3. Slachtoffer

'Imagine a black woman on the sidewalk on the corner of 57th Street and Fifth Avenue this morning,' zei Wezenstein tegen Zazi, een oude vriendin en zijn beoogde eerste Big Sleep-slachtoffer, woonachtig in een donker flatje op Amsterdam Avenue. 'She's lying under a blanket made from paper. Right on the doorstep of Louis Vuitton. When I approach her, I see she is sleeping or appears to be sleeping, it's hard to tell. Her hair is a mess, and she seems to be bleeding from the mouth. I take out my camera, call it my professional deformation, aim and take a picture. Of course. It would have been strange not to take a picture – I mean given the fact that I am on a heavily subsidized trip to New York for a project on sleep. I basically owe it to the Commission to take that picture. Anyway, the woman wakes up. I figured this was going to happen, so I quickly produce a twenty dollar bill. She says she don't want my money. You know why? She says I look like an acquintance, a man she knew. Not just a little bit, the resemblance is downright scary. I say, so what, why would that mean you should not take my money? She says the man was evil. Not long ago he tried to kill her. Not only does this woman not want my money, she even insists that I delete the picture I took of her, and get the hell out of there.'