The Delusionist

by Grant Buday

  “Sure,” he said, smile rigid, “let’s call it a misunderstanding.”

  Borgland nodded and then sat back in his swivel chair. “Well, we’ll get to those things. But first I want some background, some context.”

  Cyril wondered how one trained for the job of probing another man’s personality, weighing their experiences and actions, their opinions and dreams. It all seemed pretty ethereal. But Cyril went along with it, telling Mr. Bernard Borgland what he wanted to know about his childhood, his schooling, his work history, his interest in art. An hour later they parted amiably, with another handshake.

  “I’d like to see some of your drawings,” said Borgland.

  “Sure,” said Cyril.

  On the drive home Cyril resolved not to go back. The worst that could happen was Borgland and Steve conferred, papers were filed, blah was blah’d, and Steve sold the house and cut Cyril a cheque. Bing, bang, boom. Whatever. He felt relieved.

  At an intersection, he waited for an old couple to cross. They leaned forward as though hiking into a gale. Arm-in-arm they battled this wind, scarcely able to lift their feet. They may as well have been wearing lead boots their progress was so slow and torturous. The little green man turned into a red hand and yet they weren’t even halfway across. They wore raincoats in spite of the heat, the old man wore a fedora, and his wife a checked scarf tied under her chin. Cyril’s window was down, the heat hovering over the cars and the fumes parching his throat. Now they were in front of Cyril. The old man turned his head and managed a trembling gesture of apology for how far he had fallen from the grace of youth. Cyril raised his hand meaning it was fine, it was okay, there was no rush. The old man faced forward again and continued supporting his mate, the woman he’d known fifty, maybe sixty years, to the far side of this fierce river of hot, angry iron. The traffic light had gone from red to green to red again. Cyril watched the couple mount the kerb and then enjoy a moment—but only a moment—of relief before repositioning themselves for the next crosswalk. He thought of offering them a ride, but engines revved and the driver behind him honked and the light was green, so Cyril pressed the accelerator, certain that there was some meaning in this incident, yet unsure what it could be and how to find out except by drawing it. How did he draw the afternoon of the world, the waning day, the transient light as furtive as a deer in a parking lot puddled by rain? With his back to his mind and his face to the paper? Was that what Novak wanted?

  Over the following week he devoted his energy to drawing. He felt good, he felt strong, and he felt right, he would participate in the show at The Arena. As for the psychiatric sessions, forget it, he was done. Yet on the morning that his second session with Borgland was scheduled Cyril found himself wide awake at five AM staring at the ceiling. He showered long, he shaved carefully, he paid particular attention to breakfast—16-grain toast with buckwheat honey, black coffee, and full-pulp orange juice—and then watched himself evaluate each drawing he was considering for the art show. When the time came for his appointment with Borgland—the appointment he was blowing off—he watched himself go to his closet and pick out his best shirt, brick coloured linen with slate buttons, a shirt he rarely got the opportunity to wear, then get in his van and follow the route out Kingsway toward Borgland’s office. Halfway there he wrenched the wheel left and cut across the oncoming traffic—car horns warping past—down a side street and five minutes later was parking in front of Gilbert’s apartment.

  El Condor was scrolled across the glass door of the building in chipped bronze letters. A philodendron of prehistoric dimensions groped the windows as though frantic to escape. Cyril punched Gilbert’s number, said, “Hey,” the door buzzed and he swung it open. The carpeted corridor smelled of insecticide and attar of rose. He found Gilbert seated in front of the computer in a gold robe with indigo trim.

  “My man, you’re supposed to be on the couch.”

  Cyril stood on the Kashmiri carpet with peacocks and vines swirling about his feet. A puppy tumbled toward him and began wetly snuffling his shoes. Cyril backed up and the dog followed. It was small and blonde, with long ears and weepy eyes, and was apparently besotted by the smell of his feet.

  “What do you think? Will Savannah like it?”

  Cyril had no option but to succumb to the puppy’s slobbery charm. He picked it up. Warm and soft and squirmy, it licked his face and he leaned away though couldn’t keep from smiling.

  “A lab?”

  “A pure-bred lab, my friend.”

  Cyril held it to his chest. Pot-bellied and eager, with fur like cashmere. Gilbert had always had dogs as a kid, mutts that he tried training to attack but which could rarely overcome their amiable nature in spite of all his efforts to warp them into killers. Again the dog licked Cyril’s throat with its slimy-soft tongue. Cyril poured the dog onto the floor where it stepped on its own ear and fell over. Thanks to the dog the mood had turned sweet, which screwed up everything, but he would not be diverted; he was here on a mission. “I saw you and Steve,” he said louder than intended.

  Gilbert did not interrupt his study of the stock market. “Saw me and Steve what?”

  “Laughing.”

  “Laughing?” He shook his head as if at the absurdity of the very notion. “Where?”

  “In front of his office. I was going by. You were laughing.”

  “And laughing is a problem?”

  “Depends what you were laughing about.”

  Gilbert didn’t hesitate, nor did he turn from the screen. “You.”

  Cyril watched Gilbert work the mouse. The screen was dense with tight columns of bold figures. Gilbert had always loved numbers, for in his mind they were the essence of money and measurement, and nothing was more important to measure than money. He should have gone into accounting like Paul. “This guy, Borgland, he’s a real psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  Cyril waited for the punchline. Then he couldn’t wait. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I never said he was a psychiatrist. I said he’s a psychologist. The difference being, my friend, that the former is a medical doctor, and the latter, ain’t. Capiche? But for your purposes, my suspicious comrade, it’s all the same. He can sign the paper and send you whistling on your merry way.”

  The dog curled up and with a great sigh went to sleep on the rug.

  “So what’s so funny about me?”

  “You want a list? You spying for one thing.” Gilbert spun his chair to face him. His eyes lacked their usual lustre, though they brightened noticing his shirt. “Nice.” Gilbert’s red robe was handmade by a tailor from Palermo on Commercial Drive. The couch was zebra, the coffee table smoked glass, the wall hung with framed prints of birds painted by Audubon. On another wall hung a row of framed photos of his daughters and granddaughters. Every one had inherited Gilbert’s dense dark hair. The apartment’s finery was all that remained from his various and uniformly disastrous marriages.

  “I wasn’t spying,” said Cyril.

  “Just getting a little paranoid maybe? I mean, I don’t blame you, those two nephews of yours.”

  “I thought you hated Steve.”

  “Hate drains the energy. I’m all about unconditional love.”

  Cyril waited. Trading jabs was a waste of time. Silence was the only route through Gilbert’s defences.

  “I was visiting Steve for some legal counsel. Vis-à-vis reducing my debt load. I’m taking a pounding. The three harpies have me on the ropes.”

  “What happened to Murphy?”

  “Murphy’s on dialysis and a respirator.”

  The dog sat up then wobbled over to Gilbert who scooped it into his lap and stroked it under the chin. “You’re tense, Cyril. I would be too. There’s a lot at stake. But a word of advice: it reflects badly on you to go around making accusations. I mean, between me and you, okay, but be careful. People can spin that sort of thing. Don’t go giving Stevie-boy any more ammo than he’s already got.” He checked his Rolex. “You’re late.”


  In fact he pulled up in front of Borgland’s right on time though he did not shut off the ignition or get out of the van, he sat there with the engine humming, battling a deeply rooted sense of obligation to go in and sit down and meekly undergo an interrogation with right and wrong answers, and serious consequences. Wasn’t that the mature thing to do? Or was it the weak thing to do? Yet by law he was entitled to a portion of the estate, meaning that instead of full control of a five hundred thousand dollar house he’d get half or a third. But the principle, wasn’t there a principle, wasn’t there always a principle? He put the van in drive and headed home, singing.

  FIVE

  CYRIL SPENT THEmorning of the art show wrapping his framed and glassed drawings in butcher paper for transport to The Arena. The gallery was on the street level of an old brick building that was deep and narrow, with a high ceiling and a fir slat floor. He arrived at noon to set up, thinking he was early, only to discover that the gallery was already so busy that the only wall space left was in the back by the toilet.

  “You’re by the crapper,” said Richard. “That’s good,” he added, seeing Cyril’s stricken face. “People will come out all relieved and yours’ll be the first thing they’ll see.” Eyes wide behind his glasses, Richard retreated.

  Cyril went back out to his van to get his drawings, fought the urge to simply drive away, and carried them back into the gallery. All around him clusters of people whispered, and snapped pictures and obsessed over their displays. He unwrapped his pieces then lined them against the wall wondering how to position them. The show was called 8 x 8: Eight works by eight artists. Two rows of four would be boring. He considered two, four, two, or running them at an angle, or in an X. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath and reflected. Did he detect a hint of latrine in the air back here? Would that drive people away? Would they associate his stuff with excrement? Other artists drifted over for a look at his drawings, murmured approval then drifted away. He knew them from class, where there was always an atmosphere of camaraderie, yet now, in this new and public environment a competitive mood prevailed, and he re-evaluated his drawings: gravestones, 18 x 24 inches, black-metal-frames. In one, the stone was the back of a kneeling woman with a long and intricate braid, in another it was a burn barrel brimming with flames, in another it was a paint brush, bristles down, with an apple sporting a Stetson on top of the handle, in yet another the gravestone was a mirror with a winged horse ridden by a laughing demon reflected in the glass.

  He went around looking at the other work and found Richard pricing his crabs at five hundred bucks apiece. Cyril hadn’t priced his at all. Was his stuff worth what Richard’s was? What if Richard sold out again and Cyril sold nothing? It was hard enough to do the drawings much less put them on display with a dollar figure beside them only to be ignored or ridiculed by self-styled experts who drifted in off the street for the free wine and cheese. Cyril returned to his corner and considered a price of three hundred dollars, or four, or two-fifty, or one. He shoved his hands in his pockets and inhaled a big breath—yes, definitely a hint of toilet. With a black pen he wrote $501 on the tags by each picture.

  The opening didn’t start until seven that evening. An eternity. He went home and cut and raked the lawn and pulled some weeds then went inside and vacuumed the hallway, dusted the Virgin Marys, took a damp Q-tip to the creases in the robe-work and the hair of the icon, and finally tried to do some drawing only to end up staring at his fingers. He gave up and listened to a phone message from John Boston offering him more money to take the job and if not could he recommend someone else. When you didn’t want the work everyone wanted to give it to you. On the porch he looked for the cat but it was nowhere in sight.

  He wandered the house and found himself at his mother’s door. It had been almost two months since she’d died and he’d hardly glanced in. Pushing it open he saw, on the side table, his parents’ wedding photo, black and white and grey with a few cream tones. His mother emanated an uncharacteristic optimism, her brow smooth, eyes calm, neck long in spite of the famine that had already eroded Ukraine like a flesh-eating disease. His father had slicked-back hair, a gaunt face, wary eyes, unable to forget, even on his wedding day, the thunderheads of war. Cyril tried recalling the sound of his laughter and couldn’t; the nearest his father ever came to joy was his quiet exultation the day Stalin had died.

  Setting the photo on its doily, Cyril picked up the black velvet box and clicked it open. The gold bands were shiny on the inside and dull on the outside. He drew them from their slots and held them in his palm, fit the larger one onto his ring finger and the smaller, his mother’s, onto his pinkie then extended his arm and gazed at his hand. What was the adage: all the fingers of the hand are not the same. Which finger was he? He removed the rings and returned them to their place and shut the box.

  The oak bureau had three drawers and an oval mirror. Was there some message he was missing, some clue he was meant to discover? He looked behind the mirror, reached in under the drawers: nothing. Turning to the bed he hoisted the mattress. No, it was not a movie, it was his mother’s bedroom, and there was no trap door or secret compartment, no shoe box full of letters, no revelatory photographs, no diary that explained all, whatever all was. Nonetheless, he opened the closet door. There were her clothes still on the hangers, the smell of old fabric, stale air and the leathery scent of six pairs of shoes set neatly side by side. He parted the clothes like curtains and found an old mirror leaning against the wall and himself reflected from the waist down. About to turn away he reached out and angled the mirror forward and found some large sheets of heavy-grade paper. In the kitchen he laid them on the table. Like ancient charts they wanted to curl in on themselves. He placed oranges on the corners to hold them down and discovered his long lost portfolio for art school, the Stalin-as-dervish postage stamps, including the unfinished one of Stalin on a swing. Thirty years stashed in the closet. His mother had not burned out the eyes. His first impression was favourable, odd, quirky, wobbly of execution, but interesting stuff. For the next half hour he looked at the pictures, wondering if they would have got him into art school, and if it would have made any difference in the long run?

  He left the drawings where they were, and went into the living room, and clicked on the TV and caught the last bit of an episode of I Spy. How dated the clothes and cars, and leisurely the camera work. And there, pulling a gun on tennis-pro and CIA agent Kelly Robinson was a lithe Chinese woman in taut black leather: Connie. Cyril stepped close to the screen and stared. Yes, Connie.

  Just keep walking Mr. Robinson

  Where to, Miss  . . . I didn’t get your name.

  Yevchenko.

  Reaction shot on Robinson’s shock and then bemusement.

  My husband, she explains. And then adds, proudly, disdainfully, as if he, an American, could never hope to understand: I’m a communist. Turn here.

  They enter a narrow twisting alley of overhanging balconies and strung laundry. Enigmatic Oriental faces peer from windows. A rickshaw squeezes past, knocking into them. Robinson ducks, spins, grips her wrist—the pistol falls and he catches it before it hits the ground. Advantage USA! He yanks her close. They stand chest to chest. He studies her; she glares her defiance. Will they kiss? He sneers, nostrils wide as if she bears the odour of Bolshevism. You’re coming with me, Mrs. Yevchenko. But not so fast. She stomps his toe. He yelps and staggers. She snatches her gun and puts the barrel to the forehead of this Imperialist stooge.

  What’s your real name? he asks.

  Flanagan. Her English suddenly flat and American. San Francisco. And with that she makes her escape into the labyrinthine alleys of the Forbidden City.

  Cyril watched the episode to the end but Connie didn’t show again.

  He returned to the kitchen and considered two of the Stalin-as-dervishes.

  As he was leaving with the two newly framed drawings, Cyril spotted the cat on a gravestone, his father’s, a slab of black marble set flush to the gro
und. Stepping back into the kitchen he got the opera glasses and studied it: smoke-grey hair, a nick from one of its ears, looking supremely indifferent sitting there with such composed self-containment. Cyril poured cream into a saucer and set it on the porch then got going.

  A substantial woman of about sixty, straight sandy-grey hair stylishly cut at a slant, her lips a deep red, earrings white. Standing outside on the sidewalk looking through the gallery window, Cyril couldn’t see much more, yet there was Novak parting the crowd like a ship and making a show of kissing the woman’s hand. She pretended to slap his face. He pretended to be shocked. People laughed and applauded.

  Gallery goers pushed past Cyril to get inside. He stepped back to protect the two framed drawings under his arm. It was warm. He was sweating. Head down, he plunged on in and headed straight for his corner, removed two graves, replaced them with the Stalins, and went back to his van. Had anyone even noticed? Returning minutes later, he went to the drinks table where a young woman in a white shirt and black bow tie was dispensing wine. Perhaps she saw the fear in his eyes because she filled his glass to the brim. Determined not to obsess over the attitudes of the people in front of his work, he turned in the opposite direction and began a circuit of the gallery. There was the woman who’d pretended to slap Novak in front of Richard’s crabs, her head cocked as though looking through the lower half of bifocals.

  Novak collared him. “Gravestones. Who would want to look at such things? Who would want to draw such things? Well-adjusted people are attracted to the sun, to the light. But artists are not well-adjusted. That’s their strength. Don’t do therapy. Don’t untie your knots—tie them tighter!” His breath was acrid with wine and his hair a mess. “Very textural, these headstones of yours. The grass, the granite, the skin.” He moved closer to Cyril’s pictures and with his glass of red wine pointed at the nude-as-headstone. “I want to lick her spine. And that’s good. I should want to lick her spine. Everyone who sees this picture should want to lick her spine. If you don’t want to lick her spine you’ve failed.”