A Man Lies Dreaming by Lavie Tidhar Page A

different angles. In one I could see a pile of human shit against the brick wall, not far from Edith’s blonde hair, which was made near-white by the photograph. Edith was situated in rest, on her back, her arms carefully crossed over her abdomen. Blood matted her hair. Her shirt had been ripped open and her breasts, full and wholesome, lay exposed. Carved into her chest was a swastika. Her face had been battered and her eyes were bruised and open to the sky. Beside her head stood a little toy figure. I leaned forward and drew one of the pictures close and studied it.
It was a little wind-up toy.
A tin drummer.
‘Who did this?’
Inspector Morhaim studied me levelly. ‘Did you know her?’
‘I live on Berwick Street, Inspector. It is hard not to see the whores.’
‘So you did know her.’
‘I spoke to her, last night. Briefly. She propositioned me. I do not like whores.’
‘Is that why you killed her?’
‘I did not kill her!’
‘Do you recognise that symbol?’
‘It’s a swastika.’
‘Why would anyone carve a swastika into a woman’s chest before killing her?’ He saw my look. ‘Yes, she was alive when he did it, though probably unconscious.’
‘I hope you find this man and hang him,’ I said.
‘But what if we
have
found him?’
I sat straight in the chair. One did not see the swastika much, any more. In Germany it had been banned by the new communist regime. In England it was irrelevant. One saw Mosley’s lightning bolt enclosed within a circle in its place, instead. Mosley, who had tried to copy Göring. It was the fat man’s initial idea to adopt the swastika as a symbol.
They used to call you the drummer
…
Did Morhaim just say that? Was it my imagination?
I raised my head and looked the Jew straight in the eyes. ‘I did not kill her,’ I said.
‘Your coat was covered in blood.’
‘It wasn’t hers.’
‘Then whose?’
‘I am being set up.’
At that Morhaim laughed. ‘Set up?’ he said. ‘Why? You’re nothing but a washed-out dick. You’re nobody, a nothing. I don’t like you, Wolf. You have the face of a cockroach. Is that why you killed her? To reassert yourself, what you once were?’
‘I did not kill her!’
‘Then where were you?’ he said. The door opened and the fat policeman came in carrying a tray with tea and biscuits on it. He set it down before Morhaim.
‘Thank you, Constable Keech,’ Morhaim said. He picked a sugar cube with small silver tongs and dropped it into his tea. ‘No, Constable. Stay, please.’
‘Sir.’
I knew what was coming. It didn’t hurt any less.
Morhaim pinched a second sugar cube and held it aloft above the tea. I felt Keech move behind me. Morhaim looked at me sadly. ‘A confession would go such a long way in your favour,’ he said.
‘Fuck you, Jew.’
‘Such a long way.’ Morhaim dropped the cube into the tea. Keech’s fat pig’s hand slammed into the side of my head, sending me sprawling to the floor. Then he was on me, a sadistic smile on his face, his fists and his boots speaking volumes. I curled up into a ball as best I could, covering my head with my arms. His boots caught me in the ribs, the side of the head, the back of the legs; his huge hands slapped me, his fists rained on my body. Through all this, Morhaim sat behind his desk and stirred his tea and took delicate little sips and looked down on me sadly.
‘Stop,’ he said, after a while. Keech lifted me up, one-handed. ‘For what it’s worth, Wolf, I do not think you did it. Only a fool would return to the scene of the crime when it is riddled with policemen, and I do not think you are a fool.’
‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all day.’
‘I think you’re a despicable rat of a human being, a shit I would wipe off my shoe on the pavement, an anti-Semitic bully and leech who should have been left to rot in a communist konzentrationslager. I think you’re a murderer and a psychopath.’
‘You’re too kind,’ I said. I spat blood on the floor,