‘We went to La Coupole. Franklin was sure it would be full of famous writers and artists, but even then it was mostly just American tourists. We drank martinis with olives on cocktail sticks, just like in the movies. I was thinking how angry my father would be if he knew. He didn’t think women should drink anything stronger than wine. And then, my God, Franklin tells me he doesn’t have any money, not a sou, and that we have to run away when the waiter isn’t looking. That was why we had a table by the door! I didn’t know what to think. Was it American humour? Was I supposed to laugh? After all, I still went to mass at St Antoine’s every Sunday. But then he took hold of my hand and we ran like Bonnie and Clyde the whole way down the boulevard Montparnasse. I was so frightened I could hardly breathe. I was sure the waiters would chase us – you know how fierce they are at La Coupole – but by the time we reached Port Royal...’ Her voice trailed away. ‘I was already a little in love.’

‘How romantic,’ sighed Kurt.

‘I remember she was wearing red knickers,’ said Franklin. ‘Somewhere between carmine and maroon, to be exact. It was hard to tell with the light.’

‘Franklin!’ exclaimed Laurence. ‘You could only have seen them because you made me climb into the Luxembourg with you.’

‘She was very beautiful then,’ said Franklin.

‘She’s beautiful now,’ said Karol.

Franklin nodded. ‘László remembers.’

‘Now you’re maudlin,’ said Karol.

‘László?’ said Laurence. ‘I wonder if I could guess your happiest moment.’

‘I’m sure you could,’ said László, ‘for I must have told you more than once. A day in November 1953 when Hungary played England at soccer in London. Wembley Stadium. No one had beaten the English on their own ground. What hope did a country like Hungary have? The government, of course, wanted victory as a vindication of the system. Real Hungarians just longed to be noticed in the world so people would see that Stalin and Rákosi had not buried us entirely. But to win at Wembley. Impossible! Yet we wanted it so badly we thought we could will it to happen. Perhaps we did. Anyway, that afternoon a kind of miracle occurred. Hungary won six goals to three!’

‘Hurrah!’ sang Karol, who of all the others understood best what the victory had meant.

‘Everyone was listening to the radio, those big Oriens, and every time we scored you could hear the cheering coming from all the apartments, and from the street too. It was, in my humble opinion, the greatest moment in the history of Hungarian sport. I was fifteen. Everyone was so happy it could have been midsummer’s day. Ferenc Puskás was the hero of our team. I used to know the name of the English captain. Hight... Bight...’