The Delusionist Read Online Free

was wearing a black turtleneck sweater and black jeans and perfectly shaped sideburns. He was twenty-four and finishing up the cga program at ubc. Seven years younger, Cyril was five inches taller and thirty pounds heavier. “Everyone wants to know how smart they are.” Paul became soothing. “You’re right. You’re smart enough to be a dishwasher. You could probably be head dishwasher—if you worked hard,” he added. He held the book out. Cyril considered punching Paul—not in the face but in the chest—just hard enough to drop him on his ass and maybe knock the wind out of him. Paul however beat him to the action by whacking him across the chest with the book. “Go on. It’ll be fun.”
    â€œMy hands are wet,” said Cyril.
    â€œI guess you haven’t learned about tea towels yet,” said Paul sympathetically. “That’ll come next semester. See.” He took one from the drawer and showed it to Cyril.
    Cyril dried his hands.
    â€œGo on,” said Paul in the fond and encouraging tone of a mentor. He set the book in Cyril’s hand. Cyril looked at it: light, small, seemingly innocent. He tossed the book into the soapy water, which splashed up onto the window and drooled down like saliva.
    â€œYour honour,” said Paul in his best Perry Mason, “I rest my case.”

    Cyril and Connie spent the summer at the movies, at the beach, and in the cemetery. It was hot and dry and the cemetery grass grew pale and crisp and the rare breeze coursing through made the leaves shimmer.
    One afternoon on the way to her house they discussed The Hawaiian Eye . Cyril said Nancy Kwan would be better as Cricket than Connie Stevens. “But you’d be better than either of them,” he added. “You’ve got presence.”
    â€œPresence?” She sounded sceptical yet attentive.
    â€œStar quality.”
    That was too much. “Oh fuck off you bullshitter you.” But she couldn’t contain her delight. How open and innocent and vulnerable her face looked.
    â€œI’m serious.” He gazed frankly into her eyes.
    She turned away. It was not often that Connie couldn’t meet his gaze. She seemed to be studying something in the distance, something she wanted, her eyes hopeful, her mouth slightly open. After a few moments she turned back to him and said, “Want to see my sword collection?”
    It was the first time he’d been in her house. Would it be like a pagoda, with dragons and black lacquer furniture? From the outside it looked standard, an older place with wooden steps leading up to a deep porch with squared pillars and stained glass windows flanking the panelled door.
    As soon as they entered the house they saw an elderly woman standing in the living room as though waiting for them. She looked nothing like the balding crones scuffing up and down the Chinatown sidewalks in baggy pants and matching coats lugging bags bulging with tumorous vegetables. She was slim and elegant and stood with her hands primly folded before her.
    â€œGrandma, this is Cyril Androidchunk,” said Connie.
    â€œEnchantee.” She held out a lily-like hand, pinky poised. It took Cyril a full half minute before he understood that he was supposed to kiss it. He did. It smelled of jasmine.
    The living room had a Danish modern couch with matching chairs and coffee table, on the mantel ceramic black panthers and above it a gold landscape: gold lake, gold tree, a gold man and a gold woman in a gold pagoda. And Connie’s grandmother, her hands folded once again like a society hostess at a soirée.
    â€œBon après midi,” she said.
    â€œBon après midi,” replied Cyril. He put his hand on the newel post carved like a pineapple and went up the stairs after Connie.
    â€œThinks she’s France Nuyen.” Connie took a key ring from her pocket and gave it a jingle. “I like keys,” she said. “And locks.