The Book of Stanley Read online

  It was cold and quiet in the town now. The sun had come up. Kal’s breath was visible and his teeth chattered involuntarily. He could taste the smoke on his teeth. There were deer along the river, sleeping on a bed of high grasses. Kal was about to climb in and curl up among them when he passed one final hotel. A motel, actually, a couple of blocks away from the action.

  Inside the cramped lobby, the desk clerk was asleep on his arms. Kal put his accordion on a plastic chair and stood in the quiet. It was warm, so Kal blew on his hands and held them over the electric heater on the floor. His shuffling footsteps woke the clerk, who called out, “Help you?”

  Kal gave his hands one last rub and addressed the clerk. He had been rejected so many times, at full hotels and inns, he held exactly no hope. “I was just wondering if–”

  “You’re with Stan.”

  “I am. My name’s–”

  “Kal. I’ve seen you on the news.” The clerk gestured at the small television unit behind the counter, which showed two blond teenagers climbing out of a limousine. It was a celebrity gossip show, the sort Kal used to watch in his Saskatoon apartment. “This is a great honour, Kal. I’m a believer myself.”

  “Well, that’s terrific.”

  “Stick it to the man, I say. They’ve been trying to keep the truth from us for too long.” The clerk, who wore enormous eyeglasses and a Calgary Flames hat, smiled and held the smile. His gums seemed an odd colour, in the fluorescent light. “Someone’s got to stand up to them, the oil companies and the Chinese. Who do they think we are? Stupid peasants? Feeding us this shit?”

  “Our house burned down tonight.”

  “Your house burned down or they burned it down?” He shook his head. “These mofos really don’t know who they’re up against, do they?”

  “We need a place to stay and I was wondering if–”

  “It’d be an honour.” The clerk, a surprisingly short man, walked around the counter and hugged Kal. “You smell like a fire.”

  The contrast from cold to hot and dry, here in the tiny lobby, exhausted Kal even more. He didn’t know if he could talk. “Four rooms, if you have them.”

  “I got one. But it’s my biggest room, two queens and a cot. I usually reserve it for family and friends, so they don’t have to stay with me. My sister and her kids are coming in from Winnipeg this afternoon but I’ll put her up. It’s a sacrifice, but hell.” The clerk punched Kal in the shoulder. “I have trouble with kids, to be honest. Those goddamn goldfish crackers, they get everywhere.”

  Kal moved the accordion and sat on the small plastic chair.

  “That’s why Stanley’s here, to wake us up. This is the revolution we’ve all been waiting for. Fuck ’em, right?”

  “The goldfish crackers?”

  “No, man. The military industrial complex.”

  Kal was really ready to catch some shut-eye. The clerk could keep talking and wake up Kal later, after he was finished. Then, mercifully, the clerk went back behind the desk and pulled the key from a wooden slot. “Is Stan staying too?”

  “We got split up after the fire. Everyone had to talk to the cops. Do I have to sign anything?”

  As they crossed the parking lot in the early-morning light, the clerk asked about The Stan and adultery. Bad or good? Kal found himself telling the clerk about how Maha had rebuffed him in the hot springs. Love, Kal, explained, was hazardous. The heart was a brittle thing, liable to turn hard and bumpy like a mandarin orange in January.

  He was startled out of his story by the sound of a door closing. Somehow, Kal had taken all his clothes off save the underwear, and he was in bed with his Roland FR-7 V. The phone was next to the bed. Kal dialed 911 and asked the operator to tell the police he was at–where was he?–some motel. Room 201. There was a bed for Maha and she didn’t have to sleep with him or anything.

  “You ever been in love?” Kal said, to the operator.

  Someone else was in the room with him.

  Kal covered the mouthpiece and Stanley spoke with a serious voice. His voice was so serious it echoed and hurt Kal’s ears. He told the operator he had to go, and softly hung up the phone.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  Stanley was hit with a feeling so wretched he fell out of the sky north of Banff and landed in a thick cluster of Jack pines. He extracted himself from the branches and brambles and ran to the Mineral Springs Hospital, without bothering to clean the debris from his suit jacket, slacks, and tie.

  At the hospital, the security official at the information desk lifted his hand. “No, no, no. No access until 8:00 a.m.”

  “I believe my friend may be in serious medical trouble, and I can help him.”

  “You a doctor, then?”

  There were a number of ways to handle this. Stanley could sit in a waiting-room chair and watch the clock for two hours. He could ignore the feeling that had struck him in the air, that Alok was in trouble. That Alok needed him, desperately. Of course, the feeling had diminished. It was gone, actually. Maybe this was nothing at all. Maybe Alok had suffered through a nightmare.

  “What happened to your suit, sir?” The guard had an accent. Newfoundland, maybe, or the hint of an upbringing in a rural corner of the United Kingdom. “You’re covered in stuff.”

  This poorly lit corner of the hospital, with the “Employees Only” door, was nearly deserted. He might have knocked the security guard out. Instead, he sought permission. Stanley concentrated on the guard’s long face and moustache, eased his way through his skull, and lodged himself inside for a moment.

  “Go right in, sir.” The security guard stepped out from behind his oval desk and chuckled, tapped Stanley on the back, and asked him to keep good and quiet on the ward. “Good luck.”

  Stanley ran down the corridor, reading the handwritten name tags outside each room. It was a small hospital; Alok’s room was the fourth on the right. Inside, there were two beds. An Asian gentleman snored in one of the beds, his wife in the chair beside. A book of crossword puzzles had fallen, haphazardly, to her sandalled feet. The second bed was made, the linens folded tightly around, and the curtains on the window were closed.

  Outside the room, a porter mopped the floor.

  “Alok Chandra?”

  “My name’s Steve.”

  “I’m looking for Alok Chandra. He was in this room. A big Indian man?”

  The porter shrugged.

  Stanley continued down the hall. What he realized, as his black shoes squeaked on the wet floor, was that he could not locate Alok in his mental map of the hospital. A thread had always tied him to Frieda and his friends but, suddenly, his communication with Alok had ended. Stanley hoped he had been discharged, that he had given in to some wild scheme and had driven or flown outside the contact area. Back to Toronto, perhaps, or Nepal.

  It was a dim hope. Stanley checked every room and checked a few of them twice, in case Alok was in the wash-room. He couldn’t see or hear or feel Alok, and the blankness was confusing. Terrifying. Back in the hallway, he prepared to call out for his friend, in case he was missing something obvious. Stanley wanted to turn around and see the big goof, his arms out. Stan! You’re here!

  A man and a woman in white coats stepped through a set of folding doors and stopped. “What are you doing? You’re not allowed in here,” said the woman. “Who let you through?”

  “I need to find Alok Chandra.”

  Stanley knew, from the instant he said the name and the way the woman’s mouth twitched, that he would not find Alok. Her expression shifted from guarded to concerned. She stepped away and led Stanley into an empty room. As she did, the man said, “Aren’t you Stanley Moss?”

  The woman clicked her tongue in exasperation and closed the door. “I’m very sorry.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Downstairs, I’m afraid. Your friend passed not long ago, a massive heart attack. The surgeon attempted a coronary artery bypass operation, but it was too late. Your friend was–”

  “Where is he?”

>   “He went back to Calgary fifteen or twenty minutes ago.”

  “I mean Alok.”

  “Uh…” The woman opened the door and stepped back into the hallway. Her colleague was gone.

  “I want to be with him.”

  “Mr. Moss, I understand what you’re–”

  “Take me to him!”

  “I realize you’re upset, but it’s against hospital procedure. You’re not a family member, I assume, and even if you were…”

  The woman was pretty and stout, with curly black hair and big green eyes. She could not stop him, physically, if he wanted to go downstairs. His first instinct was to shove her aside, into the wall, like the crucifix-clutcher in the log cabin. His second instinct was to grieve for his first instinct, and for Alok. Stanley backed up against the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman said, again. She checked her watch and swallowed loudly. “But you’ll have to leave.”

  Stanley sneaked inside the woman just long enough. “Take me to him,” he said.

  The woman led Stanley through a door that required a card. They went down a set of stairs. After his cancer diagnosis, Stanley’s last thought before sleep had often been of a morgue. This was where they would take him after he finally, mercifully, died on the palliative care ward of the Grey Nuns Hospital. A perfectly silent room, cold and concrete. Not haunted, like in the horror movies. What ghost would choose to linger here?

  There were two bodies, on portable beds, covered in white sheets. “Leave me,” said Stanley, and the woman did.

  Of the two, it was abundantly clear which was Alok. Stanley lifted the sheet and touched his old friend’s face. It was cool and sunken and waxy, and needed a shave. He remembered his grandparents’ funerals, his parents’, Kitty’s, the simple bewilderment. Here but not here. My father but not my father. Alok but not Alok.

  Stanley pulled the sheet back a little farther and revealed a giant stitch over Alok’s chest. He looked around, to make sure he was alone, and placed his forehead on the stitch. Stanley put all of his energy into making the heart come back to life. He listened and concentrated and spoke to the heart, coaxed the heart, and pleaded with it. Stanley cursed the heart, and Alok, and whatever god or force had done this to them.

  After some time, ten minutes or an hour, Stanley sat in a metal chair in the corner. He did not wonder why, but Stanley did wonder how, for thousands of years, men and woman had created theologies of hope out of the emptiness and failure and deep, ancient, shattering silence that filled the room.

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The principal of the Banff Community High School, Mr. Thiessen, worked his way through the crowd, hopping up and down. Onstage, Tanya Gervais pretended not to see him. Mr. Thiessen was out of breath and purple-faced when he finally accosted her.

  “Where’s the security? Who’s counting the people coming in?”

  Tanya looked down at the gymnasium full of pilgrims and protesters. The gathering was not due to begin for another hour but the space was already filled beyond capacity. It felt like a sauna, only smellier and more humid. There were some sincere-looking old people, squeezed in near the stage, who had faraway looks on their faces. Another hour and they would surely faint. Or die.

  “All right, Principal. Can we move the party outside?”

  “We don’t have a permit for that, Ms. Gervais.”

  “Come on, grow a pair. This is an historic night, with millions of dollars in free global advertising for Banff. You think the bureaucrats are going to object?”

  He turned to the crowd and shook his head. “This is a disaster. You weren’t honest with me.”

  “Sorry. I was thinking five hundred people, tops.”

  “There are five hundred people in the hallway, Ms. Gervais. And very few of them seem to speak English.”

  “Really?” Tanya smiled. She was, quite possibly, the greatest communicator in the country.

  Mr. Thiessen looked down at his feet and bit his index finger. “All right,” he said, weakly.

  Tanya had heard him, but she wanted to hear it again. “Pardon?”

  “You win, you win. Let’s move it outside.”

  She clicked the microphone on and tapped it with a newly painted fingernail. “Good people, thank you so much for coming.”

  “Blasphemer!”

  Others joined in, with dire predictions for the fate of Tanya’s soul. They were quickly overwhelmed by pilgrims, who asked for Stanley.

  Tanya waved her arms and spoke loudly and clearly, as if to a crowd of nine-year-olds. “Due to overwhelming interest and safety concerns, we’re moving the event to the football field. Please make your way outside, in an orderly fashion. Once the gymnasium is empty, we’ll move the sound equipment and get started.”

  This news inspired a rumble of dissatisfaction. One of the banners strung up along the gym walls, with an A inserted between the S and T in STAN, fell to the floor. A scuffle started around it.

  The project manager demanded more lucrative overtime rates. Tanya pulled a copy of the contract out of her purse, showed him the relevant subsection, and endured some cussing. As the gymnasium cleared out, and the labourers began to take the stage apart, Tanya walked through the storage room and out the emergency exit, avoiding the crowds. Outside the high school, she basked in the fresh air. She took off her shoes and enjoyed the cool of the grass on her bare feet.

  According to her watch, Stanley was already two hours late. She flipped open her cellphone and called Kal, who was in one of the classrooms with Maha, working on his performance. “Any sign of him?”

  “No,” said Kal. “Is that bad?”

  Tanya laughed. “We’re moving it all outside. Are you ready?”

  “I’ll start quick and then move into a slow, European cabaret thing. Kind of big and showy.”

  “Just don’t make it boring.” Tanya looked up and east, at Tunnel Mountain. She would have bet the Gervais fortune that Stanley was up there, looking down on them. Feeling sorry for himself. “What’s Maha doing?”

  “Sitting. And, uh, staring.”

  “At what?”

  “I don’t know. The window and whatever’s outside it. Trees, I guess.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s sad about Alok.”

  “I have a job for her.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Stanley inspected a pale-yellow flower that grew on the mossy peak of Tunnel Mountain. The sun had set, but he was able to detect a wash of pink in the yellow of the drooping bloom. Thinking about the flower, the why of it, was deeply satisfying. The intricacies of the flower, from its tiniest cells to the clarity of its petals, mocked his ambitions. Its interactions with the soil of the mountain, with nearby shrubs and trees, with the rain and the snow and the bees that pollinated it in the heat of the afternoon, exploded with ungraspable meaning. It was the line of poetry that would never be written.

  In Banff, below, a massive crowd had gathered at the high school football field. People in the audience had booed Kal’s accordion performance, and now the great majority chanted Stanley’s name. When he was in high school, this would have been his most potent fantasy. Now, in the absence of Frieda and Alok, it didn’t matter how many gathered in Banff. Millions of needy swimsuit models could fill the Bow Valley and still he would be alone.

  Once or twice, Stanley and Frieda had eaten dinner in front of singing competitions like American Idol on television. They were barrages of disappointment, as the attractive young singers bounced around in the latest fashions, massacring songs written and recorded by other people. As they watched, Stanley and Frieda commented on themselves watching. What it meant to share this experience with 35 million people. They made sport out of their moods and emotions: embarrassment, disappointment, anger, a rare hop of pleasure. It seemed a potent marker of North American culture, this television format. Unironic youth desperate to be famous, exalting the easy and grotesque songs of the late twentieth century as though they were hymns.

  No
doubt, these were the moods and emotions of God, if he allowed himself to feel: embarrassment, disappointment, anger, a rare hop of pleasure. Only God didn’t have the luxury of feeling detached and superior, like viewers of reality television. He was implicated in every shot fired by every zealot. Every rape and holocaust and starving child was his.

  Stanley was ready to accept the role of spiritual liaison and, in Alok’s honour, return to human beings the possibility of transcendence. Moral action would be based on individual experience, self-awareness, and mythology in The Stan, not the literal interpretation of ancient books. He would do away with apocalyptic visions and teach his followers to engage with the earth and its mysteries, to seek meaning in the relationships among flowers and sex and death. Stanley didn’t want to be a tyrant about it, but he would ask people whether or not American Idol allowed them to feel complete.

  The roar of the crowd intensified. Nearby, an owl hooted. Maha appeared at the top of the trail, jogging. She stopped and lifted her hand when she saw him, bent over to catch her breath. Stanley pulled the flower from the soil, placed it in his lapel, and joined Maha. Together, they started down Tunnel Mountain.

  Stanley knew she desperately wanted to ask a question. He also knew Maha didn’t want to hear, or believe, the answer. A bat flew low overhead and gulped a mosquito. Stanley placed his hand on Maha’s shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you save Alok?” she said.

  “I tried, Maha. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you mean you tried? You’re the Lord.”

  “No. I’m not the Lord.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “It’s true and you know it’s true.”

  “Please. Stop.”

  Halfway down, Stanley reached inside his suit jacket for Alok’s note. According to the big man’s will, written on Mineral Springs Hospital stationery, all of his material possessions went to The Stan. He wanted to be cremated and have the ashes scattered atop Tunnel Mountain. The manager of a funeral home in Canmore had been only too happy to offer inauthentic condolences in muted tones and provide a quote. What had Stanley wanted in an urn?