaniment of tinny-sounding transistor radios. Children ran around freely, making a lot of noise, and family dogs panted in the shadows. Laure watched two toddlers under a tree pouring water from one bucket into another with tin cups.

  It looked so normal. It was normal.

  She sat down on a bench at the crossroads. At least trees did not change, nor did sunlight and the sky and it was a relief to look at them. Otherwise, she was blundering around in a foreign setting.

  After a while, Tomas came searching for her. He caught up with her on the path that led away from the buildings into the wood. He had washed, shaved and changed into a pair of mended but clean jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Reporting for duty,’ he said.

  She was a little dismayed. ‘Not too much of a duty, I hope.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’d forgotten,’ he said softly. ‘How awkward it is to be your age.’

  ‘I’m not that much younger than you.’

  ‘But I feel much older.’

  She indicated a family scene in the house closest to them. ‘Do you remember telling me that, although there’s enough of everything, everyone steals?’

  ‘In theory, there’s enough of everything.’

  ‘You made it sound as if it was anarchy out there but what I see here reminds me of England.’

  ‘No one steals in England? No wonder you want me to go there.’ He touched her breast. ‘May I do this?’ One eyebrow went up. ‘Or, should it be: can I?’

  She laughed and felt a lot better. ‘You’re a good pupil.’

  His fingers felt rough on her soft skin. ‘Actually, there’s an Eighth Czechoslovakian Wonder of the World which says that, under our great party leader Husák, may he live forever, these rules have worked for forty years. Provided we never utter the word “Russia”.’

  In a trance, Laure allowed Tomas to lead her along the path leading into the wood. Inside the leaf canopy, the evening shadows were creeping along the ground and the birds had quietened. There was a smell of dry vegetation and hot stone, and the ground warmth percolated into her feet through her thin-soled shoes.

  She knew what she was being led towards. And was glad. Madly, deliriously so.

  Tomas halted. ‘Are you sure?’ She nodded. ‘We can return the minute you want.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Sex can be ridiculous. Funny and serious and cruel.’

  She didn’t wish to hear about his experiences, albeit in a coded manner, especially if they involved… Lucia? She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t know much.’

  He scrutinized her face. ‘I don’t think you enjoyed it. Am I right?’

  Talking about Rob still bothered her. ‘He didn’t care for me and I cared for him. An old story.’ Talking about it was always a mistake because it stirred up the feelings.

  He took her hand and traced a circle in its palm. ‘We are in the forest, a place of magic and new discoveries. You’ve been sleeping and I have come to wake you up.’

  ‘You make it sound as if we are stories.’

  ‘We are. Lovely and exciting ones.’

  At that she flushed self-consciously. Was it so obvious that she was longing to experience love? Proper love. Not like the wretched obsession with Rob but the elemental response to the vivid dreams, expectations and sensuous reveries… the unknown parts of her mind, the shadowy places in her psyche?

  They ventured deeper into the wood where the air was very still but the colours vivid – deep greens, a clump of orange and yellow, the bloody dots of early berries. The crack of twigs under their feet, the rustle of a disturbed animal, the sly flash of fungi in the fissure of a root, shadows casting pools of darkness between the trees which they passed. The call of an ancient, mythic territory was luring them into its heart.

  By the time Tomas came to a halt in a clearing with a spread of turf, her shirt was clinging to her back. Panting with the heat, she dropped down and peeled the drenched cotton away from her arms.

  Tomas knelt beside her. ‘You are the Sleeping Beauty, I think.’

  She turned her head and stared deep into his eyes. ‘But you haven’t been through the hedge of thorns.’

  ‘Oh yes, I have. You were asleep.’

  ‘It took a long time.’

  ‘Don’t worry. He always gets there. Somehow.’ He touched her drenched shirt. ‘Why don’t you take it off?’

  It was then that she felt afraid – of what she was getting into, of the pain she feared might lie ahead, and its finale. How could there be a good ending?

  Tomas eased the shirt off her. ‘Do you mind that it’s here?’ he asked. ‘Privacy is hard in this country.’

  Instinctively, she wrapped her arms around her torso. ‘But it should be here. Out in the wild.’

  He stroked her bare shoulders. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  No, he wasn’t going to do that. That was the one thing of which she was sure, and she unwrapped her arms and put them around him.

  Despite the turf, the ground was hard and hard objects pressed into her back. Her inexperience was very evident and, to begin with, she felt wooden and disadvantaged.

  ‘Stop worrying,’ he said. ‘I will make sure you are OK.’ He kissed a breast. ‘You are very beautiful and sweet. You’ve got leaves in your hair and you look like one of the sprites that live in the wood.’

  ‘You said I was a lioness.’

  ‘That, too,’ he said so tenderly that Laure thought she would faint from emotion. ‘Now, are you still afraid? I will take great care of you.’

  She looked into his eyes and saw that he was honest and open. ‘No, I’m not afraid.’

  After a while, she forgot about the stones pressing into her spine and concentrated on the sharp sensations and hungers. True to his word, Tomas made it easy for her and his consideration made her want to laugh and to cry.

  When it was over, they lay in a sweaty tangle. It was growing dark and the rustles in the undergrowth increased and a night breeze stirred the leaves at the tops of the branches. But there was no threat, only a vast peacefulness.

  Tomas’s head rested on Laure’s shoulder. He smelt warm, male and entirely seductive. The intimacy of their entwined bodies made her catch her breath. Falling in ever deeper love, which she knew she was doing, was to be set free from oneself. It was the freedom to blend into someone else and take on their world.

  Yes.

  She squinted up at the tree canopy and thought: please don’t let me get old.

  Tomas stirred. ‘I can hear you thinking.’

  ‘I imagined for a moment what it must be like to be old and without… this.’ She placed her hand on his back.

  ‘You’re not old.’ Tomas lifted his head. ‘And you don’t have to be without it. No?’

  With a deep joy and thankfulness, Laure closed her eyes.

  Manicki and Leo were too hung-over to be welcoming. When Tomas and Laure
returned to the chata, they muttered something about the drink having taken a toll on their language skills and, slumped in chairs, they returned to the business of getting over the hangover.

  Efforts had been made to tidy up. The dishes had been washed up and the empties stacked outside the door. But the air still reeked of cigarettes and unwashed male bodies.

  Tomas flung open the windows and propped open the door. Manicki muttered about the insects and Tomas replied that they should have thought of that earlier.

  She helped Tomas to clear the table and he set sausage and bread down on it. ‘Not fine dining but you must be hungry.’

  Her senses still singing with surprise and delight she did her best to eat the sausage. To say it was pungent was an understatement and it took some chewing. The bread wasn’t much better but it did the job of quelling her hunger pangs.

  Having observed the niceties, Tomas said ‘sorry about this’, folded his arms on the table top, rested his head on them and fell asleep.

  She took herself to the bench outside and allowed her mind to drift. As she sat in the dappled shade, she heard her father’s voice urging her to tidy up. Untidy room, untidy mind. It brought a lump into her throat and, at the same time, made her smile.

  Towards late evening, the men stirred into life and held a jam session at the crossroads. Almost immediately, an audience assembled.

  They smoked, they sang, they danced, they joined in. A girl from the next-door chata wearing the tightest of jeans slunk over and gazed at Manicki with ill-concealed lust. An elderly man parked himself on a felled tree trunk and gave a thumbs-up. Children were silenced.

  Sounding raw and ragged – unsurprising given the excess of the previous evening – Anatomie sang in Czech. Provocative songs, she reckoned judging by the effect they were having and worried they were taking risks.

  The three didn’t look at each other much. It wasn’t necessary. Musically, they knew each other inside out. Their moves coordinated, their chords were of split-second timing, their pulsing sexual invitation collective.

  A strange man caught her hand and made her dance. Blood pounding and breath catching, she let herself go until she was breathless.

  The world spun around. She was caught up by the dark whispering trees, the late-night warmth, the scents of a summer night. She had become unearthly. She was pagan. She pulsed with fire and desire.

  She was no longer the girl who had arrived in the country only a few weeks ago.

  It was almost dawn when Tomas linked his hand into Laure’s and said, ‘Come to bed with me.’

  They fumbled their way into a room with a narrow bed and crashed down onto it. The sheets were rough to the touch and unaired and the mattress was terrible. Laure didn’t care. Down the short passage, Leo and Manicki were blundering around in their rooms. From Manicki’s issued the sound of a female shriek.

  Tomas gathered Laure to him. ‘I’m not capable at the moment.’ He was hoarse and exhausted. ‘Do you mind?’

  The intimacy of the confession made her catch her breath. ‘No.’

  His laugh was a rasp. ‘Shouldn’t you be saying that you do mind? It would be more complimentary.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been true. I’m tired and sore and would like to sleep.’

  ‘An honest answer.’ He pulled her even closer and closed his eyes. ‘You smell of flowers.’ Within seconds he was asleep.

  Her sleep was harder. Unused to sharing a bed, she tried to keep still because of Tomas and stop herself rolling into the dent in the centre. Also, she was too exhausted to sleep and her mind was seething. She needed to make sense of what was happening – the sex, her feelings for Tomas, the discoveries that were crowding down thick and fast in this complicated country in which she found herself.

  But she must have slept. When next conscious of turning her head, it was to see sunlight thrusting through the window and striking the wooden floor. At first, she focused on it, but it was too bright and she moved her gaze onto the wooden walls. These varied in colour from honey to dark brown and had pleasing knots and whorls on which to fix. Birdsong sifted through the open casement window along with a piney, grassy scent. Tomas was pressed up against her, which was uncomfortable but not unbearable. She thought: this is what happiness is like.

  A hand touched her thigh and she sighed with pleasure. ‘Is that a yes?’ asked Tomas.

  ‘It is.’

  He rolled on top of her. ‘I must warn you that I’m unwashed, unbrushed and stinking of alcohol.’

  He wasn’t joking. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  The sunlight fell across her face and she blinked.

  ‘Do you know you’re beautiful, Laure?’

  They stayed in bed the entire morning, emerging at lunchtime. Leo and Manicki were outside sunning themselves on the bench. There was no sign of anyone else.

  Leo waggled a finger in greeting and said in English, ‘You are commanded to speak very softly.’

  ‘Good morning, Leo,’ she said.

  He clapped his hands over his ears – long-fingered, lovely hands, she noticed. ‘Too loud. Too LOUD.’

  She giggled helplessly.

  Laure tried to memorize every detail of that day. The sun on her skin, the birdsong, the soil between her bare feet. The taste of the excellent stew conjured into being by a wild-haired Manicki who turned out to have a domestic streak. The sight of Leo flat-out on the grass. (‘He doesn’t speak much.’ Tomas prodded the prone body with a foot. ‘But when he does, watch out.’) A sense that she had been invited into an exclusive kingdom from which other comers would be repulsed.

  She tried not to be obvious, but she could not prevent herself sneaking looks at Tomas who was wearing a faded blue shirt the colour of an English summer sky. The colour, she told herself, of love. He had, she noted with fascination, a habit of gesticulating with his left hand. His feet were long and thin but he was thin generally. Too thin, perhaps. In the light, his brown hair held a spectrum of chestnut and copper.

  More than once, their gazes collided and the fusion of desire, tenderness and excitement that went through her body was to be hit by an electric bolt.

  ‘Do you know precisely what your employer does?’ Manicki asked at one point in the long, lazy afternoon.

  They had been discussing the privileges meted out to the few. Or, at least this was what Laure gathered from quickfire translations. Big cars, private medical treatment, the larger apartments. Laure replied that, as far as she knew, he represented his pharmaceutical company in France.

  ‘Don’t be taken in,’ said Manicki in more than passable English. He was lying flat on his back in the grass. ‘He’s probably doing some industrial spying. That’s why he gets the big flat and you. It’s worth it to them for the information he brings back.’

  Manicki’s theory made sense. The suspicions, vague and half-formed, which had been chasing around her mind came together. To her surprise, she felt sharp disappointment. His treatment of Eva apart, she was beginning to like Petr and felt that he treated her fairly. But, as she had to concede, she had a habit of taking everything at face value. That Petr might not be on a level was more than possible.

  ‘Watch out for him,’ Manicki added.

  The sleepy drawl had changed into something more challenging and she wondered if he meant: you should not be with us.

  Laure was due to catch the train back to Prague in the evening and, reluctantly, went indoors to pack. When she emerged, the conversation had become heated.

  Tomas made room for her on the bench. ‘Leo is arguing that the lines of conflict are no longer between the rulers versus the ruled but running through individuals. In other words, people don’t know who they are. What they are.’

  Back home, this would have not been the sort of conversation that would have gone on. Where’s the dope pick-up? Who’s drinking where?

  She slotted her arms through the straps of her rucksack. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Tomas came to her aid, settling it into th
e small of her back. ‘What Leo is trying to say – and badly as always—’ Leo aimed his sandal at Tomas who ducked. ‘What Leo is saying brilliantly as usual is that deception and division is quite natural to us all.’ He adjusted a strap. ‘Take the ordinary man.’

  ‘Or woman.’

  ‘Or woman. Someone, say, who runs a fruit and vegetable stall in the city. Or a butcher’s. Do you notice anything about them?’

  ‘Slogans in their shops. Like “Workers of the Word Unite”.’

  ‘Now, does this man – or woman – believe in the international worker solidarity? Almost certainly not. No, what he or she is saying by displaying the slogan is: I am behaving as you, the State, wishes. Therefore, you must leave me in peace. So, it doesn’t matter what he or she believes.’ He spun around. ‘Am I right, Leo?’

  From his prone position in the long grass, Leo grunted.

  Tomas slotted his hand into Laure’s and their fingers entwined. ‘Then, he has accepted,’ she spoke carefully, ‘to behave in a certain way in exchange for peace and he tolerates the State’s proscribed message.’ She looked across to the trees. ‘That guarantees he can get on with his life.’

  ‘Good girl. You see, opinions come in many shades.’

  Manicki reached for his guitar and struck a chord. ‘Does that happen in England?’

  ‘Sometimes, I suppose.’ She shook her head. ‘No, the State doesn’t operate in that way. Not even for the criminal.’

  Leo sat up abruptly and said something in Czech, spitting out the last few words.

  Tomas bent down to retie the lace of his plimsoll. ‘My vegetable seller is reproduced millions of times all over the country and we are a nation of zombies as a result. There’s no choice.’

  Manicki struck another chord, a melancholy one, and Tomas sang, ‘Darling my promise to you was a good life. Where did it go wrong?’

  In this country politics seemed to get into everything and Laure didn’t want to think about them. She wanted to think about love and when she would next see Tomas. ‘Hadn’t I better go?’

  ‘See you.’ Leo kissed her on the cheek goodbye, which surprised her, but Manicki avoided any physical contact.