Grudges consumed the spirit. Laure knew that only too well and swallowed her irritation. ‘I’m on my way home. You can talk to me as I go.’

‘First off, have you found the cat?’

Laure softened. ‘I haven’t but I’ll keep looking.’ She avoided stepping into a pile of dog faeces. ‘What did you want to know?’

‘You lived in Prague before the communist regime fell and in Berlin just after the Wall came down. I wondered if you wanted to talk about your experiences there and how they affected your decision to set up the museum?’

The questions were like gnats. To be swatted? She pulled herself into line. ‘I’ll think about the answer.’

After a moment, May said: ‘You haven’t forgiven me. But I don’t expect it.’ She added, ‘It’s odd, isn’t it? For the time it takes, interviewer and interviewee are spliced together. While it’s going, it’s a marriage.’ Laure heard her intake of breath. ‘After it’s over we can divorce.’

This was almost childlike in its analysis, but correct, as Laure well knew. Keeping a sharp lookout for more dog messes, she silently acknowledged May’s cheek and candour. Possibly, she had no morals but they now understood each other better. ‘Ask away,’ she said, feeling the release of not fighting it any more.

‘Your sponsor? Did you ever get to the bottom of why they suddenly gave you so much money?’

‘I’ll answer that too tomorrow.’

‘You know,’ said May, ‘I think I understand why you chose the Canal Saint-Martin for the museum.’

‘Why did I?’

‘Because… because it’s a place where people go who have nowhere. Who think, perhaps, they don’t belong. It’s a place to put out a hand and feel that there is something to be gained from nothing.’ There was a short pause. ‘Of all people, you must understand how that feels.’

Laure looked towards the canal where the autumnal trees dipped towards the water and couples were making their way across the ironwork bridge. To where the tents of the homeless clustered on the banks.

Put out a hand.

May was right.

The phone call ended.

In a change of plan, she walked down to the canal and, instead of turning for home, crossed the nearest bridge to Chez Prune. Having managed to nab an outside table which had a view of the water, she ordered red wine, then a second glass. It was to dice with getting drunk but she was going to enjoy it in a Paris that tonight was in languorous mood.

‘Learn after me.’

Tomas’s voice was in her ear.

‘From me. It’s learn from me,’ she pointed out.

He never liked being corrected on his English. ‘Are you listening?’

She nodded. ‘Of course.’