Free A Man Lies Dreaming by Lavie Tidhar Page A

trousers and black tight-fitting tunic tops that showed off their pectorals, and the whole thing set off by a wide black belt with a large square silver buckle. They looked like they belonged on a rocket ship from one of the American pulps. Most of them sported a pencil moustache, aping their leader. They looked like bulls: well-fed and aggressive. On the left breast of their tunic tops was the jagged lightning bolt of the BU.
    ‘My invitation.’
    ‘Of course, sir.’
    The boy scanned the card and stepped aside. Wolf nodded to him civilly enough and went in.
    Inside, a pungent cloud welcomed him: eau de toilette, eau de cologne, eau de parfum. Full-bodied cigars and slim ladies’ cigarettes and lawyers’ fragrant pipe-tobacco: it made his eyes water.
    ‘Wolf!’ It was almost a shriek. He turned and there, descending the grand staircase, was Lady Mosley in a fetching Parisian dress. Jewels sparkled on her wrists, at her neck. She came down to his level and hugged him.
    ‘Diana,’ he said.
    ‘It is
so
good to
see
you!’ Diana Mosley said.
    ‘Thank you for inviting me.’
    ‘But of
course
! My dear
Wolf
– it
is
Wolf, still, isn’t it?’
    ‘It is, yes.’
    ‘Wolf. How
romantic
.’
    ‘I’m sure.’
    ‘It’s been so
long
!’
    Wolf nodded his head in silent acquiescence.
    That night in ’34 he had been welcomed to their apartment like an exiled prince – valued, sympathised with, even admired – yet one whose power had waned, whose time had come and gone. He had come like a beggar, limping with the wound in his leg that he had sustained in the concentration camp, and they had spoken of what had passed and what was to come, but it was obvious to all of them, by then, that Germany was lost.
    He had left. He would not take charity. Since then he never went back. Mosley then was a minor figure in British politics, almost a figure of ridicule. In the intervening years, with the dark shadow of communism growing ever longer across the Channel, he too had grown, in both power and status. And Wolf had not been invited back; there was that, too, to consider.
    Until now.
    ‘You poor
dear
!’ Diana continued on, in that prattle British society women were so well-practised in. Wolf knew better than to underestimate her. None of the Mitford sisters were entirely stupid, though one of them, Jessica,
was
a devoted communist. Diana touched Wolf’s cheek, lightly. ‘What happened to your poor
face
?’
    ‘I fell.’
    ‘Did the police do this? How utterly
dreadful
. Things like this will never happen when Oswald is in power.’
    When
, Wolf noted. Not
if
.
    ‘I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.’ Still, he was angry: the anger was never far from the surface. ‘There was a Jew inspector—’
    ‘A Jew! How
ghastly
!’
    ‘Well, it is of little significance.’
    She squeezed his arm. ‘Oswald is just
dying
to see you,’ she said. ‘But he can wait. Come. Let’s get you something to drink.’
    She led him into a large room with high windows. Guests milled about and he saw familiar faces, politicians and film stars, the usual assortment of trash one could find at any such gathering. A buffet ran from one wall to the other, every manner of beast and fowl represented, and Wolf realised just how hungry he was. Diana Mosley,
née
Mitford, brought him a tall glass. He took it from her. ‘Fresh orange and strawberries,’ she whispered, smiling. ‘We have them shipped over, darling. I made sure we’d have something waiting especially for you. Come. You must be
ravenous
!’
    One buffet table, Wolf saw, was covered in vegetarian dishes, from an Indian-style curry to Italian lasagne and British shepherd’s pie. Diana took a plate and began to heap food onto it. ‘Here you are.’
    He took it from her. Put his drink down on the table. Picked up a fork. Delicately sampled the curry. Diana watched him like a wife. ‘Eat!’ she said.
    Wolf ate. The assortment of foods all blended together. He barely tasted any