The Delusionist by Grant Buday Page A

years had passed and bewilderment that he’d let it happen while accomplishing so little. Each time he took up a pencil—never as often as he should—it seemed his fingers had thickened and he had a new blood blister. And there was the fact that Connie had not called, and he’d learned about the performance by accident.
    He’d responded to her first letter in truthful if enigmatic blandness: Hey Connie, good to hear form you. Glad you’re doing so well. I love I Spy! I wish you all the best and hope to see you sometime. (No, not stealing any art but I am doing a lot of drawing.) She’d sent him three postcards since, including one of a famous hot dog stand in the shape of a hot dog, the Eiffel Tower from a European tour, and the Statue of Liberty from her time in New York in an off-Broadway show. He’d responded to each. A postcard of Lumberman’s Arch, one of Lions Gate Bridge all lit up at night, and one of the fat neon figure of The Smilin’ Buddha. The word us did not appear in any of her cards, though one did mention her and someone called Guillermo going to Mexico City. Cyril felt compelled to mention how he and Jaclyn had been to Seattle and gone up the Space Needle. It wasn’t much but it was the best he could do. Jaclyn was a sweet and attractive and sensual girl. They might have lasted longer than one summer—she liked to dance naked while wearing his carpenter’s belt—but she’d been obsessed with the word get . She’d wanted Cyril to get serious and get his shit together, and get his own business going so they could get married and get a house and get on with having a family. His mother thought she was a good influence.
    A discrete bell ushered them to their seats. Cyril followed the crowd into the Lower Orchestra and discovered he had the row to himself. Would she spot him? Again he felt stung at not having heard from her now of all times. The bell tinged once more and the patrons settled themselves. Cyril couldn’t have been more anxious if he was going on stage himself. As the lights went down he slid lower in his seat and held his breath. Bar music. The clamour of drunks. Then red lights went up and there she was, jiving with a sailor in a hazy Hong Kong tavern. To one side, Robert Lomax, the aspiring painter, sips a beer and admires her as she dances. He wears a suit, smokes a cigarette, and has hair as slick and shiny as an oiled LP . Suzie wears a high-collared knee-length dress of tight white silk, her hair long and loose. Watching in envy and admiration, Cyril tasted orange on his lips and vowed right there in the theatre to work harder at his drawing, but it wasn’t just that, it was trickier than mere labour, it was taking himself and his drawing—his art, his work—more seriously. Isn’t that what Connie had done? Is that not why she was on stage and he was in the audience?
    During intermission he stepped outside into the cool clear night and listened to the city racket around him. There’d been a moment when he was sure she’d recognized him. She was alone on stage addressing the audience, her gaze travelling from side-to-side as if appealing to each individual about her fate. When her gaze crossed Cyril it seemed to stagger and made her speech stutter. Or had he imagined it? He went back in and had another beer and asked the bartender for a pen and wrote his name and number on a napkin. Approaching the Manager’s door he hesitated then knocked. It opened instantly upon a cozy group that ceased talking and stared. A goateed man in a gold bow tie and owlish glasses waited for him to state his business.
    â€œCould I leave this for Connie Chow?”
    The man considered the folded napkin. He appeared amused and disdainful and considerate all at the same time. In a tone both reassuring and condescending he said, “I’ll see that she gets it.”
    Back in his seat he reminded himself that she was