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

kissed it. “Any time. Got anything to drink?”
    â€œTap water.”
    Paul sneered then drew a flask from his suit coat, swigged, and was halfway through twisting the cap back on before he paused and tilted it toward Cyril.
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œChinese tea. What difference does it make?”
    Cyril drank. Whisky. He suppressed a grimace and passed it back.
    Paul gave it a shake to see how much was left then gulped the remainder. “She’s miserable.”
    At first Cyril thought he meant Della. Then he understood. “Ma?”
    He nodded heavily. “Misses him.”
    â€œDad?”
    â€œDarrel,” said Paul, shaking his head in disgust.
    â€œWhat does she say?”
    â€œDoesn’t have to say anything. I can see it in her face.”
    Cyril guiltily changed the subject and asked after Della.
    Paul gestured as if to say who knew. “Swimming, volleyball, archery.”
    Cyril could see Della, tall, strong, focused, shooting a bow and arrow.
    â€œNext it’ll be lacrosse.”
    Paul wore glasses with thick black frames and a short-sleeved button down white shirt and narrow black tie. Mr. cga. Paul looked up suddenly. “I miss the old man.”
    â€œMe too.”
    â€œYou knew he was a party member?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œNo?”
    Paul’s tone angered Cyril. “How could I? No one ever told me anything. You guys all made sure of that.”
    Paul shrugged and looked out the window. “Okay, okay. I’m not here so you can gripe. That’s why they left Lvov and moved east, to Kiev. To be closer to the centre. Closer to him, the great man. Everyone wanted to be near him.” Paul yanked at his tie loosening it. “He was a god. The new god. And the old man was a believer. He believed it all. The people, fed and happy and singing.” He grew quiet, adding, “Dad loved to sing.”
    Cyril didn’t remember his father ever singing and had a hard time even imagining it. “What about ma?”
    Paul blew air and shrugged. “She believed because he believed. Because it was exciting. Because it was big. Because it was history. They figured believe hard enough they could make it real. That if you didn’t believe there was something wrong with you. And if you didn’t you ended up in a camp or against a wall. So they believed. Except Koba wasn’t much of a god. Not even much of an uncle. He stole the harvests. Let the Ukrainians starve, better to feed the people in Moscow, the people who count. The winter of frozen corpses. Ma told me about it. Every morning the streets and the river bank thick with bodies frozen as hard as marble. The rats couldn’t even chew them. The ears. They could chew the ears. Went on all through the ’30s and then the war. The thing is if they’d have stayed in Lvov we’d have been able to eat. And maybe my bones wouldn’t be like balsa wood.” He shut his eyes and slumped back, exhausted. “You, you’re lucky. Did you know there’s a town in Ukraine called Luck?”

    Cyril walked past Darrel’s place, a two-storey, stucco-sided apartment building with junipers and bark mulch. It was early evening. Cyril walked past twice. On the third pass he plunged on up the walk to the intercom and ran his finger down the list of names and discovered that where Stavrik had been there was now a strip of masking tape with ‘Occupant’ written in red ink. He stepped back to see the front of the building, thinking he might spot some clue. Nothing. He returned to the intercom, took a breath and pressed the buzzer. It ticked and buzzed, ticked and buzzed. He was relieved until he knew he’d have to return and try again later, so he buzzed again and counted ten ticks. As he was turning to leave, a female voice broke through the static.
    Had Darrel already hooked up with another woman? He felt betrayed on his mother’s behalf. How long had it been,