Feldman looked down at his friend's oddly serene face. 

Larry blinked twice. Feldman awaited a third blink but it never arrived. 

"Larry," Feldman said, "are you sure? Are you saying that you did sleep with Elaine?"

No answer. Larry's eyes were closed. 

"Look," Feldman said, "even if you did, it doesn't matter. It's trivial, without consequence, doesn't matter." 

Larry's eyes were closed. Was he asleep? Feldman couldn't tell for certain. He left the room feeling that he shouldn't have done what he did. 

The next morning, at seven, Felix called. "Mr Goodman die," he said. "Try to wake but no possible. Die in sleep. Quiet death. Good blessing."

Feldman thanked Felix for letting him know, and told him that Mr Goodman wanted him to have an extra month's pay for all his good service, and that he would be over in an hour or two to relieve him of any further responsibility. 

After hanging up, Feldman walked into the kitchen to make coffee, and thought he had no satisfaction whatsoever from learning that his best friend, decades ago, had slept with his wife. He wished he had never found out. The truth, Feldman felt, doesn't always set you free. Sometimes it just makes you feel lousy.