The Book of Stanley (30 page)

 

SEVENTY-FOUR

M
aha lay awake for hours every night, listening to Kal snore. It was a quiet and gentle snore, compared to her father's, but she knew it would increase in power and intensity with every grey hair that appeared on his head. In the long days after Stanley's disappearance, filled with miserable interviews and appearances in Banff, Maha grew suspicious that she had been part of a delusion. She watched Kal in the adjacent bed, his mouth open, his hands folded across his chest like the dead.

University professors met with her. Media outlets interviewed her. The president of the Muslim Canadian Congress took Maha out for southwestern cuisine and begged her to stop talking about her conversion to The Stan. It was insulting to her community and the religion of her blood. And though she did not admit it to him, Maha agreed. She stopped.

On the September day
60 Minutes
was to air its investigation of The Stan, Maha walked the Mount Rundle Trail alone, up to the point where climbers–equipped with ropes and helmets and Gore-Tex–played on the rocks. A thick band of cloud eased over the valley, darkening the day. It began to snow, and her feet were cold and soaking wet by the time she'd reached the motel parking lot. Where she decided to make a decision.

Option one: buy a bus ticket to Montreal. Option two: walk out of Banff to the Trans-Canada Highway, lift her thumb, acquire illegal narcotics, and live the life of a hobo, thereby insulting her community and the religion of her blood with even greater force. Option three: stay in Banff and wait for Stanley.

The third option could entail an unalterable rejection of Islam. The longer she stayed with Kal, in the motel room, as the snow fell around them, the more it seemed inevitable that they would move into the same bed. She knew how desperately Kal wanted to be with her, and his sincerity and devotion were endearing. He was handsome and kind, unlikely to turn on her. To enter into a romantic relationship with a white man who grew up Christian and dropped out of high school would not only further horrify her parents, it was also contrary to every one of Maha's girl-hood dreams. Their children would be stuck between two
ethnicities. They would live in squalor, possibly in rural Saskatchewan. Kal's snore would progress, along with the size of his waist. His grammar would not improve substantially, despite her ministration, and slowly he would begin to resent her. Upon her death the privation would be eternal. From the prairies to Hell.

Maha climbed the stairs and stood before the motel room door. Inside, television noises. The dull murmurings and chuckles of Kal and Swooping Eagle, over what sounded like an antidepressant advertisement. She put her hand on the door handle and, for what she knew would be the last time, attempted to engage in a conversation with Stanley. A request for guidance, an argument, a renunciation.

In response, more television noises. The wind, gusting through the courtyard parking lot. A diesel truck. Silence.

 

SEVENTY-FIVE

T
he real estate agent dismissed the country music ringtone blaring from his cellphone. He made it seem like a sacrifice, the sort of thing he did only for his most valued clients. “A Calgarian,” said the agent, looking down at the number. “Dude can wait.”

Dr. Lam smiled politely. “We really appreciate that. Thank you.”

“Yes,” said Tanya, with less enthusiasm. “Thanks.”

The storefront was a few blocks off Banff Avenue, on Squirrel, but it was spacious and well priced. There were large street-front windows and new hardwood floors. The light fixtures were tasteful. Tanya walked through a swinging door in the back and discovered a small kitchen with a sink and a stove.

“It was a snowboard shop,” said the agent. “Before that it was a café.”

Dr. Lam discussed Internet hookups and phone lines with the agent while Tanya inspected the kitchen and opened a heavier door in the back. There was another street, Big Horn Street, and beyond that the railroad tracks and wilderness. She wondered if a bear had ever been hit by the train.

She heard Dr. Lam tell the agent to wait. Then they stood together in the small kitchen. “What do you think?”

“It's the best we've seen,” said Tanya. Philosophically, she had always considered herself a businesswoman. An independent. But the reality of investing her own money and time and future in a business–a religion–suddenly frightened her. “But maybe something even better, and cheaper, will open up.”

“This isn't about money, Tanya.”

Though she disagreed wholeheartedly, Tanya nodded.

“So?” Dr. Lam turned on the water. The tap sputtered and water gushed forth. “Shall we?”

“I hate to give cash to that little weasel out there.”

Dr. Lam smiled. He was a constant smiler. “Tanya. We're building a church of positive thinking here. Of graciousness and good humour.”

“Oops. What I meant to say was: This is our first step in changing the world, and becoming ridiculously, fabulously wealthy.”

Dr. Lam paused momentarily and frowned. From now on, Tanya decided, she would keep the brutal-realist thinking to herself. He pushed through the swinging door and Tanya followed.

The agent was on his cellphone now, looking out the window. “You have to seize this opportunity, Larry.
Seize it.
”

As a producer, Tanya had learned how to discern good acting from bad. This was bad acting. She would have bet the first two lease payments on the Squirrel Street store that Larry, if he existed, was not on the other line.

“Listen, Larry. Can I call you back? Excellent.” The agent clamped the phone shut. “So?”

Dr. Lam glanced at Tanya and flipped the agent a thumbs-up.

On the way to Starbucks, where they would fill out the paperwork, Dr. Lam explained The Stan to the agent. The agent was confused. How could they run a religion without a leader?

“You can have a leader without a
leader
,” said Dr. Lam. “How many movements thrive with a leader versus movements that have thrived in the very creative absence of a leader? It is preferable to have a pliable leader, a leader without any human weaknesses, so our teaching is pure. For that, we need the memory of a leader. All praise be to the greatness of Stanley Moss, but he has the ability to circumvent himself.”

This seemed to be too much for the agent. He stopped asking about The Stan and talked instead about the idiots in Ottawa who put strict limits on condominium development in national parks.

At a table crowded with contracts, Dr. Lam wrote a
cheque for the first month and Tanya wrote one for the second month. Of course, the agent didn't have time for a celebratory coffee; he had another client waiting. The agent put on his sunglasses and, on the way out the door, advised them to “Stay out of trouble.”

“Thanks for the meaningless cliché,” said Tanya, in a chirpy voice.

It was happy hour at Starbucks. For the price of a tall, one could upgrade to a grande. So the café was full, and loud. Even with her large sunglasses on, a number of the customers recognized Tanya. Future paying clients of The Stan, she told herself, and the image of the smug, lying agent passed.

Dr. Lam, in what Tanya would soon see as a characteristic tone of voice, warned her against disdainfulness. “Sincerity is the beating heart of The Stan,” he said.

They acquired coffees and pastry, and Tanya pulled out her checklist. The computer geek was already designing their website. Dr. Lam was working on the multiple-choice psychological profile that would welcome the unhappy and the curious to The Stan. Tanya was writing up a second draft of The Testament. That night, they would brainstorm and coin a series of new words, at once religious and scientific, to augment their recipes for maximum human performance. Each word would be a marriage of Hebrew, Latin, and computer programming.

All they had left now was the most difficult task: convincing Stanley Moss to co-operate.

Out the window, the snow was beginning to melt. Still, summer was over and autumn did not really exist at this elevation. Tanya sipped her medium-roast drip coffee,
the cheapest item on the menu, a tax write-off under the “Entertainment” column. The coffee was bitter and comforting, too hot, a Vancouver sensation. Tanya looked at her watch and surveyed Starbucks, to see if anyone was watching her. The urge to check her nonexistent Blackberry warmed and quickened her further, and she discovered she both loved and despised the Joni Mitchell song playing in the café. Tanya was back in entertainment.

 

SEVENTY-SIX

T
he water at the surface of Lake Minnewanka seemed much colder than he remembered. Stanley had not expected to see snow on the ground. It hung wet and heavy in the valley and topped each peak. Branches of poplar and pine trees around the lake bowed to Stanley as he walked up the beach.

A man in a bright-yellow ski jacket stood nearby with his standard poodle. The dog hopped and growled, waiting for his master to throw the ball.

“Hello.”

Stanley waved. There was no sign of Swooping Eagle or the end of summer. “Do you know the date?”

For some time, the man simply stared at Stanley. Then he reached blindly behind him until he found his station
wagon, and supported himself on it. The poodle gamely attacked the ball, picking it up, tossing it on the rocks, and chasing it. “It's September. The twenty-first.”

Stanley thought about that for a minute, marvelled at the weeks he had spent underwater. “You live in Banff?”

The man, somewhat recovered, nodded.

“Can I get a ride?”

“You're that guy, aren't you?”

Stanley nodded. “I am that guy.”

Driving toward Banff on the Minnewanka Loop, the driver did not look away from the road. The dog, from its blanket on the back seat, licked Stanley's hand as though it were covered in beef.

As they crossed the highway, the man swallowed. “People're gonna go crazy, with you coming back like this.”

It was an older car and it smelled strongly of dog. Stanley knew, from the interstices between the frightened man's words, that he was in some financial trouble. An investment had gone bad.

Knowing what he knew about Darlene, and the powers she had bestowed on him, Stanley closed his eyes and wished contentment and a measure of success upon the man, whose name was Marcel.

They entered Banff town limits and crossed the railroad tracks with a bump. Stanley pulled his hand away and the poodle, in the back, howled. “I'm sorry,” said Marcel. “She never does that.”

Stanley allowed the dog to lick his hand some more, and addressed himself to Kal, Maha, and Tanya. “Can you turn right?”

“I surely can.”

Maha pulled a black suitcase along the sidewalk of Lynx Street, near the hospital. Anxious to speak to her, Stanley opened the door before Marcel could stop.

“Mister–!”

“Thanks, Marcel.” The car halted and Stanley stepped out. “You're going to be all right, Marcel. Better than all right. Don't despair.”

“Don't?” Marcel's mouth drooped.

“Don't.”

Marcel smiled, feebly.

It was a cool day and they were far from the bustle of the shopping district. He closed Marcel's door, waved him away, and jogged to Maha. Stanley was thrilled to see her, and hugged her before she had a chance to adjust to his presence.

Maha wriggled out of the embrace and squinted at him. “Where did you go?”

“Lake Minnewanka.” Stanley considered telling her about Svarga, and Alok. But she was already upset. Her eyes were dark and sore with fatigue, and her hair was pulled up in a wild bun.

“Why?” She teared up.

“It's difficult to explain.”

“You gave up on us.”

“No, Maha. Not on you.”

“I looked all over. I tried to talk to you.” Now she initiated a hug, and then pushed him away.

“You're leaving?” he said.

“There's no reason to stay, is there? To me, God's not a
process
. That's not why I'm here. I came here to do something pure and honourable for you. For God.” Maha kicked her luggage. “A process? Do you know what it's like to be seventeen today?”

How had Darlene, when she was an active God, gone about making her children feel whole? Perhaps Stanley had just condemned Marcel to an uncritical and dangerous happiness that would lead him straight to a mental institution or jail.

There was a bench nearby, and Stanley led Maha to it. Two joggers passed, and lifted their athletic sunglasses to make sure they were seeing what they were seeing. Maha adjusted the lapel of Stanley's suit, which she had tousled.

“You're a Muslim again.”

Maha nodded. “I always was.”

There was no point warning Maha against any errors she might make. Stanley had enjoyed several conversations with God and he was no closer to understanding her plan. “I'm very sorry I disappointed you, Maha. That wasn't my intention. But of all of you, you're really the one I shouldn't worry about.”

“It was my own fault, for thinking you were…”

“You're going back to Montreal.”

“I guess so.”

“Kal's pretty upset?”

Maha shrugged.

“You could stay a little longer and help me finish this.”

“I don't know what
this
is any more, Stanley. They had to bring the army in, just after you left, because so many people were showing up with nowhere to stay. They all just wanted to…actually, I don't even know what they wanted. To dance, I guess, and fly around.”

“They weren't listening, Maha. I tried to tell them, and show them, about The Stan. But there's still a great opportunity here, and I want you to help me.”

Maha stood up. “My bus leaves in half an hour.”

They hugged again. “You sure you won't stay?”

Maha pulled her suitcase down Lynx Street, turned a corner, and disappeared.