Lie, lie against the dying of the light

“You cannot be my father. He's been dead for almost two years.”

My voice is controlled, subdued. I feel like telling a Jehovah's Witness that I'm already converted. But I'm not talking to an evangelist. The man standing in my driveway claims to be related to me. Even more, he definitely believes I'm his biological son.

Despite my firm but calm objection, the man remains standing in front of me. He smiles like a teacher who is sure the student has given the wrong answer. We are both the same size, my unexpected visitor and I. But where my hair is blond, he has a mop of dark curls. Only next to the shell-like ears are tufts of gray hair visible.

Judging from his clothes – olive-colored military jacket, black jeans, mid-calf leather boots – he seems like an active, high-spirited man. But there is something about him. His eyes do not make contact. His gaze seems to go right through me. As if he does not dare to connect. Like someone sent him to my house on an assignment. And he does not know how to set something in motion.

The absurdity and craziness of his statement – ​​I am your father – is so great and so unexpected that I do not know how to react. Behind the man, cars and cyclists drive along the road. Actually, I was in the kitchen baking an apple pie. The eggs and butter are waiting for me to be used. There are still bits of flour on my fingers.

We stand against each other like two experienced sumo wrestlers who no longer have any idea of ​​the rules of the game. I look at the metal watering can that hangs at shoulder height next to the door frame. Last week, I found out that robins had made a nest in it.

For a moment I am about to point out this special fact to the man. But I keep my mouth shut. I want to go back into the house, to my kitchen, to my own safe and trustworthy scenery. I am having visitors tonight. And I want to treat them to fresh apple pie. And not to a confused and nonsensical story from a stranger who shows up at my front door and claims to be my real father.

And while I am already baking the fresh fruit pie in my mind, I say without thinking 'come in'. So that, to my own surprise, a few minutes later I am sitting opposite the stranger with a cup of coffee in my hand and a coconut macaroon on the saucer.

The man turns out to be called Jakov. Once inside, little is left of his initial shyness. He settles down on my three-person sofa, pushes an extra decorative pillow behind his back and sinks down comfortably. Meanwhile, he looks around the room.

“You have decorated it stylishly,” he says. I nod affirmatively. And look for the right question. Meanwhile my head is buzzing. How did the man get my address? Where does he get the courage to ring the doorbell? What makes him - a complete outsider– to claim that he is my father? Does he do this often? Does he have an illness? Are these characteristics of a specific syndrome?

What intrigues me most about the visitor is how it is possible that someone can tell such a pertinent and demonstrable lie. I do not know why, but I have a fascination with liars, with deceivers, with swindlers. My experience is that the vast majority of people consider honesty and sincerity to be important virtues. But every now and then, very occasionally, I come across them. The fraudsters, the swindlers, the quacks, the cheaters, the rip-offs.

But I never get to speak to them. I have not had the opportunity to question them yet. And suddenly today, the opportunity presents itself. It falls into my lap. A real swindler, an honest fraudster.

“Have you lived here for long?” the cheater wants to know. I tell him how long I have lived in the house. He listens attentively to my story. You have got to hand it to him. He plays his role excellently. In the very beginning he may have seemed a little insecure, but now the swindler is calm. Which only increases my fascination for him. How is it possible that he does not feel any unrest? Any agitation? Or perhaps - to put it more accurate - how is it possible that his attitude, his stance, his use of words, do not reveal anything about the fact that he is lying here? Pretending, posing, posturing?

When I tell something about myself, the fraudster eagerly takes over and enthusiastically begins to explain what his life has been like. And I have to admit that. The cheater can tell with relish. Where I was skeptical before and wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible, I now hang on his every word. In short staccato sentences he sketches his eventful existence.

And while he tells of migrations, sea voyages, illnesses, failed marriages, car accidents, arguments and money problems, the feeling continues to gnaw at him. What makes him want to cheat? What drives him to want to deceive me? Is he after money? Does he lead a lonely existence and look for attention, recognition?

“I never knew you existed,” he suddenly informs me. His voice is more serious now. Louder, stranger. And for the first time he looks at me intently. As if we have now arrived at the point at hand. As if he finally wants to get to the heart of the matter.

I gasp. The absurdity of his visit, his question, is so great that I do not know how to respond. And immediately I regret letting the swindler in. Isn't that the strength of impostors? That they can win the trust of strangers so easily? I stare at the empty cup on the shady oak coffee table. Do I want to maintain my decency? So, to let the man chat for a while and then eventually show him the door?

Or do I want to make a point? Do I want to expose him? Am I going to stand up and accuse him? Am I going to raise my voice? So that it becomes clear to the fraudster that I am not to be trifled with. So that it turns out the cheater has no leg to stand on? Because I'm on to him? Because it is abundantly clear that the game is over?

I let him chat. Somehow, I find him too fascinating, too enchanting to be angry with him. His passionate gestures, his resounding voice, his expressive eyes. A professional actor could not have played a better father role. I give him a second cup of coffee. In the meantime, I have canceled tonight's visit. When the trickster says goodbye after an hour and a half, he looks happy, elated.

The next day I visit my sick mother. Although her health is deteriorating month by month, she still lives on her own. And still in the house where I was born and raised. Many things have remained the same all these years. The cupboard with the ten-volume British Encyclopedia, the wall with the family photos, the cabinet organ that belonged to my grandfather.

Although my life is sometimes very chaotic, disjointed and disorganized, when I visit my mother, everything falls back into place. Her presence, her house, which is what is real, authentic, and pure to me. A lot of things in my life our fake, artificial, falsified. But I always find peace in the house where I was born.

When I announce my arrival with a loud greeting, I find my mother in her favorite relaxing armchair. She is sleeping. We hug each other briefly. She smells of soft, woody vanilla. Her favorite perfume. She then shuffles to the kitchen to make two cups of tea. I never drink tea. Unless I am with my mother.

I close my eyes to it. I deliberately do not want to know. Because the truth is too hard, too confrontational, too painful? But the fact is that my mother is deteriorating sharply. Her skin is milky white, her hair is thin as dried grass. When she wants to put the tray with the teacups on the mahogany-colored coffee table, she shakes so much that I am afraid the hot tea will pour down her skinny arms.

She is standing tall. Especially when you consider that it has only been two years since my father passed away. And meanwhile, I am happy that she is still here. Where can I find otherwise that deep peace, that necessary relaxation, the necessary harmony?

It briefly crosses my mind to tell her about the imposter who visited me yesterday. But I do not want to bother my mother with my absurdities today. I do not think it would her do any good.

When I leave after an hour, she puts her brittle hands on my heavy shoulders. She looks at me with her tired mother eyes. I fight back the tears. “Boy,” she says in a strange untypical crackly, gray voice, “there's something I've never dared to tell you.”