The Last Illusion by Porochista Khakpour Read Free Book Online Page A

gazpacho—and had brought Silber his Spanish potato salad with a side of mixed greens—salads, the only thing he ate for dinner—and then brought a bigger dish for Zal and Zal alone. She had, with a flourish, lifted the silver display cover on the tray and unveiled, as she announced, “Andalusian chicken with tangerines, sir.”
    Zal, naturally paler than paper, turned gray. Hand to mouth, eyes closed, shoulders quivering, he whispered, “No, no, please—I mean, I’m full.”
    Roksana and Silber had exchanged baffled expressions, until Silber, having connected the dots, popped out of his seat and threw his hands in the air.
    “Oh my fucking God!”
    Zal, with his napkin at his mouth, eyes averted to the plasma TV, at least two-thirds his height, far off in the living room, said nothing.
    “Zal, baby, I cannot believe it. Roksana—well, Roksi didn’t know. Don’t worry, Roksi, just make it go away, please, thank you, I’ll explain later, thank you—I just cannot believe I did that. And I’m a vegetarian! You are, too, certainly!”
    Zal shrugged. “More or less. But, yes, I don’t eat . . . that. ”
    Silber had insisted they share his salad, while Roksana made even more salad.
    Zal was not the same after that. But it was not quite what Silber thought—simple offense at the bird flesh. For Zal it was the after-effect of news-worthy, and now, in his reaction, he had been forced to act the role of freak fully. He might as well be a talking, walking, man-charading bird.
    “Do you feel,” Silber had begun, and then lowered his voice, as if Roksana, far off in the kitchen, was poised with glass against door, “that you are like that ?”
    Zal had looked at him blankly. “Like what?’”
    “You know, an actual . . .” and this time, resisting miming wing-flap, he mouthed it: bird.
    Zal paused and slowly opted for a shortcut: he shook his head.
    Silber smiled. “Good. Because, as if that wasn’t bad enough already, imagine how much worse.”
    “I’m not crazy, Mr. Silber. I know who I am. I’ve learned. I get it. There’s still . . . stuff . . . but I’m pretty much normal.”
    They both knew that wasn’t true. But they made it through dinner, both a bit gloomy with bursts of forced levity, forcing their way through their salads and leaving the orange blossom flans mostly untouched. Silber had taken a phone call, a long one, and ducked into his bedroom. Eventually Zal had grown tired of waiting and left.
    He had received Silber’s e-mail hours later, while surfing the Net, unable to sleep. He had written back, Thanks, Mr. Silber. No need to be sorry. I do trust. I trust everyone. I have no reason not to. I know you did not mean to hurt me. “Muse-worthy” is an honor, but not fitting, as I am not worthy of that. I am just an abused child with a particularly, I suppose, intriguing story to people. But it’s just my life. I have to confess that perhaps I lied when I said I was normal. I know I am not. But I think I can be helped. This may sound strange, Mr. Silber, but I believe you may be able to help me. I know by now that it could be unrealistic, that it is actually, as you end with, just me dreaming. And I do dream, in case you were wondering, and because I know you will further wonder, even though I do not speak of this to anyone really: yes, at times I have dreamt, as you might say, “in bird.” , Zal.

    It wasn’t until many visits to the Silbertorium that Zal realized its backyard was essentially an aviary, a garden of trees and shrubs and bushes crowned with ornate-looking cages, all with open doors and easy outs, to Zal’s relief. It was a world bound up in delicate netting, punctuated strangely by two large fountains—a young boy whose mouth spouted water, another young boy whose penis spouted water—and statues of lions and monkeys and cherubs and elephant gods. Beautiful as it was—and Silber did what he could to emphasize that: a sanctuary, not a jail —Zal would not enter. I