The Delusionist

by Grant Buday

  She turned her head way. “I’m busy.”

  They were seated by the window in a pair of deep wicker thrones that Cyril had bought at Value Village. It was late October, the sun down, the leaves turning, the grass still pale, the last scent of summer lingering. “Come.”

  She looked at him, eyes wet. “Okay.”

  Paul and Della were already there. Yvonne stood a full five inches taller than Della, who was five inches taller than Paul.

  “How’s the air up there?” he asked.

  “I can see for mile,” she said. She shook hands with Cyril’s mother, praised her Virgin Marys, then joined Della on the couch.

  “Where are the boys?” asked Cyril.

  “Steve has a car now. They’ll be fashionably late.”

  “I didn’t get a car until I was twenty-three,” said Paul, proud, bitter, bemused. He looked pale and shaky. Cyril didn’t remark on this because it would only incite his brother’s rancour.

  Yvonne put her hand on Della’s knee. “Your boys, they are how old?”

  “Seventeen. Twins.”

  “Do they read each other’s mind?”

  “They fight,” said Paul from the padded chair in the corner. He looked as foul as a chamber pot.

  “Brothers,” said Yvonne. “I ’ave three and they beat each other black and blue from day one.”

  Della nodded wearily.

  Helen had placed herself on a small wooden chair the better to study the fantastical Yvonne. Cyril knew what she was thinking: was she daughter-in-law material, was she going to give her more grand-children?

  Yvonne had braided her hair in a thick red hawser that she draped forward over her shoulder. The normally reticent Della was fingering it as though it was embroidery. Della’s hair was combed straight back and she wore white jeans and a tight black top and a strand of red coral. Yvonne wore a black pullover and red jeans, had a large red stud in her nostril and hoop earrings the size of handcuffs.

  Cyril bustled about getting drinks, scotch to Paul, red wine to Yvonne, Della, and his mother. For all that she was dour and self-assured, this evening his mother seemed small and frail and uncertain, as if she was drifting out to sea on an iceberg. It was a desolate realization, but he understood that she was old, that she was ignored, that neither her opinion nor presence much mattered, and hadn’t since she was no longer required as a babysitter for Chuckie and Steve. If Cyril and Yvonne gave her grand-children she might return to the world of the living.

  When Chuckie and Steve arrived, Steve was leading the way as usual. He wore a short, black leather jacket, collar up, hair artfully greased, a few days of equally artful stubble on his chin, a small ring in one ear. He entered through the kitchen twirling the keys of his new car and abusing Chuckie with jovial contempt.

  “No one cares, Chucko,” he stated with finality. “Karl Marx, Groucho Marx, no one. Not even you. You’re just churning air.” Having dealt with his brother, Steve went straight to his grandmother and by the time he reached her his swagger had magically transformed into courtliness. He kissed her. She reached to put her palm to his cheek and he hovered just long enough that she might know the glory that was him before turning and acknowledging everyone else. He shook hands with Yvonne who appeared highly entertained by this young blade.

  Chuckie was eating two slices of bread plucked from the dinner table. He stopped chewing long enough to kiss his grandmother who made no attempt to stroke his face. He wore a grey sweatshirt and faded jeans. His reddish hair hung uncombed and his stubble, not at all artful like Steve’s, was itchy to look at. He was overweight, though moved with a bearlike grace.

  “Well?” demanded Paul.

  “Friday,” said Steve.

  Paul nodded severely. He’d bought Steve an old Datsun on the understanding that he’d pay him back in instalments. So far not a dime had arrived.

  They moved to the dinner table. Pork, gravy, brussel sprouts, potatoes. Helen Andrachuk remained faithful to her traditional cuisine, her one concession—after years of pleading from Cyril—was to forego cabbage except in the form of coleslaw. Everyone ate heartily except Paul. Della put her palm to his forehead.

  He pushed it away. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re pale.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “How did you meet?” Helen asked Yvonne.

  “Art class. I am model.”

  “Novak,” Helen said sceptically.

  “And I sing. I ’ave gig next month at the Classical Joint.”

  “Congratulations!” said Della.

  Helen’s mouth worked silently as if translating the real meaning of these words. Model? Singer? Paul went to the couch and stretched out, arm across his brow. Della went to her bag and consulted an array of pill bottles. She gave him some water and tablets and a cool cloth for his forehead. Conversation resumed at a subdued volume. By eight-thirty Paul and Della had gone home. Steve made some calls and announced he was off to the Ridge to see Stop Making Sense.

  Chuckie laughed. “Spam for drones.”

  “What’re you gonna do? Put on your Mao hat and read his Little Red Book?”

  “You’re the monkey in the uniform.”

  Steve shook his head scornfully.

  “Behold the rebel, the rogue, the renegade,” mocked Chuckie. “Terror of the bourgeoisie.”

  Steve kissed his grandmother, tossed them all a jaunty wave, and departed jingling his keys. Cyril cleared the table and did the dishes while Chuckie watched the news and Helen made conversation with Yvonne.

  Cyril accompanied Yvonne to her performance at the Classical Joint. He’d often heard her break into riffs, bits of scat, random shrieked notes, as if she was Ella Fitzgerald trying to shatter a wine glass. Her voice was undeniably powerful.

  It was a Friday night. The Classical Joint was in a narrow turn of the century building in Gastown, with brick walls and a high ceiling and mismatched tables and chairs. Cyril had been there with Gilbert, it being one of the few places in the city open after midnight.

  Yvonne was relaxed. She entered the Joint as if she owned it. She presented Cyril to Andreus, the urbane Austrian manager with a chinstrap beard. She introduced Cyril to the sax and bass who would be backing her up, two opium-eyed wraiths.

  “Man.”

  “Hey.”

  They looked from Cyril to Yvonne and back to Cyril, as if wondering how the two of them fit together. Cyril needed a drink. There was no liquor license, but you could order special coffee which arrived with a shot of whisky. Cyril had one, then another, while Yvonne conferred with her musicians. The place soon filled up. People paid their respects, leaning close to Yvonne and whispering in her ear and she throwing her head back and laughing. Cyril had not seen this side of her life. He felt intrigued and abandoned. At about ten in the evening, responding to some secret signal, Yvonne rose and led the sax and bass to the small stage to a spatter of whistles and applause. Then everyone fell silent. Yvonne struck an undeniably impressive figure. Her hair hung long and loose over her bare shoulders, she wore a black tank top that high-lighted her magnificent breasts, and an Indian print skirt that swirled about her thighs. She rolled the mic like a fine cigar in her fingers.

  The sax opened with low, lamenting notes and then the bass joined in, muted and sad, and then Yvonne began to sing. No one would deny that it was heartfelt. But from her first note—if it was indeed a note—the crowd was uneasy. Within minutes they were exchanging awkward and sceptical glances. Soon some were smirking while others bore expressions of horrified embarrassment. Cyril watched it all. But mostly he watched Yvonne, impressed at how she ploughed ahead, indifferent or oblivious, it was impossible to say which. Maybe she was just too far advanced for them. Maybe she was on another plane. In his heart he knew she stunk. When she finally took a break an hour later most people fled. Yvonne, sweating, exhilarated, rejoined Cyril at his table. She kissed him, moist and hot and vibrant. He hugged her tightly as if to stop her from going back up on stage, to keep her c
lose and safe from any further humiliation. He pleaded silently for a power failure. Apparently she was only warming up. The second set went on for an hour and forty minutes. When she was finally done Cyril and Andreus were the only ones in the place, even the street people who’d slipped in taking refuge from the rain having vanished.

  It was two AM when they got back to Cyril’s.

  They were still in his van when she turned to him. “What did you think?”

  “Great.”

  She shifted to face him. “You’re bullshitting.”

  “No.”

  “You think I don’t see ’ow everyone bugger off? Fucking Vancouver. Little ass shithole town.” She shook her hair back, disgusted.

  Cyril was tortured.

  “I’m good,” she said, defiantly. Then she was sobbing.

  Cyril hugged her. “You are. Really. You just need practice. Maybe some voice lessons.”

  She shoved him away. “You’re supposed to be loyal! You’re supposed to be behind me!”

  “I am.”

  “’Ow far? Ten mile?”

  “Let’s go in.”

  “I don’t need lessons. I’m a natural. Anyway, what do you know? You’re just some guy who draws.”

  TWO

  CYRIL HAD HATED hospitals ever since he’d worked in one, hated their look, their sounds, and most especially their smell of disinfectant and death. But he dutifully went to visit Paul. A small television was suspended on a mechanical arm above the bed. A program was on about government reparations to the Japanese interned during World War II. There was Mulroney, professionally solemn, absurdly long-jawed, apologizing with that grave voice to the Japanese Canadians for the terrible injustice they had endured.

  Paul was smiling his bitter smile. “Funny how they never apologized for interning the Ukrainians in World War One. And how about the Holodomor? Not a word from Gorbachev about that.” Paul’s smile became even more bitter, his entire face twisting. “Twenty grand each we’re giving the Japs. Nice.”

  “Should be ten times that,” said Cyril.

  “Maybe,” said Paul. “Twenty grand I could go to Mexico and buy a kidney.”

  “You could go to Ukraine and buy two,” said Chuckie.

  Seated in one of the green vinyl armchairs across the room, Helen hardened her jaw and continued weeping silently. Chuckie and Steve stood one on either side of their father’s bed, while Cyril stood at the foot beside Della.

  When they’d first got the news about Paul’s condition the doctor had ushered them into his office and invited them to sit and then explained that a kidney transplant was Paul’s only hope. Short-haired and tight-collared, the doctor was as grave as a priest. The gift of a kidney was the thing they must hope for, because they were in very short supply.

  On the drive home from the hospital Cyril’s mother had said, “Give him one of yours.” Her tone suggested he had all kinds of kidneys rattling around inside him.

  Cyril hadn’t said no. But he’d hesitated. And as he did, he felt her watching him, felt her stare burning like a torch into the side of his face. He felt sick and selfish because he didn’t want to give up one of his kidneys. “Okay,” he said, nodding his head profoundly, as though he hadn’t been hesitating at all, that of course he’d do it, he’d only appeared to hesitate because he was concentrating on the road. “Okay,” he said again, and for a while they drove in silence. “But maybe we should also consider options. Get another opinion. You know? Just to be sure.” He tried to sound relaxed and reasonable.

  His mother’s response to relaxed and reasonable was to slap him so hard he nearly drove into an oncoming truck.

  When he pulled up in front of the house his face was still scorched while his mother’s was ice. She’d never forgive or forget. He was selfish and ungrateful and had a soul like smoke. She got out in silence and slammed the door. He leaned across and yelled after her, “I said I’ll do it.”

  The next day Cyril came by to take her to the hospital but she wasn’t home. When he got to Paul’s room she was already there, having called a cab. She sat with her chin up and head averted as if he was a stench.

  “You look like shit,” said Paul.

  “You look great,” said Cyril.

  “I could dance.”

  Cyril took a deep breath and announced, “I’ll give you one of mine.”

  It was as though curtains had been flung wide and a window opened admitting fresh air. Steve and Chuckie stepped forward and shook Cyril’s hand and gripped his shoulder. Was the relief in their eyes joy at his saving their dad, or relief at escaping the obligation of donating one of their own kidneys? Cyril chastised himself for such a mean and selfish thought. His mother said nothing. Della embraced him.

  “Everyone out,” said Paul. “I want to talk to my brother.” Steve and Chuckie helped their grandmother into the corridor. Alone, Paul asked Cyril to come closer and then contemplated him. “You’re an asshole,” he concluded. “A sneak and an asshole. You think you can get the upper hand this way? You think I want to be in debt to you?”

  Cyril stared stupidly.

  “I’ve been a shit to you all my life. A shit. I know it. You know it. Della’s been giving me hell for twenty years over it. Even ma knows it. Sometimes I actually feel bad about it. Now you’re gonna be the martyr?” He snorted. “Fuck off, Cyril. I wouldn’t give you one of mine.”

  Cyril’s voice was strangled with emotion. “I’ve spent my life being blamed by you for something that wasn’t my fault.”

  “So? I’ve spent my life suffering for something that wasn’t my fault. I think you got the better deal.”

  “I said I’ll give you a kidney and I mean it.”

  Paul smiled. Not his usual sour little number but an affable smile. “But the Lord will give me life everlasting, Cyril.”

  For a moment Cyril almost believed his brother had found faith. Was this what happened when you faced death?

  The others came back in. When Paul told them his opinion of Cyril’s offer no amount of argument could change his mind, and to put an end to the debate he kicked them all out saying he was tired.

  They went to the cafeteria.

  “It’s because you’re reluctant,” his mother said. “He sees it. He senses it. It’s in your eyes and in your voice and even in the way you stand.”

  Stand? How did he stand? Aware of Della and Steve and Chuckie watching, Cyril said he’d only wanted more information, was that so unreasonable, to want more information? “I’ll do it. I told him I’d do it. We talked about it.”

  “It’s too late,” said his mother. “It’s not a gift from the heart.” She looked away and it was all Cyril could do to keep from reaching across and smacking her just as she’d smacked him.

  “It’s not too late,” he said. “He’ll come around. He has no choice.”

  Two days later Cyril met with the surgeon who outlined what kidney donation entailed. Apparently it was harder on the donor than the recipient. Cyril nodded. He’d heard that. They ran tests, he gave blood, he was given a strict diet, and he became depressed and resentful and afraid.

  Not that it mattered. Paul continued to resist. In fact he seemed strengthened by this final act of defiance. When their mother begged him he turned his face to the wall and refused to sign the papers: no signature, no operation. Only Della respected his decision.

  Yvonne had come to the hospital a number of times as well. She urged Cyril not to feel guilty. He appreciated that. He was glad she’d come. They hadn’t seen much of each other since the night of her debut at the Classical Joint. She and Cyril took Della for a drink after one visit, and watching Yvonne console Della it struck Cyril that maybe she was missing her calling and that she too should have gone into nursing. Later, Yvonne said how impressed she was at Della’s dignity through it all.

  Cyril visited one evening before his drawing class. No one else was there and Paul was asleep. Maybe it was the drugs, but he looked more peaceful than Cyril had ever seen him, his
head angled as if to look out the window at the treetops. Taking out his sketchbook, Cyril did some drawings.

  “Aren’t I supposed to take my clothes off?” Paul’s eyes were open.

  Cyril dropped his pencil.

  “Lemme see.”

  He held the sketches up.

  Paul said nothing for a long time. Then with wonder in his voice he said, “Jeez, I sure look better’n I feel.” He then shocked Cyril by asking if he could have them.

  “Okay.”

  Paul held the drawings in his hands and studied them as though memorizing the face of a long lost relative. For the next week the dialysis machine kept him alive, but it was no match for his will, for he descended doggedly, as though by choice, with a distinct air of triumph, into a coma and stayed there until he died.

  At the funeral his mother, Steve, and Chuckie refused to look at Cyril much less speak to him. Only Della was civil.

  Over the following months Cyril and Yvonne drifted apart. He called one night and, getting no answer, he drove down to the Classical Joint. It was late, nearly eleven. Standing outside he peered through the window and saw her on stage. He paid his two dollars and went in. He had to admit that her singing had improved. She was on key and less mannered, though there were still a few smirks and rolled eyes from the audience. Looking around for a chair Cyril spotted Della. He was about to join her when the set ended and Della leapt up and applauded longer and louder and more enthusiastically than anyone else. Yvonne went straight to her and they embraced.

  Paul’s death didn’t mean Cyril never saw him again. In fact he began seeing him all too much. One night he appeared squatting like a gargoyle at the end of Cyril’s bed, sucking so fiercely at a cigarette that his eyes glowed like a stoked furnace. Another night he woke from a vision of Paul duct taping barbells to his legs and pushing him off a pier, the bubbling grey water rushing up past his face while the weights dragged him down. Night after night such scenarios recurred until eventually Cyril couldn’t sleep at all. It was as if Paul was waiting inside his head. The family was there too, his mother and his father and Steve and Chuckie watching with barbed wire expressions. Sleeping pills made it worse, functioning like a straitjacket that kept him helplessly at the whim of his tormenters. He paced and he drank and soon his neighbours complained about his heavy tread. The manager warned him, so Cyril started taking marathon walks around the city. More than once he was accosted by muggers, perverts, and madmen lurching from bushes. He resumed pacing indoors and the complaints also resumed. He bought a rug to muffle his footsteps but the complaints continued because by then he was moaning out loud and begging them to leave him alone.