The Delusionist Read Online Free PDF Page A

now. I’m a star!”
    Seattle, just down the road from Vancouver. Cyril remembered going to Seattle in the Nash Rambler, the top down, his dad’s wrist draped over the wheel, his mother in sunglasses and a polka-dotted scarf, Paul happy watching the American countryside spinning past even if it was identical to that north of the border.
    When the film ended they remained in their seats while the others moved in a slow herd up the aisles and lit cigarettes. Only when the theatre was empty and the lights came on did Connie seem to breathe again. She blinked and stood, slowly, and when she looked at Cyril he had the eerie sensation that she didn’t recognize him.
    â€œYou okay?”
    She didn’t answer, she turned and headed up the aisle. They were out of the theatre and down the street when Cyril took her hand. She hadn’t said a word since the lights had gone down at the start of the movie. “Hello.”
    She looked at him, and in a perfect Rosalind Russell—deep and sinewy—said, “I was born too soon and started too late.”
    It was uncanny: she was Rosalind Russell, taller, older, with a sweet and agonized scorn in her eyes. All the way home she riffed bits of dialogue. Not Wood’s, but Russell’s. Striding ahead she whirled to face Cyril. “You like it, well I got it.” Clenching her fists at her sides she shook her chest. “How do you like these egg rolls!”

    The last Monday before school resumed they bussed to Kits Beach. Freighters filled the harbour and limp-sailed yachts sat on their own shadows. As they walked along the sand Connie brushed her palm against the back of Cyril’s head feeling the bristles of his crewcut while he stroked her hair as though petting a mink. The beach was crowded but they found a secluded spot at the far end by a log, dropped their towels and plunged into the water. He caught her around the waist and lifted her high and they rolled and wrestled.
    Baring her teeth like a shark she asked, “Would you eat human flesh?”
    â€œOnly if I didn’t know whose it was.”
    â€œYeah, that makes sense.”
    â€œAnd only a woman. This is a weird conversation.”
    â€œYou think so?”
    â€œKind of. But I wouldn’t mind taking a bite out of you.”
    She pretended to slap his face. He caught her hand and kissed it giving the palm a quick lick. She put her licked palm to his cheek then pinched his earlobe at which he caught her thumb between his teeth as if to take a bite. They swam to shore and waded out holding hands. She was wearing a backless one-piece displaying a surprisingly curvy figure. Her nipples stood as stiff as light switches beneath the sunflower yellow suit and Cyril desperately wanted to touch them. He quickly turned away and lay face down on his towel.
    â€œCan you do my back?”
    She was kneeling over him holding a tube of Coppertone . When she was on her stomach Cyril got up and poured the oil where her suit dipped to the small of her back. She moaned as he massaged it in, feeling the smooth surface of her skin, the bumps of her spine, the gentle ridges of her shoulder blades, the rise of her hips, and, within inches of his hand, her bum under the taut wet fabric and below that her parted thighs. He did the backs of her knees and her calves and stopped at the soles of her feet which were coated in sand. He envisioned sliding his fingers between her toes and then sucking them slowly one by one. He quickly put the cap back on the oil and lay down, his face turned away, studying the tiny fragments of broken glass in the sand, breathing the hot scent of the sea, feeling the towel against his cheek, and trying to will away his erection. He should have dug a hole in the sand to make room for it because it felt as if he was lying on a rolling pin.
    Shutting his eyes he struggled to think of something boring, his job stocking shelves at the iga, making sure all the labels faced