The Book of Stanley Read online

  “Maybe I can come back.”

  “Don’t. Don’t come back here. It doesn’t help.”

  Eventually, when it appeared Alok was asleep with his eyes open, Stanley kissed his friend on the cheek and stood up. Stanley waved to Irving, who responded with a hearty, “See you soon, Jake!” and returned to his stone house.

  Several minutes, or hours, or days later, Stanley passed out of the desert and into the bottom of Lake Minnewanka. The sunken village appeared before Stanley, so he jumped and rose to the surface.

  SEVENTY-THREE

  How many times had Tanya Gervais said hello, in a chirpy voice, to Carol the executive assistant? How many times had Tanya asked about Carol’s chubby daughter with the lisp? How many times had Tanya called Carol’s chubby daughter with the lisp a beautiful girl?

  Too many to count. Yet here she was, two weeks after Stanley’s disappearance, begging.

  “You know how he is, Tanya. If I put you through, and you make him angry, it’s my ass.”

  “No, it isn’t. I’ll vouch for you. Darryl knows you and I are old friends.”

  “Old friends?”

  “Please, Carol. Five minutes, what’s it worth?”

  Carol said nothing for a while. There were some clicking sounds. “Approximately seventeen dollars.”

  “Are you bribable, Carol?”

  “Meaning?”

  “I would like to help you and your beautiful daughter out. It isn’t easy being a single mother, I know that. And Vancouver isn’t getting any cheaper. How does a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill sound? You could buy Annie a new dress.”

  “Who’s Annie?”

  Tanya covered the receiver and said, “Fuckass,” so loudly she worried the Banff Springs Hotel management would kindly ask her to vacate the premises. There had been enough money left over in the The Stan account to take over Francis’s room. Francis, like a lot of the media based in New York, London, and Paris, had given up on Stanley returning. And so had Tanya. “Suzie. I meant Suzie.”

  “My daughter’s name is Miriam.”

  “Of course it is, Carol. Of course it is.”

  The executive assistant took a deep breath. “Tanya, I told him this morning that you’d been calling. You know what he said?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I’m not sure I can repeat it, in good conscience.”

  “I’ve had a change of heart. Tell Darryl this: I’ve got some great ideas about Leap’s strategic vision, moving forward into the twenty-first century, and–”

  “The vice-president position has been filled.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry, Tanya.”

  The blood vacated her brain and landed in Neanderthal stress locations like the stomach and thighs. Tanya wasn’t about to give up. “He can make up a new position. Vice-president of brand awareness. Vice-president of audience relations. Minister of propaganda.”

  Carol was clearly embarrassed for Tanya. She made a wet sound with her mouth, and delivered a pity-sigh over the digital phone line. “I’m sorry,” she said again, and hung up.

  To the ensuing dial tone, Tanya retorted, “I hope your fat fucking daughter gets diabetes.”

  And then Tanya went to the hotel gym. It had been several months and she was out of shape. She had to use five-pound barbells instead of ten-pounders for lunges, and she produced at least double her normal amount of lower-back sweat on the stationary bicycle. In the pool, treading water after a few laps, Tanya briefly considered going under and staying under. She wouldn’t die, as the pool was full of potential rescuers. But her convalescence would be deliciously restful.

  Tanya sat in the sauna with several other naked women, all of them talking about their children. Upstairs, after her shower, Tanya put on the white bathrobe provided by the preposterously expensive hotel and stared out her window at the river, the harsh mountains, the endless fields of pine and spruce trees. It all made her feel claustrophobic and nauseous. She missed the ocean.

  The phone rang.

  No one knew she was there, except for Francis the adulterer and Darryl Lantz. Francis the adulterer was on the airplane to New York, drunk most likely, so it had to be the thirty-six-year-old genius.

  It was a voice she did not recognize, saying her name with a hint of an accent. He introduced himself so quickly Tanya did not catch his name. “I am in the lobby of your hotel, and I have a business proposition for you. May I come up, or should I meet you in the lounge?”

  Tanya was still registering her disappointment at not hearing the voice of Darryl Lantz. It was dreamlike, her disappointment, a power outlet of wretchedness. She did not listen closely, but she agreed to everything. Yes, fifteen minutes. Yes, the lounge. Yes, see you soon.

  All of her clothes had burned in the fire. To work out, she had worn a rented bikini and bare feet. Now Tanya put on her panties inside out and slipped into the outfit she had been wearing for two weeks straight–a black skirt, a tight-fitting red shirt with a stylized dragon on it, and a little blazer. She dried her hair and stared in the mirror, fascinated by the dark ovals under her eyes.

  Tanya had never understood homelessness. In Vancouver, she had been surrounded by it. They slept in the alley behind her building and shopped in its dumpsters. They broke into her Hummer, twice, even though there was nothing to steal. She saw it and felt it now, how the reversal could come at you like a kung fu chop. How it could tear you out of yourself and leave a shell, an envelope of dry skin, behind.

  In the elevator, a man in expensive eyeglasses looked variously at his Blackberry, his shoes, and her breasts. Her bra was so dirty it itched, so Tanya had decided to go without it.

  “You like Banff?” said the man, whose suit and hair and skin were grey.

  “Piss off.”

  The man did not look up from his Blackberry again.

  There was a large window in the lounge. Something about the quality of light prompted in Tanya an instant thirst for a dry gin martini.

  It was impossible to see anyone, as they were all backlit. One of the silhouettes stood up from a chair near the window and approached her. He was not a large man, though he had a confident gait. Tanya placed the accent when she saw his face, and remembered seeing him on the television news.

  The man smiled without showing his teeth. He shook Tanya’s hand and slipped her a card. “My name is Dr. Lam. I am a psychiatrist, palliative care specialist, and, from time to time, an entrepreneur.”

  SEVENTY-FOUR

  Maha 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 entai
l 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

  The 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

  The 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 d
id 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.