‘The video is in black and white and shows 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 the 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.

‘The shot is held steady on this mise en scène and the only sound to break the silence is the click of the camera.

‘Without warning, the phone shrieks into the silence.’

She continued. ‘The piece is powerful and disturbing, and the image of the telephone ringing appears to tap into a collective unease that many of us carry. I have watched it many times and, like most onlookers, still jump. Some of the visitors have been known to scream. On the feedback form which we ask visitors to fill in, one of the questions asks them to tell us which object had the most effect on them. A consistent majority pinpoint it.

‘We’ve had letters about it asking if it’s a horror film. Or a political one? Or is it just an installation?’

At this point, she ran the video for the audience.

‘The answer is,’ she concluded, looking at the row of expectant faces, ‘the answer is that it combines all these elements which, I would argue, is the mark of a successful exhibit. You will, of course, question how it qualifies for the Museum of Broken Promises?’

There was a shuffle of expectation and the women – generally it was the women who took notes – in the audience took up their pens.

‘I should add that this particular exhibit was sent in anonymously in the early days of the museum’s life and you will understand why when I read the label, which is in French, English and Czech. “From 1948–1989 in Communist Czechoslovakia we were promised employment, peaceful politics decent living standards and no corruption. This is what we got.”’

By mid-afternoon, Laure was ensconced in the interview room with a cake tin from Room 1 on the table between her and the smiling woman who sat opposite.

‘It’s lovely to see you again, Myrna.’

‘It’s quite a journey from St Louis,’ Myrna replied, ‘but I had to see you. And to pick this up.’

The change in her was startling. Three years ago, middle-aged, newly divorced and drained, Myrna had sat in this room crying so hard that Laure fetched a second box of tissues. Today, she was no less faded or unobtrusive, but there had been a sea change: she was tougher-looking, full of humour, resolved on who and what she was. It was very attractive.

It had been another matter then. Deep and profound weeping, such as Myrna had indulged in, was one way of groping towards an explanation.