The ironies were not lost on him.
He was at the Natalya Hotel, waiting for Laure to join him for dinner. Not entirely unexpectedly, she had rung to arrange dinner and suggested the Natalya. ‘It’s famous for its kartoffelpuffer and schnitzel,’ she told him.
Reception was crowded by a large party which had filed in from a coach. Porters bustled across the foyer with luggage trolleys.
As a general rule of thumb, the Russians wore shiny suits and favoured savage haircuts. The Germans were more casually dressed and the men wore signet rings as wedding bands. The Italians had silk ties and the Poles liked leather.
The exchanges were polyglot, there was whiff of a woman’s perfume, not very nice, it had to said, but the cigars smelt good. Out of the blue, there was a spat. One of the Germans at an adjacent table raised his voice. ‘Just fucking market the properties,’ he hissed at his companion. ‘That’s your job.’
Petr noted the instruction ‘to market’. Here was proof the ex-Stasi were in real estate, marketing and insurance, jobs that had not existed in the former GDR. But they all required administrative skills and powers of persuasion in which the Stasi had specialized.
The spat continued. ‘You Wessis come in here with the fancypancy clothes and cars and expect us to do what you wish. Think again.’
Petr caught the eye of the Russian standing next to him. ‘Tribal tensions,’ he murmured in German.
The anonymity of the hotel always loosened tongues.
‘I understand,’ replied the Russian, sighing. ‘At heart, we Russians are imperialists. We want to keep a grip on Eastern Europe like the West does on the West. It is how it is.’
The Natalya was a rare example of a surviving nineteenth-century building. It was not in the best of shape but most of its features – stone carvings and elaborate corbels – were intact.
The foyer was paved with marble slabs, some of which were cracked. Isolated circles of chairs and sofas, whose upholstery had seen better days, had been arranged in groups and a couple of potted figs struggled to survive. A fug of tobacco smoke rose from the bar area. The drinkers, mostly dressed in the same make and colour of raincoat, swarmed around the barman.
The scene reminded him of similar venues in Prague before the Party was ousted, when efforts to make anywhere smart and worldly failed through lack of funds and a terror of being seen to ape the West.
He chose a spot in the lobby with two chairs and sat down to wait. Not for long. A car drew up at the hotel entrance and deposited its passenger. His hand resting lightly on his knee clenched.
Laure walked into the foyer and divested herself of her coat at the cloakroom. She searched the foyer, singled him out and headed over, leaving him free to admire the way she appeared not to notice the attention that she was stirring. She wore nothing to shock or impress. In fact, her grey dress was badly cut and achieved something he would not have thought possible, which was to make her elegant body look awkward. Yet, the way she held herself, and her mass of shining hair, could not fail to draw the eye.
He got to his feet and held out his hand. ‘You survived the journey?’
‘Believe it or not.’ She ignored his hand. ‘We are warned that East Berlin is still bandit country at night.’ The hostility was back. ‘David, my boss, who you met the other night, was particularly concerned. A bit of a fusser. I promised him that you’re a player.’
‘Did you now.’
She did not miss a beat. ‘I didn’t think a small detail like regime change and being in a foreign city would prevent you from arranging things to suit you. Am I right?’
Laure was conveying messages. One, the meeting had been vetted. Two, they would be keeping an eye on her during it. Probably the driver of the car.
‘I’ve booked the table,’ he said, by way of reply. ‘Since there is only one sitting, we should go in.’
The dining room was large, taken up at one end by a dance floor and liberally arranged with potted plants. They ended up at a table by the window which overlooked the concrete office block opposite. A dim light burnt in its doorway, which partially revealed the stained concrete and defective windows.
There was a silence, as if they were settling on how to deal with each other. Good-naturedly, he hoped.
‘Petr,’ she said gently. ‘You should lose the habit of staring at people.’
He was startled. ‘Do I stare?’
‘You assess them. You watch them. You’re a European capitalist now.’
He ducked his head. ‘Old habits, eh?’
‘You look in good shape.’ She put her head on one side. ‘It always amazed me how well you dressed. Considering.’ A smile emerged. ‘You haven’t changed.’
He glanced down at his jacket, which, it was true, he had bought in Paris.
‘And I always reckoned your shoes were handmade.’
‘I wouldn’t have gone that far.’ He grinned. ‘Could I?’
It pleased him that her lips gave a small twitch in response. ‘No.’ She allowed her napkin to be settled onto her lap by the waiter while Petr ordered goulash and cabbage for both and endeavoured to wrestle a bottle of wine out of the waiter. ‘I’m afraid it will have to be beer,’ he said, having failed to do so.
‘It’ll go with the goulash and cabbage.’ She sat back in the chair. ‘You can’t spend Tuzex crowns here.’
‘Stop it,’ he said gently.
Laure was needling him. In the latter years of the regime, those favoured by the Party, including the Kobes, had access to the Tuzex stores, which sold unimaginable luxury – jeans, Lego, almonds, sneakers, Milka chocolate and the odd Hershey bar.
‘Didn’t it bother you that it was the biggest, baddest form of black market going,’ she asked, ‘and controlled by thugs? A gateway to organized crime? I used to ask myself why the authorities allowed it until I realized that’s precisely what they wanted to happen.’
‘The government needed hard currency,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s an East German equivalent. I’m sure there’s a French and British one.’
‘And why did they need hard currency?’ she asked, lightly. Ironically.
If he had had any doubts, which he didn’t, this was not the Laure of old.
He watched the band assemble at the other end of the room. They looked weary and underfed and their first notes were discordant.
Laure leant forward in her seat. ‘On the twenty-eighth of November 1989, the Czechoslovakian Communist Party announced it would dismantle the one-party state. Barbed wire and other obstructions were removed from the borders with Germany and Austria. On the tenth of December, a largely non-communist government was appointed and, in 1990, the government agreed to liberalize prices.’
‘As a result of which, unemployment went up and benefits had to be introduced,’ he intervened drily.
‘What I’m trying to say is that life must have changed for you, Petr. Frighteningly? Yes? You were no longer in power. Did you hang on to the apartment in the Malá Strana?’
‘For a while.’
For many reasons, he shied away from thinking about the apartment but, from time to time, its memories became almost unbearable.
Eva getting out of bed, making her way down into the courtyard and into the street. Making for the river.
The waiter had appeared with plates piled high and Laure waited until he had settled them in front of them. ‘Did you get married again?’
‘No.’ He tested a mouthful and grimaced.
She watched him. ‘Have you heard from the children?’
‘I’ve spoken to them and they’re intrigued that we have met up. Maria says that if you are ever in Paris, she will come and see you.’
Laure put down her fork. ‘Can I ask you something? It’s been bothering me.’ She looked down at her plate. ‘Eva’s death? Was it straightforward? The way you told me suggested it wasn’t.’
‘I’m not going to answer.’
‘You can’t or won’t.’
‘I can’t.’
He cast around to change the subject. ‘About your earlier comment about my clothes, there’s no logical reason while you shouldn’t like fine things and still be a communist.’
Laure shuffled a piece of gristle to the edge of her plate. ‘A communist may look at a king and copy the outfits?’
‘Did you come here to make me angry?’
‘Perhaps.’ Her smile was reflective. ‘It’s tempting.’ There was a pause. ‘So, you stayed at Potio Pharma but as CEO instead of international sales manager?’
‘The board—’
‘The board…?’ she interjected. ‘I love it.’
‘The board,’ he repeated with an emphasis, ‘considered that I was the safe pair of hands required to oversee its transition from a state-owned company to a shareholder one.’
After the goulash, they were served with a slice of robust cheese and dense bread, both of which were surprisingly good. This was followed by a slab of greyish-looking cake with a dab of jam. They regarded this culinary triumph thoughtfully.
‘It did say torte on the menu,’ said Laure, in a way that reminded him of the easily amused girl he had once known.
Petr took an experimental bite. ‘Call it what you will, it’s terrible.’ He pushed the plate to one side. ‘Is your German as good as your French?’
‘Almost. I took my degree in it, with French of course and some Italian.’
He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Didn’t you want to read politics at university? What made you change your mind?’
‘Believe it or not, I wanted a rest from politics.’ The irony was marked. ‘Anyway, if I wanted to work in the Foreign Office, I needed languages.’ She toyed with her unused dessert fork. ‘It’s a strange coincidence that we’ve met again. But it happens. That’s what makes life interesting.’ She turned a pair of large eyes onto him. ‘What are you really doing in Berlin, Petr?’
‘As I told you. I’m a CEO now. Of a large company. We have to get it onto the European map.’
‘And when you saw me at the reception?’
He thought about their last meeting and of what had taken place.
‘It was a moment. I admit that. I wanted to know if…’
‘If?’
‘You still hated me.’
There was no hesitation. ‘I did.’ He had an image of her gathering up the sharp shards of that hatred. ‘I do, Petr.’
He placed his napkin on the table. ‘Like everything in this world, hatred ages. It begins hot, strong and sometimes violent. It ends up musty and brittle. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Or you grow to rely on it.’
Coffee arrived. It was thin, ersatz stuff but it almost burnt the tongue. They lit cigarettes and drank it slowly.
The band was playing a slow, smoochy number and the dance floor was becoming crowded.
He glanced at her over the coffee cup. ‘Dance?’
She got to her feet. ‘Is there any risk in you seeing me?’
Petr shook his head. ‘Why would there be? We have a history that is bona fide. The Czechoslovakia you knew no longer exists. The Berlin Wall is a pile of rubble. East and West are climbing into bed. I’m a widower with no ties. Being seen with you is not a political problem any longer.’
‘Or a social one?’
A group of men were becoming raucous. One of them tried to climb onto a table and was hauled down by his companions.
She slid into his arms. Petr closed his eyes for an ineffable second.
‘Is it easy dealing with the West?’ she asked. ‘There must be so much distrust on either side?’
‘Would you believe we manage, despite the fact we are Neanderthals?’ He gestured to the adjacent table where a group of bulky men in grey suits were necking vodka. ‘Which particular sin did you have in mind? Bribery? Extortion? Smuggling? But the short answer is yes. There are plenty of opportunities to distrust.’
Her fingers tapped a rhythm on his shoulder. ‘I think you Czechs are both smart and emotional people. So are the Russians. The East Germans and British are different. But everyone likes being rich. Or richer.’
‘So?’
He held her lightly, tactfully – the girl who had danced to a rock group, her cheeks flushed with sunburn. But the girl he had also seen beaten up and half naked in a cell. A sight that had driven everything from his head except the desire to protect.
‘Are you trying to get information out of me, Laure?’ The muscles in her back stiffened a little. ‘If you are, it’s quite funny, isn’t it? A turnaround for the books, as you might say.’
The Laure of now was far too well schooled to give anything away. Looking up into his face, she said softly, ‘Tell me the truth about Eva.’
His hand tightened on her waist. Taking comfort in its slenderness and warmth. ‘You’re right,’ he said. He looked over her shoulder to the band. ‘Eva killed herself.’
‘Oh God.’ She shook her head as if she had been hit physically. ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. So sorry.’ After a second or two she added, ‘I feel for the children. For you. For Eva.’ She looked up into his face. ‘When I sat with her those times, she talked about you. So often.’
‘Did she?’ The intimacy of this exchange was making him clumsy and he almost lost his footing.
After a moment, she said, ‘Eva loved you very much. She told me. She always worried about your happiness.’
‘Eva was a very good and wonderful person,’ he said. ‘I was lucky to have her as a wife. It was just… things got too much.’
Was he imagining it but had Laure moved a little closer? Her cheek was almost resting against his.
Together, they danced on and Petr felt happiness brush over him, as light as gossamer.
‘I’m sorry,’ she repeated. ‘Life can be cruel.’
He pulled her up against him.
She smelt of flowers. Her body was warm and yielding – as if it belonged under his hand. What he felt for her was so strong, so immutable, that it took his breath away.
Without warning, she came to a halt. ‘Shall we sit down?’
They sat down and ordered more coffee. ‘Let’s not talk about Eva any more,’ he said and she nodded.
The evening was coming to an end and he waited for the coup de grâce which would be the reason Laure asked to meet him.
It came.
The folds of her unsuccessful dress had ridden up a little, exposing the long legs that had been barely hidden by the short cotton dresses during that summer of 1986. At the sight, a rush of longing swept over him. And tenderness.
She folded her hands in her lap. ‘Petr, I know you know what happened to Tomas. When we first met in Berlin, you suggested it. Why won’t you tell me?’
He remembered the wind blowing smoke and grit between him and the waiting Laure at that station just over the Czechoslovakian border. ‘I realized it’s best to leave things as they are.’
‘You were having me on. I should have known.’ She paused before continuing. ‘You insist that it wasn’t you who betrayed Tomas,’ she said collectedly enough but her knuckles had turned white. ‘That’s not the whole truth, is it?’
All those years of tormented introspection. He didn’t like to tally what they had cost him. Or her. ‘As I said,’ he countered. ‘My family was at risk.’
‘What will it take, Petr?’
He was well versed in the tiny shifts in power play between people.
He looked into her eyes. What will it take?
Hers widened.
‘Hallo, you two,’ said a voice behind Petr.
‘We were just passing,’ said a female voice that Petr vaguely recognized. ‘And here you are.’
‘David. Sonia,’ said Laure who did not seem as surprised as she should. ‘You remember Petr Kobes from the party? I worked for him in Prague. Petr, you will remember my boss David Brotton and his wife, Sonia. Would you like to join us for a nightcap?’
Navy blue dress with white seams. The woman at the party.
As suspected, Laur
e had run this meeting through the embassy machinery which indicated a careful turn of mind and fastidious observance of protocol. He signalled to the waiter.
Sonia Brotton was drunk again. Not soddenly so, but well on the way. Petr wondered how the liability was tolerated and whether she had damaged her husband’s career. She plonked herself down next to Petr and said, ‘Laure has told me a little of her time with you in Prague. About the puppets and visits to the country.’
Petr sneaked a look at Laure. ‘The Czechs love to pretend they are country dwellers, particularly the…’ he searched for the word, ‘… the townees. At weekends, the cities empty and everyone makes for their chata. In summer, it’s possible to live outside for much of the time. The forests and woods are very popular. So many of our stories and folk tales are set in the forest.’
He spared a smidgeon of compassion for Sonia. Her lipstick had smudged, the hand holding her glass was unsteady and she was drinking in this anodyne stuff with embarrassing enthusiasm.
‘I remember the barbecues,’ said Laure. ‘They gave off such a smoky smell. The children loved it. I remember the sound of the trees as you lay in bed with the windows open.’
Sonia slumped back against her chair. ‘I’m tired.’
David Brotton glanced at his watch. ‘The car will be here any minute.’ He turned to Petr. ‘I gather you know Paris very well.’
‘Yes. I enjoyed living there.’
David helped himself to some ice which had arrived in a glass with the drinks. ‘It’s the paradox. If you’re sent abroad you should make the most of it. At the same time, it’s unwise to become overfond of somewhere.’
Petr’s English was good, but not as good as his French, but he had an excellent comprehension and not a bad grasp of idiom. ‘Don’t the British call it going bush?’
‘That’s it.’ Sonia was beginning to slur. ‘Some of those boys take to wearing grass skirts and flowers behind their ears. Head office try frantically to think up penalties but what can you do? If the sunset’s got to you and the girls are willing.’
The Museum of Broken Promises Page 23