The Book of Stanley Page 30

  “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.

  SEVENTY-SEVEN

  A camera operator discovered Stanley Moss on the bench. Squawks erupted from the man’s pockets. He was tall and hesitant, with a moustache and a cleft palate. “I got him, I got him,” he whispered into his vest.

  Another arrived, from the opposite direction.

  The cameramen stepped in front of each other without taking their eyes from the viewfinders. Female reporters came running, their high heels click-clacking on the sidewalk, one from the north and one from the south. Stanley got up and started back to Banff Avenue. At least this way, they weren’t bothering Maha.

  Even in September, with neither warm air nor snowy ski hills, the crowds in central Banff were mad. Much of the media had given up on him, but many had stayed. Word moved quickly that Stanley Moss was back, and two more cameras appeared. Non-media approached: women running with babies, the elderly in motorized wheelchairs, sales professionals, hippies.

  How did you learn to float?

  Are you the messiah and, if so, which one?

  Any chance you want to fight crime?

  Is The Stan a religious system or a philosophy?

  Bird flu: is it really coming?

  So what’s up with Jesus?

  Are you an illusionist?

  Is time travel possible?

  Can I have three wishes?

  Is there any way to stop Iran from developing nuclear weapons?

  Are you happy?

  The final question stopped him. Stanley thought immediately of his wife and, in that instant, he could not see her face, hear the timbre of her voice, or remember her name. Around him, the crowd seemed suddenly vicious. Stanley pushed his way out and commanded them to stop following. He walked down Bow Avenue, along the river. Many of the picnic tables were taken by young people, drinking beer and rye whisky, but one was empty. Stanley sat in a puddle of cola and watched and listened to the water passing. He tried to remember something–anything. Her name had two syllables. Her hair had been blond.

  Once, long ago, he’d known where this water stopped flowing. He had even fished in the Bow as a child. His father had told him that the trout stocks had been accidentally dumped in the river on a hot day in 1925, when a truck broke down on its shore and the driver had to do something with the slowly dying fish fry.

  Stanley approached the river and briefly lost himself in time. He was with his father, with his faceless, voiceless, nameless wife, in 1925. The truck was broken, the day was hot, and the fry were slowly dying.

  Teenage cackles startled him out of his thoughts, and he walked around the corner to the motel. The door on the second floor was open. As he entered, Kal was sitting with his back to Stanley, playing his accordion and singing. “I offered to convert, I offered to convert, I offered to convert to her religion.”

  “Kal.”

  The young man hopped off the bed and jogged across the room. “Finally,” he said. When he reached Stan, he fell to his knees. “Make her come back.”

  Stanley couldn’t hold it back. He smiled.

  “Make her love me. No, don’t make her. I don’t know. Just do something.”

  “I’m sorry she left, Kal.”

  “How can you let her? And where have you been? When you’re around, Maha’s happy.”

  “What was that song?” Stanley extended a hand and helped the young man to his feet.

  Kal pulled a can of ginger ale from the mini-fridge, opened it, and took a long swig. The way he stood, the abandon in the gesture, and his choice of poison proved that Stanley had not actually ruined Kal’s life. “It’s called ‘She Rejected Me Because I’m White And Stupid.’”

  “Play it for me.”

  “All right, but picture violins and one of those old-fashioned, ringing carnival sounds. The accordion is the big dog in this song, but there’s an overall funhouse vibe.”

  Stanley listened intently, and imagined the funhouse vibe. It was a song of self-pity, with lyrics about the explosive beauty of Maha. The curtains were closed and the lights were dim, with an orange tint. His wife had always treasured moments like this, with a lick of genuine oddness about them, especially when they experienced them together during vacations. One morning in Santa Fe, for instance, they’d been sitting outdoors at a café when a small, one-legged dog, apparently unaccompanied by its owner, had wheeled by on a modified skateboard.

  What was her name?

  At the end of the song, Stanley applauded and whistled. “That was magnificent.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks for the musical ability.”

  “I am very proud of you, Kal.”

  “Really?” Kal sniffed and wiped his nose. “Did you know my dad died when I was small? My next song will be about him, I think. I never grieved right. Then there’s songs about Layla, of course. And all the time I wasted on video games, and–”

  There was a knock on the door. Kal wiped his eyes with the sleeves of his shirt and gulped back sobs. He slapped himself in the face and ran on the spot for a while.

  “Am I good?”

  His eyes were red and his cheeks were flushed. The tear-streaks were visible. “You’re good,” said Stanley.

  “It’ll be the motel manager. He’s mad at you for not being a proper God and wants next week’s rent.”

  Kal opened the door and Tanya was standing there, with new snow falling behind her. Dusk had arrived; she was lit by the old-fashioned yellow lantern on the landing. Tanya entered, and then, so did Dr. Lam.

  It took only a moment to read their intentions, but Stanley was genuinely surprised to see the doctor. “What are you doing?”

  “Mr. Moss, Stan, I’m here to help.” Dr. Lam wore a leather j
acket and tan pants. Heavy flakes of snow melted in his hair and on his shoulders. He stepped forward, shook Stanley’s hand formally, and stepped back again. “A lot has happened since that first visit in my office. You’re a home-town hero.”

  Kal returned to his seat on the bed. “You guys want ginger ale? Tap water?”

  “It’s a pleasure, Kal,” said Dr. Lam. “I’m a real fan of your work.”

  “Sincerely? ’Cause I have a new song.”

  Tanya sat in the desk chair. “Super.”

  SEVENTY-EIGHT

  Dr. Lam pretended to enjoy the French cabaret song with lunatic lyrics, and Tanya saw him for what he was–her saviour. Her true saviour. It never was Darryl Lantz, and Stanley Moss was an amateur. A typical Canadian, afraid to go big.

  Not only was the doctor determined and savvy, he was also earnest and heartfelt about helping people. This combination of traits would free Tanya to sell her vision without compromising for the Aloks and Mahas of the world, who wanted to undo the Industrial Revolution and live in stupid bliss like a bunch of yaks.

  She applauded when Kal finished his song. Dr. Lam said, “Bravo, my friend, bravo.”

  “Yeah, I’m putting together a whole album about my broken heart.”

  While Kal and Dr. Lam continued to exchange pleasantries about his accordion music, Tanya searched her bag for some eau de cologne. The room smelled of armpits, ginger ale, cheap shampoo, and disappointment. She looked up and discovered that Stanley was staring at her. Reading and judging her, with those tiny, dark eyes. That suit. Get another suit, for Christ’s sake. She wanted to stop thinking thoughts that came naturally to her, so she smiled. “How are you, Stan, anyway? It’s been ages.”

  “Get on with it.”

  “Right then.” Tanya pulled out the legal documents and placed them in a pile on the table. “What do you know about Scientology?”

  “Nothing,” said Kal.

  Stanley continued to stare. She experienced some discomfort in the area of her bladder, and wondered briefly if he’d hexed her with an infection. “How about Buddhism?”

  “My ex-wife did yoga.” Kal bit his bottom lip. “It started in India, right?”

  Tanya decided to stop looking at Stanley altogether. Kal was there, as was the stained and worn-out carpet. “Unlike the three western religions, Scientology and Buddhism operate without a specific, named deity–per se. They have truth-tellers, of course, in L. Ron Hubbard and Buddha, and there’s the vague higher power thing. But despite the golden rule, which appears in every religion with roots in the Axial Age, Christians, Muslims, and Jews would find little in common with Scientologists and Buddhists, as far as how their systems work.”

  “We already tried to start a religion,” said Stanley. “It failed.”

  “How did it fail, exactly?”

  “They wanted a spectacle. They wanted miraculous favours. They weren’t interested in a story, or a mythology, or a guide for ethical behaviour suited to the new century and its challenges.”

  Dr. Lam took notes as Stanley spoke. “Fascinating,” he said.

  “I know that hurt you, Stan. That’s why you ran away.” Tanya motioned to the papers on the table. “We’re proposing to relieve you of that pain with a wholesale takeover of The Stan. All we need are signatures from you, authorizing it.”

  Again, he stared.

  “We don’t need your signatures, actually. Our legal advice suggests we can run with this, if we like. But we wanted to be fair and transparent with you.”

  Stanley shook his head. “Don’t lie to me. It doesn’t work.”

  “Heh heh.” Dr. Lam rubbed Tanya’s back. “She’s been under a great deal of stress. It won’t happen again.”

  Kal played a low note on his accordion.

  The conversation had turned sour. Tanya had underestimated Stanley’s capacity for rage, his interest in her undoing. It was sad, really, the way he tried to blame her for his own mismanagement of The Stan. She had done everything within her power to mould the religion into a pliable and digestible commodity. Only that wasn’t good enough for Stanley. He went off-message, out of hubris, like failed politicians and CEOs. Without market research, without reliable advice from an experienced marketing and publicity professional, no one could survive the critical rigors of the digital age. Not even you, Tanya thought.

  Kal fumbled with the accordion on his lap, possibly preparing to sing another song. As much as Tanya wanted to speak, she saw that it merely frustrated Stanley. Like she was the only liar in the world. Her knight, her redeemer, destroyed the uncomfortable silence.

  “In the United States, the most extreme warmongers are supported by evangelical Christians. In Europe, the secular state is under attack by fundamentalists. Then you have the Middle East, where a prerequisite for violence and destruction is what?” Dr. Lam waited a beat. “Faith. Yes, my friends, everywhere you look, goodness is under attack by the faithful. Now, how could this be?”

  Kal looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know.”

  “Splendid.” Dr. Lam winked at Kal. “Only the most cynical and manipulative among us know the answers to these questions. Unless, of course, you happen to be an award-winning psychiatrist, palliative care specialist, and author, with rigorously researched insights into these questions.”

  Dr. Lam sat next to Kal on the bed and faced Stanley. He spoke quietly. “Everything you have said is correct, Stan. As a species, we have progressed in certain ways and regressed in other ways. We have insulted our prophets and our gods, haven’t we, by demanding personal and political favours from them? We begin with a political and social philosophy, one that empowers us and validates our way of life, and then we chauvinistically apply an old-time religion to that philosophy. We have collectively forgotten the true role of spirituality in our lives. It happened centuries ago, didn’t it?”

  An almost imperceptible nod from Stanley.

  Tanya saw their books in the front window of every store in the developed world. Their infomercials on every television, every computer screen, every iPod. She saw her photo in O, The Oprah Magazine. There would be a long profile, written by an amateur sociologist, in The New Yorker. Eventually, the BBC would stop being so fucking snotty. Tanya would be the Saint Paul of The Stan. As soon as Stanley Moss stepped aside, she would make him into Stanley Moss.

  She handed the legal papers to Dr. Lam and he pitched Stanley and Kal. What they needed was permission to use his name, his image, his history, and his likeness. Film rights, of course.

  There was another long silence as Stanley flipped through the papers. He looked up at Kal and smiled. “What do you think of this?”

  The motel room door swung open. Snow spun around Maha as she closed the door behind her. She stomped her feet on the mat, shook the white out of her hair, and went to Stanley. She took his hand. “Let’s finish this.”

  “Good little helper,” said Tanya.

  Maha looked up and frowned at Tanya, as though the former VP of marketing and development were a rotting side of pork.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Tanya answered in the most polite tone she could manufacture. “We’re here to save the land from dying, just as Alok wanted.”

  SEVENTY-NINE

  In the snow, now twirling in a blizzard, Stanley walked past shops and restaurants through the dim lamplight. Servers and cooks sat at the otherwise empty tables, their feet up, sipping wine. All was silent but for the dull rumble of heaters and the distant engines of four-by-four trucks. The snow on the sidewalks was thick and wet, almost untrampled, as the uncommonly fierce storm had chased everyone off Banff Avenue.

  Stanley turned up Caribou Street. The snow swirled around him in gusts. Darlene was waiting on a tombstone in the middle of the cemetery, wearing a dark-brown skirt and what appeared to be black ballet shoes. Her denim jacket was undone, over a cable-knit sweater. Her skin was so pale and she sat so still that Stanley thought she had become a doll. The snow did not seem to touch her.r />
  Now that he knew Darlene, Stanley did not know how to address her. He averted his eyes, like a weak wolf addressing the alpha. “Your scarf is pretty.”

  Darlene tugged on it. The scarf was off-white, perhaps silk. “I was in Paris yesterday. Have you been there in October?”

  “No.”

  “If you’re on a budget, the hotels are much cheaper than in springtime.”

  “That’s good to know.”

  Stanley could not see the town from the cemetery, or even a hint of its existence. There was only snow, the outline of trees, and God. “I was in Svarga, and Mary Schäffer told me–”

  “I know.”

  “They have pictures of you. They say–”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Well. You might have said something.”

  “What? What could I have said?”

  “Whatever it is you say to people. I am the Lord your God who took you out of Egypt, the house of bondage, whatever.”

  “And then what? You tell two friends and they tell two friends and twenty years later someone writes a bestselling book and it’s a load of clichés dressed up as prophecy.” Darlene slid off the tombstone and adjusted her skirt. “I guess nothing takes twenty years any more.”

  “Why me? Could you tell me that at least?”

  “Not in any satisfying way.”

  “Why have you hidden yourself?”

  “Why didn’t you save the land from dying? Why didn’t you create a perfect new religion using the principles of ecology? Isn’t that what you came here to do? Thousands upon thousands of people came when you called. You gathered them together and choreographed a dance number.”

  “I tried, you know I did, but they weren’t listening. They didn’t understand. They aren’t willing to change, not for me, anyway.”

  Darlene played with her scarf. She had hidden herself for good reason. It was like raising a child to be a decent human being, a kind and honest man, only to have him move to New York City and become an asexual investment banker with no time for a proper dinner with his parents. Only for Darlene, or Yahweh, it was 6.5 billion times worse, 6.5 billion times over.