Read Online The Delusionist by Grant Buday - Free Book Online Page A

child’s swing, wearing a bonnet, a soother in his mouth. He’d intended to redo his entire Stalin series but was afraid his mother would destroy them again. He’d got onto owls for no other reason than that Gilbert had bought a stuffed one from the St. Vincent de Paul as a joke and named it Elvis.
    â€œYou handle a pencil reasonably well,” admitted the interviewer, a pale man with lank brown hair, a posh British accent, and nicotine-stained fingernails.
“They’ve got verve. But they’re hasty. They’re rushed.”
    Cyril started to explain what had happened but the other interviewer, a fat man in a black turtleneck, black beard, and black crewcut, seemed in no mood for explanations. He pooched out his wet, red lips then sucked them back in. “Impatience is the mark of the amateur.” Ama-toor .
    â€œNot uninteresting though,” allowed the first. “Intriguing, actually.”
    â€œMakes me want to scrub my hands with bleach,” said the fat one. “And there’s no colour. Nowhere do I see colour.” He sorted through the drawings with his thick-fingered hands. “Drawing and colour are not distinct. As one paints, one draws. Can you tell me who said that?”
    Cyril could not.
    â€œCezanne. When colour is richest, form is most complete.”
    â€œMany fine artists have worked in a limited palette,” said the first.
    The other was unimpressed. “Adolescent,” he said, pointing to Stalin in the bonnet. He turned his profile to Cyril, indicating that the interview was at an end.
    â€œThat’s a tad harsh, Glen.”
    Glen gazed at the door as though longing to obey the EXIT sign above it. “Alistair, dishonesty serves no one.”
    Alistair clasped his hands on the desk and looked seriously at Cyril. “Why do you draw?”
    â€œIt’s as if there’s always something waiting at the end of the drawing,” he said. “Something surprising.”
    Alistair nodded vigorously.
    â€œThe question,” said Glen, turning his gaze from the exit sign back to Cyril, “is whether you’ve got any vision worth evolving. Otherwise you are merely a draughtsman.”
    â€œDraughtsmanship is important,” cautioned Alistair.
    â€œBut without vision it is merely a trade,” said Glen.
    â€œMy father was a draughtsman,” said Alistair. He nodded encouragingly to Cyril. “There’s a call for draughtsman in the building industry. Have you considered draughting?”

    That September he moved into the top floor of an old house with slanted ceilings and a view of rooftops and downtown, the closest thing to a Parisian garret the city had to offer. He continued stocking shelves at the IGA and with the rest of his time he drew, occasionally venturing into colour, doing oil pastels of the city at night while listening to the traffic, the sirens, the shouts, the occasional crump of a collision or crack of a gunshot.
    He imagined Connie living here with him. She could hang her swords on the wall, he’d help her rehearse her lines, and she’d pose for him. He phoned her house once but her grandmother just kept repeating, “ Je ne connais pas. C’est vie pas bon, pas bon  . . .  ”
    Then Paul showed up one evening. This would have been awkward at the best of times, but the fact that he was drunk made it worse. Paul was erratic when he drank and tended to say even more vicious things than when sober, but this time booze had put him in a maudlin mood; he looked old and tired and troubled; he’d never had many friends and it was terrifying for Cyril to realize that after a lifetime of enduring Paul’s sarcasm he was turning to him. It was a first, and Cyril wasn’t sure how to act.
    Sensing Cyril’s unease, Paul reverted to form. “This place is a hole.”
    Cyril was almost grateful. “Nice to see you, too.”
    Paul raised his middle finger and