‘It’s good to talk about it.’ He used his thumb to wipe away a tear. ‘Believe me. I know. It’s the way to survive.’ He was whispering to her, willing the trauma to subside. Or, at least, to become something she could live with.
She closed her eyes. ‘You told me once that to survive is our duty. Remember?’
Her nose was running.
‘Good girl. My loved Laure. Now, tell me and it will leave your chest.’
‘Get it off my chest, you mean.’
It was a small room, furnished with a table and two chairs facing each other.
There is no window in the shot. A black Bakelite phone, the squat old-fashioned type with a cumbersome dial and plaited cording occupies centre table. The cheap plastic chairs are embossed with cigarette burns, and the floor is of rough planking. There are no indications as to where the room might be.
‘He smelt. He hurt me… he really hurt me and I don’t know if I can let anyone touch me again.’
She tried not to concentrate on the physical details. She must not remember the crack of her head on the wall, his finger brazenly, disgustingly inside her. Or the tear of her flesh. She must tell herself, over and over, that it could have been worse and she was here, with Tomas.
She roused herself sufficiently to ask, ‘Which prison was it?’
‘The Bartolomĕjská.’ He slid her arm under her body and shifted her gently, carefully, into a more comfortable position. ‘It used to be a convent until the nuns were booted out. Think of that, my lioness.’
‘God,’ she declared faintly, ‘was not there.’
‘I’ll never forgive those fuckers,’ said Tomas.
A little while later, he said. ‘Now, you know, Laure. You really know.’
Her torpor lifted. ‘Tomas. If this is what happens… your future… come with me. You could have a life.’ She watched his expression and was dismayed to see a zealot’s light in his eyes. ‘A life,’ she repeated. ‘Is that not a good aim?’
‘This is my life, Laure.’
She didn’t care if she made him angry and tried again. ‘You’re frightened that you’ll be a nobody.’
‘That’s probably true,’ he admitted disarmingly. ‘But whatever my motivation, good, bad or weak, here I stay.’
CHAPTER 27
A COUPLE OF WEEKS LATER, LAURE WALKED FROM THE Kobes’ apartment to the marionette theatre in time for the late matinee. Her head ached and her skull still felt like eggshell but the bruises across her legs and torso were fading from purple to yellow.
Of course she was being tailed. A commonplace happening now and part of her Prague life.
Carrying her rucksack, she picked her way across the square, her thoughts a messy confusion.
Interrogation. Violence. Terror.
How did one process them?
Milos was on the door and prevented her from entering. ‘You need a permit.’
It had been a warm day and, at first, she wondered if the beer he was necking had gone to his head. ‘Is something happening?’
‘We’re on strike so no performance,’ he said with a look that was both conspiratorial and wary. ‘Lucia was going to contact you to tell you not to come.’
‘Well, she didn’t. So… dear Milos, let me in.’ He produced a piece of paper on which he wrote in purple ink: ‘Permit to enter and exit’ in Czech and handed it to her.
She smiled at him and, as she knew he would, he sent her one of his cheeky grins back. ‘What’s going on?’
‘People want to talk about ideas. The theatre is a useful place to gather. It’s not wise but it’s happening.’
Backstage was packed with unfamiliar faces, including a man standing guard to the Green Room in a combat jacket and his hair tied back in a ponytail.
In the passageway, the cracked mirror reflected a to-ing and fro-ing of figures holding sheaves of paper and clipboards. In the tiny dressing room, the normally neatly stacked masks and black clothing had been swept aside for ashtrays and beer bottles. The fug was appalling.
‘What ideas?’ she asked Milos who had followed her in.
‘There are no ideas,’ he replied. ‘And you are not seeing anything. OK?’ He wagged a finger at her, more serious than she had ever seen him.
‘OK.’ She agreed. ‘I don’t see anything.’
She spent the next hour tidying up from a previous performance and was stowing the marionettes on their pegs when Milos reappeared. He sat down at the table and took up a sheet of black paper and scissors. ‘Stand still.’
‘Why?’ But she did as she was asked.
‘Turn your face to the door.’
The scissors scrunched into the paper and he set about making one of his silhouettes. She had observed him at it before and knew that each minute adjustment in the way he directed the scissors would result in miraculous likenesses.
His English was fluent tonight. ‘You have a good face for this.’ He made a long cut. ‘And a swan neck. And hair like a river.’
‘A river.’ Laure giggled with pleasure. ‘Thank you. How long do I have to stay like this?’ She touched the sore place on her head.
‘As long as it takes.’
It wasn’t long. Within fifteen minutes Milos presented her silhouette. It was rather good. Better than rather good. ‘Thank you.’ She scrutinized it, curious to see if the changes she was aware had taken place in her were obvious. Same nose. Same-shaped head. Hair a little longer.
‘You can’t keep it,’ he said. ‘Someone else wants it.’ He tapped his finger to his nose and Laure found herself grinning like a clown.
‘Can I have the one you’ve done of the “someone” in exchange?’
‘I’ll stick it in your rucksack. It’s one of my better ones. Take care of it.’
After a while, Laure’s curiosity got the better of her and she let herself into the area behind the stage where the puppeteers stood for performances and peered over the backdrop.
People were filtering in ones and twos into the auditorium which had become an inferno of cigarette smoke, sweat and beer fumes. Several girls with headbands onto which had been stencilled the Czech word for ‘Freedom’ were sitting on the floor. A man in dirty jeans and a white T-shirt dictated into a machine. Another strummed a guitar and sang ‘We Shall Overcome’. A heap of wilting flowers lay in one corner. Someone had tacked a poster depicting the cartoon of a large disembodied ear onto the wall.
Milos was at her elbow. ‘You’re not seeing anything at all, Laure.’
‘No, I’m not seeing anything.’ She congratulated herself that she understood the code. ‘What does the banner which I am not seeing mean?’ She pointed to the back of the auditorium where a sheet with a slogan painted onto it had been tacked up on the wall.
He took a little time to translate. ‘Is 1986 the Year of the Truncheon? Don’t Wait. Act to stop it.’
‘And the ear?’
‘It’s meant to make fun of the state who listens. But in the wrong way. The person who drew it has been in hiding. It’s his most famous bit of work.’
It was both funny and disgusting – the ear itself had bristly hairs growing out of it and the penmanship was savage. Powering its pen strokes was a bitter humour that suggested, to Laure at least, depression. ‘So,’ she said, ‘if language is misused, the image is more powerful.’
‘That’s what we are about,’ said Milos. ‘The government lies with its false words. We reply in a different way.’
Looking fired up and dressed in her puppeteering subfusc, Lucia arrived. She shucked off her shoulder bag and let it fall with a thump to the floor.
Laure looked away. ‘Tomas?’
‘Lucia’s forbidden him to come,’ Milos answered. ‘Everyone in Anatomie should lie low.’
‘Do the authorities know about the meeting?’
Milos looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Who knows, but it’s happening.’
He put his hand on Laure’s shoulder and she felt his breath on her cheek. Her heart thumped with solidari
ty, affection and excitement. ‘Be careful, Milos.’
‘But you too.’
Close to the tears that had dogged her since her beating up, she hugged him. He pressed her to him tightly. She winced but she didn’t mind. Soldier and campanero. ‘I can’t do without you.’
After he had returned to the green room, she picked up her rucksack, slipped into the auditorium and settled herself at the back by the exit. Her head felt mushy. The virus that was fear pulsed through in her bloodstream.
Lucia came over and hunkered down beside Laure. ‘Tomas told me about what happened.’ She had outlined her eyes with kohl and looked both exotic and impressive. ‘I warned you about getting involved.’
No one could fail to be impressed by Lucia, thought Laure. Even if one disliked her and she was not sure that she could dislike a woman who was a pretty good Joan of Arc.
‘You must get out of this country. You’re now a focus and it’s not good for us.’
Laure touched her sore head. ‘Even if I have the wounds?’
‘Especially if you have the wounds.’ She got to her feet. ‘There’s too much that you could compromise.’
Should she, asked the small voice in her head, escape?
Around eight-thirty, Tomas walked in, guitar in hand. He was recognized and there was a muttered cheer. Lucia looked aghast, grabbed him and gave him what for. Tomas grinned.
He walked over to Laure and slipped his hand inside the waistband of her trousers and pulled her to him. She leant against him, feeling every bone against hers. He nuzzled her neck and she inhaled his smell which she so loved. ‘Is it safe?’
‘No. And?’
Milos emerged from the green room bearing plates of sandwiches that had been shipped in from nearby cafes. These were handed around and the audience sat on the benches and floor to eat. Tomas settled on the floor and pulled Laure down beside him.
The lights dimmed. The yellow curtains whisked back.
‘Oh,’ said Laure.
The Pierrot prince and Lucia, his puppet master, faced the audience. Marionette and master were yoked together but, she now realised, she had been mistaken in assuming the puppet master possessed the power. The centre of gravity belonged to the Pierrot and always had done.
The violin struck up, its sensuous, lustrous, grief-stricken notes paving the way. Pierrot stood up to confront his Gethsemane and began his journey to his death.
The wooden limbs were molten with feeling. He was an innocent and, yet, this Pierrot knew everything. He was telling of suffering, of oppression, of loving, martyrdom and of death-in-life. He was baring his soul.
He plucked out the first string. Look at me. To be a resistant you must first know despair.
Only inches behind him, his puppet master was forced to metamorphose from manipulator to impotence. If he, Pierrot, was to look down into the whistling abyss, so must Lucia.
‘Don’t cry,’ said Tomas in her ear. ‘It’s a good thing. He refuses to give in to the master. He refuses to be mastered. He chooses annihilation. He chooses freedom even if it means death.’
She turned her face into his chest and wept uncontrollably. Tomas stroked her hair. ‘But… remember the Pierrot comes back each time. He is us. He is us together.’
She spread out her hand and felt for the heartbeat under Tomas’s pale skin and narrow ribcage.
The curtains shut and what remained of Pierrot vanished.
Speeches were being made. A tall, dark-haired girl was declaiming with emphatic gestures. She was followed by several others equally fervent. The speeches came to an end and Lucia unrolled a film screen in front of the stage.
‘Listen to me,’ said Tomas above Laure’s bent head. ‘The world will survive whoever is in power. But let’s understand we don’t need prophets. What we need is decency and honour. And work.’
A projector was switched on.
‘Forbidden film,’ Tomas explained.
The first fuzzed frames were projected onto the make-shift screen and included mug shots of a smiling Dubček, the politician who had tried to liberalize communism in 1968. Cheers went up. Tomas translated the commentary for Laure. The Russians piled on the pressure for Czechoslovakia to conform and tried to shoot his reforms to pieces before sending in the tanks. The shots from a later period showed Dubček looking haggard and tearful.
The sandwiches were circulating and disappearing fast. Laure reached out to snaffle one – and froze. ‘Tomas,’ she dug her finger into his thigh. ‘Don’t look but there’s police in the doorway.’
A figure in the now familiar green uniform had taken up a stance in the doorway. Behind him stood several other uniformed figures who were propping up a sagging figure.
‘How many?’
‘Seven?’
Tomas did not miss a beat. ‘Get out. Now. Climb over the railing into the next garden.’
Lucia tried to rip down the screen and fractured shots of the increasingly dejected Dubček played on. A policeman stepped forward and snapped off the projector.
The policemen dragged their captive into the auditorium. ‘Oh my God,’ said Laure. ‘Leo.’
Leo raised his head. He had been beaten up and badly. The fair hair was dirty and matted with blood. A rogue stream of it ran down his cheeks. But he was alive. He raised his arms into the air and it became worse, far worse. A groan was forced from the onlookers close to him. His hands were a broken, bloody pulp.
A woman screamed.
For the first time since she had known him, Tomas’s expression resembled Pierrot’s staring into the abyss.
The lead policeman assessed the scene. His gaze lighted on Tomas and Laure and satisfaction spread over the flat features.
Tomas melted away as the policeman moved over to Laure. ‘Name?’ he asked in Czech.
She hesitated.
‘Name?’ he repeated.
She gave it. He produced a notebook and made her write it down and moved away.
‘This is what the pigs have done,’ cried Leo in English, the man of few words. ‘They have taken everything from me.’
The policeman grasped Leo by the wrists and he called out in pain.
‘You go,’ hissed Tomas in her ear.
An unthinkable scenario flashed through Laure’s mind. ‘Not without you. They’ll kill you this time.’
Leo was thrown down onto a bench, struggled to stay upright and slid to the floor. His blood splashed around him.
A chaotic, churning scene unleashed. Many of the gathering were now on their feet. The defiant ones shook their fists and shouted at the uniformed men. Some sidled for the door. Some slid down to the floor and refused to move.
Laure summoned every power she possessed and might ever possess. She grabbed her rucksack and pulled Tomas towards the door opening into the garden. ‘If you don’t come too I’ll give myself up.’
For a spilt second, he was irresolute. Then, he took the decision and pushed Laure out of the garden door. ‘Run.’ She didn’t need to be told twice. As she sped past the sundial, she smashed her hand on its rough stone. The impact made her fingers go numb.
Tomas hopped over the railing and helped Laure scramble after him.
Sirens blared, orders issued and booted feet sounded on the cobbles. Inside the theatre the mayhem was punctuated by shouts and screams.
Tomas knew the route which told Laure he must have thought about it. They snaked along the edge of the wall and scrambled in and out of a couple of gardens and made for a cast-iron gate at the end of a terrace. It opened into an alley. ‘Put your arm around me,’ he ordered, ‘don’t hurry.’
She gasped for breath. Extraordinarily, she felt exhilarated and defiant. Those bloody pigs would not get them.
Making a superhuman effort, she slung her arm around Tomas.
Tomas was pouring with sweat. So was she.
They sauntered down the alley, turned left at the bottom and then sharp right into Zelezná. Tomas dropped his arm and guided her into a covered alley which gave
them some camouflage.
‘Where are we going?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘But it’s probably the end for you and me.’ She cried out and he touched her cheek. ‘You know that.’ In the distance, the sirens were blaring.
In places, the shadows thrown by the arches were dense and the badly maintained cobbles impeded progress. Secret Prague. Hiding in it was no longer diverting or playful, but crucial.
They emerged into the Kožná. ‘Go back to the Kobes,’ said Tomas. ‘Pretend you don’t know anything.’
‘The goon took my name and Petr will be told. He wants to get back to Paris and needs to keep in with the Party. He told me he wouldn’t help out again.’
Tomas came to a halt. ‘You must leave the country, then. Tomorrow. I can’t help you, Laure. I wish, I wish I could.’
She had already worked that out. ‘I’ll go to the British Embassy.’ She wrapped her uninjured hand around his damp neck and forced him to look at her. ‘You must leave, too.’ She peered at him. ‘Yes? Yes.’ He seemed to be listening. ‘Leo is the warning. They’ll smash you up too. But if you survive, you can return, Tomas. One day. Nothing lasts.’ He frowned, and she whispered, ‘Look at history.’
He drew her into the shadow of the wall. ‘I love it when you’re the expert.’ He looked up at the evening sky and she watched him greedily while he came to a decision.
‘Think,’ she urged. ‘Don’t be a martyr. You’re no use if you’re dead.’
His eyes met hers and she saw the change in them. ‘There are ways. Milos knows about them. He has them ready for any of us who need them.’
‘He’s told me about them.’ Cradling her swelling hand, she took short breaths to alleviate the pain. ‘So you were thinking about it.’
‘We all think about it. It’s a way of keeping sane. But it’s the last, last resort.’ He spoke with great tenderness. ‘If I do this, I need to get the papers, which will take a few days. I’ll have to hide. Milos will have told you about the train from Prague to Vienna on Tuesdays.’ As he sometimes did, he used his thumb to smooth the frown from her forehead. ‘The guard on the Tuesday train can be bribed. But you must do something for me.’
The Museum of Broken Promises Page 32