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cure him of his dreadful lies. But it did not work, and he continued to be unable to tell truth from falsehood. The other boys did not like this – we had this strict code of honour, you see – and they responded by bullying him. I was the only one to defend him.’
    Dr Hubertoffel stared at von Igelfeld.
    ‘So he lied all the time?’ he said, eventually.
    ‘Everything he said was untrue,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘And I suspect it is just the same today. Such people do not really change, do they?’
    Dr Hubertoffel thought for a moment. ‘Usually not,’ he said, gravely. ‘Such behaviour indicates a fundamental personality disorder and there is very little we can do about that. Even psychoanalysis is of little help.’
    ‘That’s very sad,’ said von Igelfeld. ‘It must be a great disappointment to you to have patients of that sort.’ Adding hurriedly: ‘That is, if you do have any like that.’

    He left the consulting room shortly afterwards, feeling immensely pleased with himself. He was sure that he had completely derailed Unterholzer’s analysis; Dr Hubertoffel had become virtually silent after he had mentioned Unterholzer. He was probably seething with anger that Unterholzer had misled him during the analysis; to sit there and write down all the lies – just as a judge has to do in court – must be a difficult experience.
    He walked out into the street. It was a fine evening and he had decided to walk home. Analysis was extraordinary, he reflected. He had gone in feeling somewhat gloomy and had come out feeling quite optimistic. He looked up at the cloudless evening sky and smiled with satisfaction. Unterholzer’s little plans would be spiked now; Dr Hubertoffel may have given him the confidence to launch an attack on
Portuguese Irregular Verbs
, but where would that confidence be once he had lost the support of the psychoanalyst?
    He walked past a bookshop window and glanced in. There was a display of new academic titles.
The Economy of the Sudanese
Uplands
– extremely dull, he thought.
The Upanishads Reviewed
– more promising. Then:
Truth: a Philosophical Defence.
    He paused. Truth. He was on the side of truth, and always had been: it would need no defending while he was around. And was not the motto of the von Igelfelds
Truth Always?
His gaze shifted from the book to his own reflection in the glass of the window, and at that moment an awful pang of guilt shook him. He was looking at the face of a liar!
    Von Igelfeld stood stock still. He had done a terrible, dreadful thing. He had walked into the consulting rooms of that poor Freudian and had told him a whole pack of lies. There never was a military academy. He had never had an Uncle Oedipus. It was all nonsense, of the sort that these misguided Freudians like to hear. And as for the accusations against Unterholzer – even if Unterholzer had behaved appallingly in criticising his hypothesis, that was no excuse for him, a von Igelfeld, to stoop to that level. He remembered his scorn for Unterholzer when Unterholzer had claimed to be von Unterholzer. Now he, a real von, was behaving just as badly.
    He stood stock still for a moment, consumed by misery. Then, his head lowered in shame, he continued his walk home, his mind a turmoil. Should he rush back and apologise to Dr Hubertoffel? Should he write him a letter and try to explain? Whatever he did, he would look ridiculous.
    He paused. His route had taken him past a small Catholic church, set back from the street. And there on the notice board was a sign which read:
Sinned? Confessions are heard in this House of God
from 6 pm to 8 pm each Wednesday and Saturday evening
.
Inside, there
is one who listens
. And today, von Igelfeld recalled, was Wednesday, and it was undoubtedly evening.
    The inside of the church was half-lit. A woman was kneeling at the altar rail of a small side-chapel, but apart from her the church seemed deserted. Von Igelfeld went forward hesitantly, glancing at the pictures that