The Book of Stanley (26 page)

 

SIXTY-THREE

K
al lurched from hotel to hotel, on and off Banff Avenue, looking for a sympathetic night-desk clerk. Between stops, mightily tired, he contended with disinterested drunks, star-struck pilgrims, and even a university professor from the Greater Boston area devoted to studying “popular delusions.” The woman, who wore black-framed glasses that seemed upside down, insisted they get a coffee to discuss his role in the particular madness of this crowd. She left her business card in Kal's hand and, as he walked, it seemed to grow heavy, along with his sneakers and accordion and hair. He dropped it in a garbage can on the banks of the Bow.

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

S
tanley 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

T
he 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.”