The Delusionist (24 page)

“That's not a bad idea,” he said, meaning it. “You serious about moving back?” He tried not to sound too hopeful yet not too offhand.

She took an orange from a bowl beside the bed, examined it then put it back. “Yeah. Why not?” There was an edge to her voice, as if she'd been over this before. “It's not a defeat. There's lots of stuff going on up here. More than ever.” Then she dropped the defiance and, as if confessing said, “I'm fifty.”

Cyril sucked air in shock; she made a fist as though to punch him. He caught her hand and kissed it. There was a hint of citrus.

“It's just that you wonder what you've achieved,” she said.

“I'll tell you what you've achieved: you haven't spent thirty years wishing you'd done something else.”

Her gaze searched him. She shifted closer. Their legs were entwined, her skin hot. Cyril had forgotten how reassuring physical contact was. Resting his arm on her thigh he stroked it languidly and they kissed for a while and she said again how often she thought of him, and then she fell asleep. Her breathing settled into a deep slow rhythm. He studied her then shut his eyes as well but couldn't drift off. A bottle burst in the alley, then came the clatter of a shopping cart, followed by a siren and, just outside the window, the clapping of a frightened pigeon. He sat up and swung his legs out of the bed.

Connie woke. “Cyril?”

“I don't know,” he said.

“Don't know what?”

“I've been pissed off at you ever since that movie. You should have come back out. We could've gone to something else. Together.”

She curled on her side and after a while said, “You're right. I thought about it. I almost cashed in my ticket and came back out. I'm sorry. I was seventeen. Selfish. Kind of still am.”

Cyril pressed his palms down on the bed as if about to stand.

Connie put her hand on his back as if to hold him. “Draw me.”

“When?”

“Now.”

She handed him the drawing book from the side table.

“Takes time.”

“I've got time.”

“You're leaving.”

“I'm coming back.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

He considered that. “I work slowly.”

“What, you think I want some half-assed job? Some sketch? Wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am?”

He studied her in the candle light, his eye tracing the contours of her face, its light and shadow, the shape of her mouth and nose, the lengths of her eyes, the curl of her ear. She was wearing the hoop earrings he'd bought her.

After a moment she asked, “Is this how it begins?”

He shrugged. “It could be.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Grant Buday has published nine books and many articles, essays, and short stories in Canadian magazines and quarterlies. While he has travelled extensively throughout the world he currently lives on Mayne Island, British Columbia, with his wife and son, where he manages a recycling depot.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank Paul Bondarenko for his Ukrainian language lessons, and all the people I strong-armed into reading, and rereading, this manuscript: the herr doktor Simon Hearn, Yasuko Thanh, Joy Gugeler, Jack Schofield, and most especially Eden.