The Illusion

It had been five years since I’d seen my friend Sasha. When I left him in Paris he was happy, in love, and had a brand new law diploma. For two years I received no letter from him and didn’t hear anything about him. So when I met him five years later in a New York café, I hardly even recognized him.

I could scarcely believe that this was the same handsome, healthy Sasha who could sleep for twelve or fourteen hours at a time even if heaven and earth upended outside, or who could jump out of bed in a minute and his eyes would be bright and fresh like flowers washed by the dew. At first glance, I suspected he might have taken to drinking or, worse, perhaps opium. Sasha’s dirty blonde hair stuck out here and there, his teeth were stained from smoking, and the worn-out edges of his collar stuck up on either side of his necktie.

As soon as we greeted one another he turned to me in a nervous, hesitant tone: “Tell me, Jacob, what is the difference between truth and falsehood? Where does the difference lie? Where does the lie end and the truth begin?

Without giving it a thought, I answered, “What’s true is the truth, and what’s not is a lie.”

“False! Schoolyard nonsense!” he cried.