The Delusionist Read Online Free Page B

It’s no contest. I said no.” Then she added, “Maybe he could do a swan dive from his roof.”
    â€œMaybe I’ll push him off,” said Cyril, who was not at all shocked by Gilbert’s betrayal. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d tried stealing from him. They were best friends but they were competitive. Who was taller, who was stronger, who could spit further, piss longest. “Why does your grandmother want to be France Nuyen?”
    â€œBecause France Nuyen is beautiful and exotic.”

    Cyril’s mother said invite Connie to supper. He was wary. His mother hated Russians and Germans, and was sceptical of Austrians, Hungarians, Rumanians and Turks, and despised the Commies, so what did she think of the Chinese?
    Connie expressed no reaction when she entered the Andrachuk’s living room and saw a weeping Virgin the size of a garden gnome on the cabinet in the corner, the dozens of Virgin Marys on the mantel, the painting of the Madonna and Child, the Bibles and the candles, the Nativity scenes embroidered on the cushions. Seeing it through Connie’s eyes it took on a strange and alien aspect, and Cyril found himself sniffing the air fearing it smelled of the cabbage his mother insisted on cooking. When his mother entered the room she halted at the sight of Connie, who was wearing a short-sleeved white blouse, pleated plaid skirt, flat-soled black shoes. Cyril waited fearfully. His mother’s chin was elevated and her eyebrows up. She smiled and opened her arms and embraced Connie. Soon they were chatting like old friends, the weather, the neighbourhood, Connie’s plans.
    â€œVould— would —you like tea?”
    â€œI’d love tea.”
    â€œCyril,” she said, not looking at him. “Tea.”
    He retreated to the kitchen and made tea, returning a few minutes later to find his mother and Connie on the couch, knee-to-knee, holding hands. He set the tray on the table. The teapot was in the shape of a pumpkin with matching cups.
    â€œPour.”
    He poured.
    â€œEkting,” she said, nodding as though it was an interesting concept. “You get job, ekting?”
    â€œMa.”
    She turned and considered Cyril. “What job you will get?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    She nodded, the corners of her mouth down, eyebrows up, as if to say that was an amusing opinion though as naive as every other idea in his head. She turned back to Connie. “He has no direction. His brother is CGA .”
    â€œ CGA .” Connie nodded as though, like ekting , that too was an interesting concept.
    It was a Wednesday evening in August. Paul had moved out at the beginning of the summer yet still showed for supper three or four times a week. This turned out to be one of those evenings.
    â€œActing?” said Paul over the boiled potatoes and roast pork. “Acting like what?”
    Cyril gripped his butter knife ready to stab him.
    Connie regarded Paul with lidded eyes. “Like a queen, of course.” And then, waiting just long enough for awkwardness to set in, she added, “Either that or I’ll open a laundry.”
    No one breathed much less spoke. Then Connie laughed. Paul was so surprised his habitual sneer melted and he too laughed, long and loudly.

    They went to see Gypsy . Even in the privacy of the theatre’s darkness Cyril tried not staring too hard at Natalie Wood’s thighs and cleavage, yet he need not have worried because Connie was so rapt she forgot he was even there. They sat in the seventh row, her favourite row, the perfect row, just close enough but at the same time far enough away that your neck didn’t kink. She sat deep in her seat, gripping the armrests, absorbing the silver screen’s transcendent radiance. There was Natalie Wood in pink feathers squaring off against her mother, Rosalind Russell, clad in black. “Look at me, momma. Look at me. No education. From Seattle. Look at me