The True Lie
— J. Chr. de Vries
However fast the truth may be, the lie will eventually catch up with it.
— The Grand Book of Wisdom Tiles from the Chinese Emperor
On a sunny spring afternoon, Rudi Bistpelz sat with his friend Steinerd Prok on the terrace of a Wein- und Bierstube on a small island in the Pegnitz River in Nuremberg. Prok, a detective inspector from Regensburg, was spending a weekend with Bistpelz, a publicist, not only to catch up but also to discuss old, curious cases. Bistpelz had a particular fascination with cold cases. Their order, a dry white Riesling, had just been served when a man approached their table. He shook Prok’s hand and said, ‘All well?’ to which Prok replied that at the very least, the wine was well.
“That was Dennis Koege, a freelance publicist and an acquaintance of mine. He writes for magazines like Die Zeit, Die Welt, and occasionally for the Süddeutsche Zeitung,” Prok explained after Koege had moved on. “We’re not much more than casual acquaintances, though.”
As Prok stared thoughtfully into the distance, Bistpelz asked, ‘All well?’ Prok responded with an expression that mirrored his own.
”I always get a bit irked by questions like that. Why ‘all well’? What a ridiculous, impossible question.”
“The question, of course, is whether it’s even a question,” Bistpelz replied, “I don’t think it is. It’s just a greeting.”
“A greeting in the form of a lie, then,” grumbled Prok. “Just say, ‘I hope you’re doing well.’”
“In vino veritas,” said Bistpelz, taking a hearty sip of his Riesling.
“Cheers!” Prok exclaimed, taking a sip as well.
“I think you’re bothered by this because of your slight autistic tendencies,” Bistpelz remarked. “You tend to take everything literally.”
And so the two men began to discuss the concepts of lies and truth.
“When does truth become a lie?” Prok inquired.
Bistpelz retorted, “When does a lie become the truth?”
“That latter part isn’t possible,” Prok replied, “truth cannot be born from a lie.”
“I’m not so sure about that,” Bistpelz said. “Maybe you’re right, but let’s explore the various possibilities. To do so, we first need to distinguish between lies and truths in and of themselves, and lies that present themselves as truth, and possibly the reverse. I’m not certain about the latter, as I mentioned, but from a logical standpoint, we should investigate it.”
“Alright, let’s start with lies in and of themselves,” Prok suggested. “A suspect in a crime, under interrogation, who refuses to confess, will want to employ such a lie. In fact, they even have a legal right to do so. No one is legally obliged to confess their guilt. So, lying is allowed. It’s up to the detectives to prove their guilt.”
“The reverse is also clear. If I claim, ‘I’m having a glass of Riesling here with Steinerd,’ that’s a truth in and of itself. These two forms are uninteresting for us; we’re now concerned with the blends of lies and truths.”
“Good, let’s start with the easiest one, a lie that presents itself as truth. In this case, it’s not immediately apparent that this truth is actually a lie. There’s a saying called ‘lying the truth,’ and politicians excel at it.”
“I think you mean the phenomenon of fallacy. You use an argument that seems valid, but it is not.”
“Indeed, fallacies are a good example, but there are other cases of ‘lying the truth’ as well. For instance, flattery, sweet talk, making irrelevant compliments, diversion tactics like flirting, smiling sweetly, and brushing things off with a joke.”
“There’s a great example of a fallacy that fits nicely under the ‘lying the truth’ category, and it goes by the elegant name of If-by-whiskey,” Prok continued. “The term originates from a political debate during the time of Prohibition in the United States. A legislator from Mississippi was making an argument about whether the ban on strong spirits should be upheld or not. He began with a series of arguments in favor of maintaining the ban. ‘When you say whiskey, and you mean it’s evil, unhealthy, leading to endless nonsense, setting a bad example for our youth, and various other vices, then that’s a good reason for keeping the prohibition in place.’ Then, he followed with a reverse set of arguments. ‘But if you say that whiskey is the lubricant of conversation, that it’s philosophical wine, that it improves our mood, makes us laugh, offers solace in times of sorrow, and that the taxes benefit our healthcare, education, infrastructure, and other virtues, then I say, I’m in favor of lifting the ban.’ It’s a rhetorical trick, pulling things toward your side by presenting ‘on one hand’ and ‘on the other hand’; rhetoric possesses an exceptionally useful set of tools for lying the truth.”
“Yes, a very fine example indeed. Conspiracy theories thrive on it. Especially manipulating with numbers is a widely used tool.”
“And then there are the paradoxes and aporias, like Zeno’s, for instance. The arrow that never reaches its target, or Achilles who can’t beat the Tortoise. Posited truths that, after some logical thinking, turn out to be lies.”
“Have Zeno’s aporias ever been definitively refuted?” Bistpelz asked thoughtfully. “I thought they turned out to be irrefutable paradoxes.”
“No, by the way, they’re not paradoxes but aporias. The difference is that a paradox involves an insoluble contradiction, while an aporia is an argument that cannot be resolved. The Achilles and the Tortoise aporia is invalid because Zeno believed that the sum of an infinite number of values is also infinite, but that’s not the case. The distance the Tortoise has to cover is a finite distance. Think of the difference between the numbers 1 and 2. In between, you can imagine an infinite number of tiny values, with an infinite number of zeros after the decimal point. You would need an infinite number of those minuscule values to bridge the gap from 1 to 2, but the distance remains finite: namely, 1.”
Bistpelz continued to look pensive. “I see. I’ll take your word for it, but I don’t fully grasp it yet. What I do understand is that what was initially a lie disguised as truth has now become an outright lie.”
“That’s indeed a very true conclusion.”
“Great! We can now move on to the problematic case: truth disguised as a lie.”
“Well, you believe that this form is possible, but to be honest, I don’t think it is. Go ahead!”
Bistpelz focused on his wine glass. It was empty now. The decanter was also empty. He beckoned the waiter and requested a new decanter of Riesling. “I need a moment to think,” he explained for his silence. That ‘moment’ eventually spanned five full minutes. “A white lie,” he finally said. “That’s a lie told to serve the truth.”
“Hmm,” Prok responded, “honestly, I don’t see that right away. It seems more like a lie to hide the truth. It’s primarily a form of hypocrisy. You have a terminal illness, and you say it’s not that bad.”
“It can be, but when it’s better for someone else, like a small child who’s too young to handle the truth, then it’s a white lie, a well-intentioned lie, and therefore, it’s true.”
“Even with a small child, I don’t see why you would need to obscure the painful truth. You can explain a terminal illness, for example, of one of the parents to a child at their level of understanding. There’s no need for a lie.”
“But what about, for instance, topics like sex? Do you really need to tell a child everything? Things that they can’t yet conceptualize in any way, things they’re just too young for. What’s wrong with that?”
“I believe in such cases you’re choosing a lie and avoiding any form of truth. A pedagogical lie is not a truth.”
“There are certainly situations where concealing the truth is a virtue. If, for example, someone is no longer capable of grasping the truth, must you really confront them with the truth at all times? Someone who has dementia, for instance, is often no longer capable of understanding certain truths. In such cases, a white lie seems like a solution.”
Prok gazed into his glass for a while, took a sip, and said, “Yes, okay, there are probably a few situations to consider, but those are exceptions. In the vast majority of cases, this type of lie is a form of hypocrisy.”
“Another case then: the lie out of ignorance.” Bistpelz pointed his right index finger into the air. “Because of that ignorance, it’s technically not a lie. In earlier times, people believed the Earth was flat. That was also proclaimed as the truth. So, there are truths that, over time, especially thanks to science, have transformed into lies.”
“That’s the same as with those Zeno’s aporias, the so-called truths were debunked.”
“What if you don’t remember something?”
“Then there’s a lapse,” Prok thought for a moment. “I’m not sure if I would call it a truth; I’d be more inclined to call it a mistake. It’s not a real lie, at least not an intentional one.”
“Alright, the white lie is mostly ruled out according to you, with perhaps a few exceptions that don’t really matter,” said Bistpelz. “Then there’s one more option we can explore, that case of ‘How’s it going’.”
“Huh? I don’t see that right away,” Prok said. “You’ll have to explain that to me.”
“Think about it. It’s both a greeting and a question. One of them is true.”
“Yes, so what? That’s not a matter of truth versus lie, is it?”
“You have a short memory. You referred to that question as a ‘greeting in the form of a lie’.”
Bistpelz leaned back for a moment. He refilled his glass, took a sip, and began. “If that phrase is a genuine question, then the question itself is ‘true’. And the questioner expects a true answer. For example: ‘I’m doing very well because of such and such.’ Or: ‘I’m doing very poorly; let me tell you…’ Or: ‘I’m doing reasonably well, except this is a bit off, but that’s actually better than expected.’ This is straightforward. All ‘truth’. Now, the other option: the phrase is not a question; it’s a greeting in the form of a question. The intention isn’t for you to answer that pseudo-question as a real question; that would just create an awkward situation. The person giving the greeting is merely expecting a return greeting. It can take various forms, like a counter-question: ‘Pretty good, and how about you?’ This is also not intended as a question. Or, for example, ‘I’m doing great!’ This is just as much a lie as the expectation that the phrase was a genuine question. It’s a game where both the one posing the pseudo-question and the one responding to it know that it’s all a ‘lie’ in service of the greeting.”
“And that greeting, and the awareness of it, is then the truth?” Prok concluded thoughtfully.
“Yes, truth disguised as a lie,” Bistpelz affirmed.
“I understand your reasoning, but I still expect something more significant, something more fundamental when it comes to the concepts of truth and lies.”
“Well, I can’t compete with rhetorical concepts like fallacies and Zeno’s aporias, of course,” Bistpelz said with feigned irritation.
Prok completely ignored his friend’s theatrical pose and redirected their conversation. ”I suddenly recall a peculiar case from years ago. Not a true cold case, but something that comes close.”
“Does it have to do with this issue of intertwined truth and lie?” Bistpelz asked.
“I don’t know yet, maybe…” Prok said.
Bistpelz noticed that Prok was deep in thought and let him continue. He signaled the waiter and ordered some olives, sausage, and cheese. He waited for the waiter to return with the order and said, “Go ahead!”
“I’ll describe the case first, at least as far as I remember it,” Prok took a piece of sausage, chewed thoughtfully, took a sip of wine, and then began his account. “It was an extremely curious case that initially appeared to be a normal murder — if the word ‘normal’ can be applied at all. A crime of passion. A man had murdered his rival. Let me think for a moment… Also, the names… Wait, I’ll get there.” Deep furrows appeared above his eyebrows. “I remember,” his eyes lit up, “it involved Adolf Teze and Ramon Wesel.”
But then he fell silent again, and Bistpelz saw Prok delving deep into his memory.
“Take your time,” Bistpelz said, “no rush!”
Prok nodded, and suddenly his face brightened as he remembered it all. “It was about a woman named Dinfa Moralens. She was Adolf Teze’s mistress, but she had an affair with Ramon Wesel. The two of them were good friends, or should I say, close friends. They’d known each other since childhood. Teze had caught his friend with his mistress and was furious; he found it unforgivable. Wesel felt immense remorse; he fully understood his friend’s anger and wanted to do everything to make amends, but it seemed impossible. Teze was unyielding, and there was no way his friend or his treacherous mistress could make it right. To cut a long story short, both rivals decided to duel. With pistols, that is. It was a matter of honor for Teze, and Wesel didn’t know how to back out, so he went along.”
Prok paused for a moment, to have another piece of sausage and a sip of wine, but also to collect his thoughts. “Look,” he continued, “the first version of this case is based on the conclusions of the initial interrogations, right up to the final conviction by the court.” He paused again to see if Rudi was still following. Rudi nodded. “The outcome of the duel was that Teze got a bullet through his head and died instantly. The court ruled it as ‘premeditated murder’. Wesel’s agreement to the duel was held heavily against him.”
“But was it really premeditated murder?” Bistpelz asked.
“It was a duel, I know they’ve been prohibited for a while, but I find that quite different from murder. After all, the victim agreed to it.”
“
The prosecutor’s charge was premeditated murder, and the court concurred.”
“Didn’t he appeal that then? This charge seems legally disputable to me, but I’m not a lawyer.”
“My story wasn’t finished, I was just about to tell you. But no, he didn’t appeal, and that’s what turned this case into a sort of cold case for me, although not from a formal perspective,” Prok said, putting a slice of sausage into his mouth. Later, he continued, “I also found it strange that he didn’t appeal. Of course, Wesel underwent a psychiatric evaluation, and the psychiatrist said that while the man suffered from an enormous sense of guilt, ‘remorse’ was the word he used, he was also fully legally responsible. His decision not to appeal was driven by that remorse. It was against the advice of his attorney, though. Wesel believed he deserved the maximum punishment to make amends for his guilt toward his deceased close friend. Food for psychologists, but as a police officer, I couldn’t do anything with it.”
“Did you investigate this cold case, or whatever label you’d like to put on it, afterward?” Bistpelz asked.
“Call it a red flag cold case, and Rudi charges like a bull,” Prok grinned. “I’ll explain.”
Bistpelz placed both his hands beside his forehead, formed bull’s horns with his index fingers, and started making kicking motions with his feet.
Prok actually chuckled a bit. “I’ll continue,” he said. “During the first few years, I didn’t have time to delve further into that case. The man confessed to shooting his friend dead in that duel, and the question of whether it was ‘premeditated’ or not wasn’t my top priority, as you can imagine.”
Bistpelz, who had returned his hands to the sausage and his wine glass, nodded obediently. He made circular motions with the fork in his hand, indicating that Steinerd should continue.
“Years later, honestly, I can’t remember how many, I stumbled upon that case by chance once more. Actually, it was because of that acquaintance of mine, Dennis Koege, who came over to greet me earlier. He was working on an article about another legal murder case and asked me about it. Talk about coincidence… Anyway, I began to delve back into it, and that’s when I found something peculiar. The pistol of the deceased friend, Adolf Teze, had one more round in the magazine than Ramon Wesel’s pistol. It was tucked away in a single sentence somewhere amidst many other facts. Both identical pistols were Glock type 32, which typically carry thirteen rounds in the magazine. Since Wesel had fired a shot, his pistol still had eleven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, totaling twelve.
Teze had twelve rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, so he still had all thirteen rounds. In other words, Teze hadn’t fired. We knew that already because no other discharged bullet had been found. What we didn’t know was why he hadn’t fired. Was he too slow? I decided to request a conversation with Wesel, which was allowed, and Wesel had no objections. Perhaps the years of solitary confinement had somewhat diminished his sense of guilt; I don’t know, but I finally asked him directly why Teze hadn’t fired.
He went on to describe in detail the procedure they had set for the duel. They both held the pistol aimed at the other’s forehead, with the barrel between the eyes. They would count down, from three, to two, to one, and then both would fire simultaneously. It was a joint suicide, at least that was the plan. However, when he fired, all he heard from his friend was a click. He was bewildered and so distraught that he couldn’t think any further. During the preparation for the trial, he had certainly thought about it, but he was so overwhelmed by guilt that he let the matter rest. He hadn’t spoken a word about it to his lawyer either.”
“Good Lord, what a story!” Bistpelz looked at his friend in amazement. “But how do you come to such a decision, choosing to die together? And in such a dramatic way? Both men must have been a little unhinged, don’t you think?”
“The psychiatrist came to that conclusion, at least regarding Wesel. There was nothing more to investigate regarding Teze’s mental state. But he did mention something about the reason for the duel. Teze was desperate because of the betrayal by his mistress. He was head over heels in love with her and believed she was the woman of his dreams. Dinfa, however, was nothing like the woman he had imagined. She was far from monogamous, engaging in affairs with several men, and Wesel was just one of her other lovers. Teze, however, couldn’t face the reality. He had nothing left to live for, and he wanted revenge on both Wesel and Dinfa. That’s why he challenged Wesel to the duel. He thought if he died, Wesel would die too. The fact that it wouldn’t hurt Dinfa at all hadn’t crossed his mind.”
“But why didn’t that one pistol fire? Was it defective? Or was Teze too slow, or did something go wrong with the countdown?” Bistpelz asked.
“Wesel didn’t know either. He didn’t understand it, and couldn’t or wouldn’t investigate it further. I only understood it later when I had more time to think about it. The only explanation I could come up with was that the click meant there was no round in the chamber; the gun wasn’t loaded. Teze must have pulled the trigger because you could see that the round was in the chamber afterward. This could only mean one thing: Teze intentionally left his pistol unloaded. He wanted only himself to die, and he wanted Wesel to survive.”
“That was his revenge,” Bistpelz realized. “Teze wanted Wesel to live, knowing that he would be arrested for murder and sentenced to many years in prison, where he would ultimately be consumed by guilt and remorse.”
“Exactly! And that’s exactly what happened. Regarding Wesel, that is. Dinfa just continued with her life, and she didn’t even attend the trial against Wesel. She didn’t want to testify in court and only provided a written statement.”
The sausage was finished, Bistpelz speared an olive onto a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. Prok followed suit. Both remained silent for a while, pondering the potential consequences of this story for their small investigation into the relationship between truth and lies.
Bistpelz was the first to break the silence: “Where does this ultimately lead, in terms of truth and lies?”
“Now, I suddenly realize that it was Koege’s brief greeting that led me to this Wesel story, it must have been buried somewhere in my subconscious. Especially after you returned to that greeting as an example of a ‘true lie’. When Koege later asked me about it after speaking with Wesel, I knew what had actually happened. I also remember what he said as a comment: The hour of truth immersed in a lie, as he called it.”
Prok paused for a sip of wine. “But now, in regard to your question, I’m not sure where this exercise is ultimately leading. It’s probably just a kind of Spielerei, but I’ll try to explain.”
“Before you do that, I have another question,” Bistpelz interrupted, “did your discovery have any consequences for Wesel? Like a reduced sentence, for example.”
“Indeed,” confirmed Prok, “there was a new trial, and his verdict was changed to manslaughter, resulting in a shorter sentence. Due to time served in pre-trial detention and the years he had already spent in prison, he was immediately released. However, he didn’t enjoy his freedom for long. Less than six months after his release, he took his own life.”
“Phew,” Bistpelz sighed, “what a tragedy. With a gun, if I may ask?”
“Unfortunately, no. He chose a train…”
“Well, that’s just unbelievable! What an undeserving jerk. You’d have to be really off track, if you’ll allow me that pun.”
Prok ignored the corny joke and continued his argument undisturbed: “I will try to demonstrate in my closing statement that in the story of the two suicides, the truth was disguised as a lie. The duel was clearly intended as a pure articulation of what we could call the moment of truth. If both pistols had fired simultaneously, as was the initial intention of both men, then this truth would have been realized. But one of the men chose to replace this truth with another truth, by hiding this new truth behind a lie. The second truth was that of revenge.”
“But was this second truth really ‘true’? Why wasn’t it simply a lie?”
“Because this heralded his own moment of truth, that doesn’t seem like a lie to me.”
“But then you could also call it a case of ‘truth lying’.”
Prok thought for a moment. Bistpelz refilled their glasses with the remaining wine. “Time to wrap it up,” he concluded.
“I’ll explain,” Prok finally said. “The difference between ‘lying the truth’ and ‘truth disguised as a lie’ is that in the former case, the lie is the goal, and in the latter case, it’s the truth. The politician who has some goal in mind and uses a false truth, like a fallacy, is not interested in the truth but solely in his political objective, for which the lie, that fallacy in this case, is the instrument. Teze wanted to take revenge on Wesel, for which he used a lie, namely a so-called honorable duel. However, this duel was a lie, and instead, he planned his suicide with Wesel as the means. This way, he was relieved of his suffering and could also take revenge on both Wesel and Dinfa, at least that was his intention. This was his truth. His lie served his, tragic, truth.”
“That’s indeed a negative example because this negative truth consists of both death and revenge,” Bistpelz pointed out.
“There seems to be an image of the Roman God Genius, the God of life and death, with a burning torch in his hand. If he holds the torch upward, it stands for life; if he holds it downward, it symbolizes death.”
“Do you know that Law from The Great Book of Tile Wisdom of the Chinese Emperor?”
“No,” Prok replied, “I don’t think so.”
“It goes like this: The upward expressive power that truth experiences when immersed in lies is equal to the mass of the displaced amount of lies.”
— J. Chr. de Vries, Viechtach, August 16, 2016