The Book of Stanley Page 15

  From a distance, the boughs of Douglas fir and lodgepole pine trees appeared soft. Downy. Up close, however, they were anything but. Stanley slammed into them and it sounded, and felt, like he was being ripped to pieces. He clenched his fists, closed his eyes, and concentrated.

  And that was the secret: intense concentration. Stanley could not worry about Frieda or fragrances, and he could not concern himself with the science of fear. His body went hot. He slowed and landed softly on the spongy ground, simply by willing himself to do so.

  It was shadowed here, much cooler, a refuge for mosquitoes and twinkling spider webs. There were deep cuts on his face and hands, and he was something like sore, but otherwise Stanley felt well.

  His blue suit, which no longer made him feel insignificant and ghostly, was covered in ashy soil and pine needles. Nearby children playing among the hoodoos and in the cold Bow River screamed with joy. Birds sang. Stanley lay on the ground for some time, his soreness easing, completely bewildered. All of this must–must–mean something. In earlier, less-skeptical times, it would have felt more natural to consider oneself a prophet or even a god.

  Instead of standing and hiking up to the road immediately, Stanley took the opportunity to practise his newfound skill. The sensation originated in the back of his skull and radiated down from there. His heels ached and rose before his chest hopped up off the ground. It was difficult to control his body as he levitated into the branches. He attempted to remain horizontal but tilted back, upside down.

  Stanley practised floating under the boughs of the spruce trees, easing into a somersault and opening his arms in a Superman imitation. He tucked and spun, slowly, and laughed the way he had laughed the first time he’d snorkelled in the Caribbean. Then he remembered where he was. Stanley remembered how he had come to be here, in this mossy fort of northernness. Frieda’s concern hit him like a baseball, splintered his concentration. He dropped, awkwardly, on his neck and shoulders. A fall that would have killed him a month ago.

  He ran up the bank, swerving around trees and shrubbery. The sun came out from behind a cloud and lit up the mountainside. Stanley scoured the forest for his wife, first the path and then non-traditional routes created by wildlife. He found Frieda easing over a slab of white rock, holding on to a juniper branch for balance. There were tears on her face and the characteristic pink had drained from her cheeks. She saw Stanley and, after a moment of gaping at him, she snorted, sarcastically. “Of course,” she said, and let go of the branch.

  She began to slide down the rock and Stanley caught her. They stood on the root of a pine tree. Frieda buried her face in his suit collar and clung to him. “You son of a bitch.”

  Stanley ran his fingers through her grey and blond hair, untangling the bits at the end. “I’m sorry.”

  “If you knew you could suddenly break the moon in two, or kill the President of the United States, would you do it?”

  “No.”

  “You jumped off a mountain.”

  “I should have warned you.”

  Frieda placed her hands over her eyes and held them in place for several minutes. A raven landed on a branch nearby and cawed. The sun came out from behind a cloud. Stanley wanted to say something to comfort his wife but all of his instincts ran contrary to her wishes. She took a deep breath and dropped her hands from her eyes.

  “There must be a reason for this, and I intend to find it,” he said. “I can do some good here.”

  “You can do some good. Sign the RRSPs over to the Cancer Foundation. Volunteer at the Food Bank, or construct some affordable housing. Read to poor kids at the library. Trade the Oldsmobile for a Smart Car.”

  Stanley lifted his hands. “Half an hour ago I had deep lacerations on my hands and face. They’re gone.”

  “I don’t want to hear that.” Her voice broke and she attempted to walk away. But off the root, the rockface was too steep. Stanley caught Frieda’s arm before she fell, and she fought to get away from him. Once she gave up, he picked her up and carried her to the path. They passed a group of Japanese tourists who whispered to one another.

  Near the parking lot, her breathing returned to normal. He lowered his wife to her feet and she fixed her clothing. Her hands were criss-crossed with scratches from the juniper bush, and she blew on them. She straightened his tie and wiped debris from his collar.

  “Tuck in your shirt,” she said.

  “What if these people were called here, to me?”

  “I think you know my feelings, Stan.”

  “You think we ought to jump in the car and drive home, without saying goodbye.”

  She nodded, and started walking down the path again. At the Old Banff Cemetery they looked over the bear-proof fence at the blanched tombstones.

  “Isn’t religion supposed to be about losing the ego? Shouldn’t it be about giving up your worldly power, in order to think harder? Comprehend the incomprehensible?”

  “So I should go home and meditate? Waste this?”

  Frieda shrugged. “This frightens me. It doesn’t frighten you?”

  “No. That isn’t the right word.”

  “You aren’t the same person you were a week ago.”

  “I’m not. It’s true.”

  “Maybe it’s immature or selfish or unadventurous of me, but I don’t want a husband who jumps off mountains.” Frieda pushed herself off the fence and rubbed another errant pine needle from Stanley’s jacket. She started back down the street to the Chalet Du Bois and, to his amazement, he did not know whether to follow.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The day had taken on a curious aspect for Kal. First, an old man had jumped off the side of a mountain. Now, Tanya was talking to the police from a pay phone in Cascade Plaza–with her voice disguised to sound like a hillbilly’s.

  “We were hikin’ up that there mountain you got in town there, yep,” she said. “No, sir, we don’t know him for nothin’, constable. He was a white-haired fella in a very dated suit. Wool or somethin’. I remember sayin’ to my husband, Roy, I says, ‘Isn’t that peculiar, a man in an old suit goin’ for a hike?’ And the next thing you know, the fella went and jumped.”

  To impress Maha, Kal whipped up his most disapproving glare.

  “No, there was no one with him nohow. He was all alone, constable, and talkin’ crazy. Like some sorta crazy person. No sir, no, I won’t be providin’ my family name, sir. This here’s an anonymous tip.”

  Tanya hung up the phone without saying goodbye. She looked up and pointed at what looked to be a light with a black shade.

  “We’re being surveilled!” She sprinted toward the door. “Let’s beat it out of here.”

  Alok chuckled. “I don’t run.”

  “Come on, you retards.” Tanya covered her head with her hands like a captured serial killer and bolted.

  Maha and Alok walked at a leisurely pace. So did Kal, behind Maha, so he could stare at her legs in the athletic short-shorts she had worn for the hike. Alok seemed to think Stan was dead and not-dead at the same time, and he questioned Maha about how she could be so certain he was alive.

  “Is it a hunch?”

  “No, not a hunch. More than a hunch. I’m certain.”

  “But it’s not like you’re receiving messages, is it? He hasn’t sent me anything, unless I’m not tuned to the right frequencies.”

  Kal didn’t know what to add, or what questions to ask. He just wanted to be sure that his relationship with Maha outlasted Stanley’s funeral. With the money coming in from his settlement with Far East Square, he could learn how to play the accordion. He longed to describe the mountains surrounding him, the pretty and spooky aspects of the mountains, in song. He longed to hear and understand musical notes the way he saw colours and smelled smells. It would make him a full man, worthy of love.

  Far ahead on the Banff Avenue sidewalk, Tanya wove through the pedestrians. “She’s going to end up feeling really stupid,” said Maha.

  “So stupid,” said Kal.

 
; The weather was hot and dry now, the sky an unblemished blue. As much as Kal was worried about Stanley and everything, he was keen to change the tone of the conversation. “One thing I was wondering about is swimming. Does anyone want to go?”

  “I think we should wait to hear from the Lord,” said Maha.

  “Maybe after we hear about him or whatever?”

  Alok suggested they stop for Grand Marniers, so he could learn more about the spotlessness of Maha’s faith. Maha wanted to get back to the hotel. So they compromised in front of an ice cream store. While Maha and Alok talked about Stanley, Kal bought three ice creams. When they arrived at the Chalet Du Bois, Tanya sat in the lobby on a bench made of logs. Her arms were crossed. “Where have you been?” she said, through her teeth.

  Kal took a demonstrative lick of his ice cream cone, which had pecans in it.

  “Has Stan been through here?” said Alok. “Have you checked with the front desk?”

  “Get up to my room, all of you, now.”

  Kal turned to Maha, because Tanya made him tired. Maha shivered as she stared into the darkness of Tony Roma’s. “Oh no,” Maha said, “no, no, no,” and rushed to the elevator. She pressed the call button several times and kicked the door.

  A man in his late twenties or early thirties, with a healthy growth of stubble on his face, emerged from the restaurant and walked past Kal and Alok. He approached Maha and spoke urgently to her. “Your parents are ill with worry.”

  “How did you find me?” Maha pressed the elevator button again.

  “There was a pamphlet in your bedroom. I phoned the hotels. It was simple.”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “Who are these people? What are you doing here with them?” The man gestured toward Kal and Alok, briefly. He said something to Maha in a language Kal did not understand, and grasped her arm.

  “Hey, fella.” Kal stepped in close to the man and breathed into his face. “You’re gonna take your hand off her, I think.”

  Maha led the man through the lobby, to a chesterfield underneath a majestic portrait of elk. They spoke too quietly to hear.

  “Who the hell’s he?” said Tanya.

  Kal shrugged. He didn’t want to talk about it.

  “Boyfriend,” said Alok.

  “Oh, she’s way too pretty for him. It won’t last. An imbalance like that’ll destroy a relationship.”

  Maha led the man, who was actually a bit too handsome for Kal’s taste, back to them. “This is Gamal.”

  Kal shut off momentarily, like a generator on its last dribble of gasoline. He flickered, slumped, and cronked slowly back into operation. By the time Kal was ready to process what this meant and challenge Gamal to a bench-pressing competition, the stranger had already introduced himself to the others. Now, he held his hand out for Kal to take. He said his name a couple of times. Gamal. Gamal. It sounded like a cuss word, the way he pronounced the final l. And yes, his advantages were clear: he had infuriatingly clear and brown skin, and an expensive-looking wristwatch.

  “Kal,” said Kal. Gamal’s grip was soft. The drowning husk of pre-poetry Kal, swirling around in his stomach acid, flailed to the surface and nearly called out, “You wanna fuckin’ go, pussy?”

  Gamal put his arm around Maha and she shook it off. “Maha tells me you’ve been good friends here. Thanks for looking out for her. She’s very young and, as you can tell, an inexperienced traveller.”

  “Shut up,” said Kal. Then he said, “Sorry.”

  Silence crackled through the lobby of the Chalet Du Bois. The elevator door opened. “I’ll help you pack,” Gamal said.

  Alok laughed. “She isn’t leaving.”

  “Absolutely not,” Maha said.

  Gamal took Maha’s hand and led her into the elevator. Kal feared saying goodbye to her, or offering a note of warm regard, because he was certain his voice would come out as a squeak.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “I love her.”

  “You can’t love her, Kal.” Sitting on the king-sized bed in her suite, Tanya switched from one news channel to another, looking for news of a dead elderly man in the Bow Valley. She stopped at Leap. “You guys just met. She’s hot and emotionally unstable, so of course you’d like to make love to her.”

  Kal covered his ears. “Don’t say that.”

  “Look, she’s obviously promised herself to this Gamal character. It’s a cultural thing. These people come to Canada and marry within their group because they think we’re inferior.”

  “I am inferior.” Kal growled up some phlegm and, to Tanya’s great dismay, swallowed it. “Did you get a load of his watch?”

  Tanya looked over at the young man leaning against the headboard of her bed. He wore a tight blue dryweave shirt that highlighted his pectoral muscles. There was a firefighter aspect to him that would appeal to certain women. But he slouched and he was losing his hair. There was a pimple between his nose and his lip that needed attending to. How could Kal not know that snorting up phlegm drew the sexual energy out of a room faster than a tube of Preparation H?

  Not that she wouldn’t sleep with him, under the right conditions. “You want a glass of red wine, Kal?”

  “No, thank you.”

  The phone rang. Tanya turned down the television and answered.

  A deep and smoky voice said, “You might want to come see me.”

  “Is this Alok?”

  There was a pause. Then he said, “Who the hell else would it be?”

  “I don’t know your phone voice.” Tanya hung up. “Let’s go down. King Kong has something to show us.”

  They took the stairs. Kal slowed as they passed Maha’s room. He put his ear to the door and frowned.

  “What?” said Tanya.

  “I don’t hear nothing.”

  “Anything.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” Tanya continued to the next room and knocked. “Maybe they went out.”

  “Maybe they’re sleeping.”

  Alok opened the door and stepped back with a bow and a flourish. “Presenting, the next great international prophet and man-god, Stanley Moss.”

  He sat in a chair by the window, next to a small, round table. Frieda stood across from him, her arms crossed. It took some time for Tanya to adjust. First, she suspected that she was being conned. These people were actors, in stage one of converting her to their cultish religion and taking her money. It was ingenious.

  Too ingenious, actually. Kal appeared ready to faint or throw up, and the look on Frieda’s face–a mixture of fear and impatience and resentment–could not have been manufactured. “What are you…how?”

  Alok distributed champagne glasses and opened the mini-bar bottle with a mini pop. “I want you all to appreciate this moment for what it truly means. We’re witnessing the beginning of the new spiritual age. And we’ve been chosen to be part of it. Please, before you drink, consider that.” He filled the flutes with champagne and lifted his.

  “This is impossible,” said Tanya.

  “Here’s to the great, great glory of the impossible.”

  As much as she wanted to exercise proper manners, Tanya finished her champagne in a gulp. She looked down at her feet, to stop herself from crying or shrieking in delight or horror. “Did the trees break your fall?”

  “I suppose, but not enough to save me. I slowed myself down.”

  “In the air you slowed yourself down?” said Kal.

  Alok clapped. “Just think, people. When is the last time something like this happened? The beginning of Islam? Christianity? Think of the parts the early disciples played in these religions. We have a profound responsibility, here, to protect this man. This more-than-a-man.”

  “It seems I can float, when I put my mind to it.”

  “He can float.” Alok opened the mini-bar again and pulled out bottles of red and white wine. “Show them, Stan. Flaunt the laws of gravity again, you wonderful hummingbird of a man.”

  Frieda stood up and kissed Stanley. “I�
��m going to bed early tonight, sweetheart.” Without saying good night to anyone else, she walked out of the room.

  “Stan,” said Tanya, unable to keep her voice and hands from shaking, “can you show us?”

  “I don’t know.” He sighed. “This is fairly new to me, and I want to be sure we aren’t making too much of it. Let’s not entirely discount a scientific explanation.”

  Stanley walked over and lay on the bed. He closed his eyes and his feet shot up in the air, as though sucked from the ceiling. Then the rest of him, chest first, levitated. Stanley allowed his hands and arms to hang below, and then brought them up above him. He seemed to be conducting himself, like a symphony.

  “I’ve been working on this,” he said, his voice perfectly, ludicrously calm. “On staying horizontal. My body naturally wants to go up feet first for some reason.”

  Kal fell and no one caught him. He smacked into the mahogany chest of drawers, then careened forward onto the bed and bounced onto the floor with a loud thump. Alok reached down and tried to turn Kal over, grunting as he exerted himself. Eventually Alok gave up and sat on the bed with his head between his knees.

  Tanya couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She started to cry. Not at the spectacle but at the palpable glow around Stanley. There was such quiet goodness about him, and sincerity, and humility, and grace. Historically, these were not qualities Tanya admired. She had mistaken them for powerlessness. She had mistaken so much that was venerable for powerlessness. Tanya had remained hungry even when she was full. She had been a giant, devouring mouth.

  Stanley lowered himself back onto the bed. “I’m getting better at landing,” he said, and went over to check on Kal. Kal’s eyes fluttered open and, with an expression of bewilderment, he struggled to his feet. He hugged Stanley and kissed him on the neck. Tanya convulsed with sobs.

  “I didn’t believe,” she said, wiping the tears away quickly. “I’m sorry.”

  Kal clasped his hands. “You are the Lord.”

  “If we’re going to do this, you’ll have to think of some other name for me.” Stanley walked to the window in the room and looked out. “That just doesn’t seem right.”