His voice contained a caress. She was finding it difficult to breath normally and, to keep herself on the straight and narrow, she dug a fingernail into the soft part of her thumb.

‘After turbulent times, Czechoslovakia is now living through normalizáce, which…’ Tomas heaved a sigh, ‘is not as nice as it sounds.’

She thought of how little she knew and should hurry up and get to know.

‘See the waiter,’ Tomas said.

Obediently, she glanced across the warm, shadowed garden to a stooped and elderly man doling out food onto plates.

‘Once upon a time, he was a respected and successful head of a secondary school. Then he made a mistake.’ Laure widened her eyes. ‘He was accused of giving the eulogy at the funeral of a known dissident. Immediately, his contract was terminated, and…’ Tomas snapped his fingers. ‘He was unemployable and that’s his condition for life. Result, he ekes out a living here. If any of the authorities come, he hides in the kitchen.’

Laure wondered if Tomas should be telling her so much, so soon in their acquaintanceship.

Their soup was placed in front of them and Tomas picked up his spoon. ‘The debate has to be: is he lucky?’ He used the edge of his paper tablecloth to flick away the fly making tracks for his bowl.

She tried to think through the implications but she knew she was losing the capacity for clear thought. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘Is he?’

‘In the old days, he would have been thrown into the Bartolomĕjská, and beaten up, possibly killed. These days, the approach is subtler and there is nothing to be done. He will never have a better life. It’s impossible.’

‘But he must appeal,’ she whispered. ‘Surely.’

‘Here what is written by the authorities is the truth, even if it everyone knows it is erroneous, including the authorities.’

Laure couldn’t eat much of the soup. Putting down her spoon, she stole a look around the tiny garden, which had filled up with diners. After he had finished his, Tomas reached for her half-emptied bowl. ‘Can I?’

‘You can,’ she said naughtily, ‘but also you may.’ She wasn’t sure he appreciated the linguistic semantics. No matter.

Without looking up, Tomas said, ‘We’re being watched. If he comes over, let me do the talking.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It happens.’ Tomas was matter-of-fact. ‘Often.’

The stew that appeared was much better and Laure enjoyed it. ‘Am I tasting juniper berries?’

Before Tomas could answer, a man approached and stood over them. He was elderly but fresh-faced enough, and quiet-looking. He was dressed almost entirely in grey. It occurred to Laure that grey was particularly useful, not only for camouflage but, in a country where basics were apparently difficult, it was easier to disguise when not spanking clean.