It was a sound to summon the past. On his ninth birthday, his mother took him to the marionette theatre where a demon chased a capitalist across the stage. Strings taut, teeth chattering, painted face as white as chalk. Afterwards, his mother complained that he had crushed her hand in fright.

‘I’m out of practice,’ said Laure.

Petr laughed.

Laure adjusted the strings and fanned out the bars and Marenka rose quivering to her full height, the veil modestly covering her face. Beneath it, a brown plait hung down her back.

‘It’s coming back to me.’ With a twitch of the bars, Laure turned the marionette to face Petr. ‘Like riding a bicycle. She’s asking questions, Petr. Such as, why are you giving me to this woman?’

He didn’t reply.

‘I think you do know why,’ Laure said. ‘Guilt.’ She busied herself with the strings. ‘I’ve learnt one thing. If you’re guilty about something you don’t want to let it go. That’s what I found. You like to prod it.’ She corrected herself. ‘You need to prod it. I did.’

It was a debate so painful that he could not enter into it. ‘I felt you should have her.’

She looked up. ‘You always were generous.’ She tugged at the strings and Marenka tottered drunkenly towards Petr. ‘The other question, the big question, she’s asking is, “Where’s my Prince? Where did he go?”’

A reply was necessary. ‘Not a good, or sensible, question.’

‘What will I do with you, Marenka?’ Laure laid the puppet down on the sofa and stowed the bars in a way that Milos had taught her. ‘She ought to be in a Czech museum, particularly as she was in Prague at the end of it all, the end of an era.’ She touched a wooden hand. ‘She has historic value.’

‘Will you thank me?’

She faced him directly. ‘Thank you.’ She said it so simply that his heart turned over. ‘Now, please. About Tomas.’

He looked at her. ‘Always Tomas.’

‘Yes, but this is about you too,’ she said. ‘Look on it as your salvation?’

Their eyes met.

A clumsy realigning of morality, grief and political observance? Of deep-boned desires? Of regret?

A bargain negotiated?

She took an audible breath – as if she was readying herself to dive off a high board. Reaching over, she undid Petr’s tie. ‘French, I think,’ she said, then glanced at the label. ‘How did I guess?’

Dropping it onto the floor, she took his hand and led him towards the bedroom.

Within seconds, he realized how skilled she was in dissimulation. What Laure felt for him was far removed from what he felt for her. Indeed, he sensed beneath the compliant body a deep contempt.

Sliding her arms up over his bare torso, she shivered. Putting his arms around her, he bent over and pressed his mouth against her shoulder as he had done so often to Eva.