A flash of real fear went across the other woman’s face. ‘You come here with your foreign clothes and money. Yes, you have a job, but it’s…’ she was searching for the words. ‘Your job is stupid. Not real. You work for privileged people.’ She stopped mid-flow, glancing over her shoulder to the door, as if to assure herself no one was eavesdropping. The doorway was empty, and she renewed the attack. ‘You will never know what it’s like to live here.’ She tapped her chest. ‘Deep down.’

The dramatic gesture irritated Laure. ‘This is silly,’ she said, and made to pick up the tray.

Lucia blocked her. ‘Shall I tell you what happens when you have something nice in Czechoslovakia? Even the smallest thing.’

Unsure of where this was going, Laure threw out: ‘You enjoy it.’

Lucia thrust her face into Laure’s. ‘Stupid girl, it gets stolen. That’s what happens. You can hide it at the bottom of the river, but they find it.’ Her English stumbled. ‘That’s how we live here. That’s how we die here. That’s why we fight. For you… whenever you get fed up, you can go. We have to stay.’ She gestured to the room. ‘You think of this show as something amusing but it’s not. It’s where we make the future. Make ideas. Make the debate.’

‘Are you talking politics?’

‘Everything is politics in this country. You are too stupid to see.’

Evidently, ‘stupid’ was a favourite word of Lucia’s.

‘Lucia, please get out of my way.’

‘You won’t steal him. You should go home.’

‘I’ve no intention of stealing him.’

‘You have.’

The two women glared at each other until Lucia stepped aside. Laure picked up the loaded tray and made her way backstage.

Watching Lucia manipulate the marionettes during the performance, Laure realized that she had missed something important: the power of memory.

The puppet master had to memorize each rattling movement, each step, each interchange. One false move, and the show went wrong. One false or omitted move and the message was spoilt.

If Lucia was correct and everything in this strange country was to do with politics, then life must be spent watching others. How exhausted they all must be and how their minds must run along a single track, which would explain, in part, Lucia’s attitude towards her.

‘Did I finish telling you about all the Seven Wonders of Czechoslovakia?’ asked Tomas when Laure mentioned that she and Lucia had fallen out. ‘It might help you to understand.’

‘How old is Lucia?’

‘My age.’

Post-performance he had turned up. Hoarse from a gig near Wenceslas Square, eyes glistening with vodka and adrenalin, reeking of tobacco and fresh sweat. He seemed so frail, and yet his visceral impact on her made her knees buckle, her stomach lurch.