He was doing just fine. His publisher was promising a big run in hardback. He was still making a tidy sum from the internet. The illustrated list of ten secret nudist beaches had somehow made it past Facebook’s robotic censors, despite the content warning. A German chain of clothes-less resorts paid ten big ones for a banner ad.
He checked the time. The kids would be getting out of school. He had promised to go biking with Logan and then take Lisa riding up at the Storkovs’ hobby ranch. Not his favourite thing. For some reason the idea of mounting a horse creeped him out.
MOVIE NIGHT
Arthur’s party of four was stalled at the front of the community hall, where the island had turned out en masse. Kurt Zoller looked besieged, people slipping past him as he tried to block the wide double doors. “Everyone back!” he shouted. “The hall is full! Fire regulations in effect!”
Niko and Yoki looked dismayed, Margaret stoic, but to Arthur this was good news. He would be spared the awfulness of watching ninety minutes of low-budget foolery. He shrugged helplessly. “Well, we gave it a good try.”
He was about to usher his flock away when Mookie came out, waving to the crowd, silencing Zoller. “Sorry, everyone. We’ll have a repeat showing next week, I totally promise.” Some groans, some cheers. “Anyone with passes?” Then, on spotting Arthur’s entourage: “Group of four over there. Right inside please.”
Arthur was grabbed by both arms and propelled forward.
§
With Niko and Yoki taking the two reserved seats, the hall’s two-hundred-and-fifty folding chairs were all occupied. Arthur and Margaret found standing room by the side exit, beside a commercial popper run by Herman Schloss. It was resting now, exhausted, but its droppings crunched underfoot and the smell of buttered corn pervaded the air. Constable Dugald was standing on the other side, arms crossed, trying to look censorious. The front doors were wedged slightly open, Kurt Zoller peeking in.
His fellow Trustee, Ida Shewfelt, was a no-show — she likely feared she would burn in hell for exposing herself to pornography. But Al and Zoë Noggins had been given prime seats, in a group with Taba and her daughter Felicity. At least two dozen more were in the reserved section: several of the island elite — doctor, postmaster, bartender — and an eclectic mix comprising Honk Gilmore, Cud Brown, Wellness, Wholeness, Henrietta Wilks, and, front row centre, Robert Stonewell, master mechanic. Nelson Forbish was next to him, his fold-up wobbling under his weight. All, apparently, had got special invitations, which likely also included the Schlosses’ post-film bash.
Mookie’s movie would be shown on a drop-down screen and projected from her laptop on a table near the front. But now she was standing on the proscenium, its curtains partly drawn on either side of the screen. She raised a hand microphone. The gabble of conversation ceased.
“Okay folks, here is where I apologize. This is not exactly the romantic comedy you were expecting. I kind of pulled your leg, so please forgive me. You are going to see a movie called The Awakening, but it’s not the one I advertised. It’s a documentary. And I know you’re going to enjoy it more than you can imagine. Because it’s about you. I love you all.”
A mass shifting in seats. Loud murmurs. Arthur and Margaret exchanged puzzled looks.
Mookie scrambled down to her table. The lights dimmed. Images appeared on the screen. An aerial shot of Garibaldi from afar, the island expanding, filling the screen: its coves and hills, its forests and meadows and farms.
A male voice, deep, resonant, amiable, said, “There is a lovely little laid-back island in Canada’s Salish Sea on the Pacific Coast, called Garibaldi. We like to think we discovered it, and in a way we did, but of course it was inhabited — by happy folk, wonderful characters, unstressed, uncomplicated, and welcoming to strangers.”
Who, Arthur wondered, was “we”? The room was hushed, expectant.
“Their day-to-day needs are met by a variety of small businesses and social venues.” A montage of the general store, the Brig, the fire hall, the marina, St. Mary’s Church, Evergreen Estates and its commercial centre. And finally, this very community hall, where an outdoor gathering slowly came into focus. In the background was last year’s banner: “Wake up! Smell the Roses at the Spring Flower Show!” Doc Dooley was showing off a clutch of ribbons. A subtitle identified him as “family physician and master gardener.” Ida Shewfelt, sniffing her prize-winning display of elves peeking from amid the flowers. And here was Margaret flattering her! “Can I take a picture of you with your lovely garland?” The subtitle: “Margaret Blake, Green Party leader, Member of Parliament.”
As the opening credits began, Arthur, gobsmacked, realized Garibaldi Island had been hoodwinked with vast panache by Jason Silverson and his camera-toting crew of alleged New Age bohemians.
Then everybody else got it: “Enlightenment Studios presents a Jason Silverson production.” The former schlock movie auteur had found a new outlet for his talents. Margaret gasped: “Oh my God!” Similar exclamations from the audience: “No way!” “You gotta be kidding!”
The chorus quieted as more opening credits rolled. Mookie Schloss as co-producer and film editor. The narrator continued: “Nothing much happened on this sleepy island until we woke them up to a powerful new reality.”
The title came on in bright, bold letters: The Awakening.
All were stunned into silence. Arthur watched numbly as the blond bombshell himself came on screen (“Jason Silverson, director, playing himself”), charming the simple folk of Garibaldi, inspecting tulips, smelling roses, then turning to whatever camera was filming him and raising his own.
Cut to Arthur (“Retired criminal lawyer”) and Margaret watching him, conversing. To Arthur’s horror, he heard his own words: “Some folks think he’s the second coming of Christ.” Amplified by a microphone somewhere nearby. Someone in the hall brayed with laughter, then silence descended again.
Cut to Silverson greeting Margaret. Snatches of conversation about the Personal Transformation Mission and its goal to spread enlightenment with “our little experiment in healthy, cooperative living.” Morgan Baumgarten sidling up with his camera and his “Just Do It!” T-shirt and his thousand-mile stare. “They call me Morg.” (Subtitle: “Morgan Bromley, actor, narrator.”) Arthur turned to see Kurt Zoller with his mouth hanging open. Constable Dugald seemed befuddled too. Reverend Al just stared at Mookie, incredulous.
The opening scenes had adroitly set up the premise of the film, which seemed to involve a lighthearted poke at a community falling sway to a made-up, nonsense cult, but which Arthur took to be an experiment in gulling the innocent. Yet the audience was rapt, silent, no expressions of dismay or indignation. There was some chuckling when Zoller was shown by his Hummer near the store, looking reprovingly at the women dressed as retro-hippies and their flowered VW van. Several bursts of laughter as the beaded, bangled women approached Arthur in the store: “Hey, ask this old-timer.”
Arthur found his fellow moviegoers entirely too forgiving — the whole room seemed to relax. There were cheers for the Easy Pieces as they piled into the Transformers’ van. Here was Silverson staring at Taba. Cut to her bosom, then to Felicity importuning her mother to visit Starkers Cove: “It’s a really radical scene. Just do it, Mom.”
Then to Starkers Cove, a panorama of beach and lodge and guest houses; then the camera retreated to the entrance, with its gate, its “Nowhere to Go” sign, its smelly manure pile, a lively sequence of a pig escaping, the fumbling pursuit. All but Arthur laughed.
He bent to Margaret’s ear. “How can they get away with this? Did anyone sign a consent? Don’t these jokers know they can be sued for breach of privacy?”
“No one’s objecting, Arthur.”
“I am.”
“They were very generous.”
Yes, they’d gambled on that, the gratitude. Their donations of tools, equipment, utilities, livestock.
L
ots of footage of the Transformers’ dishevelled farm, its livestock running amok, locals whistling while they worked, echoing the Transformers’ mantra: “Just do it.” Here again was Arthur, apparently the lead performer of this comedie bouffe, upbraiding Zoller: “You don’t have a search warrant. You’re trespassing.” Zoller carrying on about seeing “a lady taking off a brassiere.” Loud catcalls at his notions about orgies.
Silverson’s office with its security camera filming Martha (“Marian Gillespie, actor, script editor”) storming in, attacking Silverson. “I love you. You are my reason for being.” Morgan to the rescue. Arthur standing by foolishly with gupa spilled down his pants. More laughter from this easily seduced audience as that comical sequence was punctuated by the splintering sound of Forbish’s chair bottoming out. The well-cushioned newsman seemed unhurt, however, and content to remain sprawled on the floor.
Arthur heaved a sigh of relief as the Transformers’ cameras finally deserted him. In turn, each of the reserved-seat holders earned their moments of celluloid fame. Reverend Al’s scornful salvo from the pulpit about “followers of the fast-food road to enlightenment.” Stoney in the Mercedes Cabriolet sharing a joint with the Pasadena hipsters. Cud Brown making a fool of himself trying to hustle them in the bar. Henrietta Wilks: “Sometimes he calls from the forest.” Omnipresent Jason Silverson, the charismatic graduate of the Institute for Advanced Hypnosis.
There were scenes from Starkers Cove: therapy sessions on the grass or in tents, Silverson presiding. Yoga exercises, body work, polo in the pool, Frisbee-tossing, table tennis. And many lingering views of scrawny Baba Shree Rameesh in his dhoti (“Ben Bermahdi, actor”) teaching glazed-eyed followers how to soothe their troubled minds. “Let what comes come; let what goes go. Find out what remains.” His was a consummate performance greeted with applause even by the formerly beguiled. “We are all one!” they cried on screen, and the audience echoed the triumphant call.
But here again was Arthur — he’d had a sense of foreboding this would come: a shot taken from above, from the Brig’s patio. Taba pulling Arthur into a full body press, chest to breast, hip to pelvis, then looking up and, caught in the act, quickly disengaging.
Cheers, laughter, loud whistles. Arthur felt his heart thudding. He dared not look at Margaret, though he sensed her suddenly stiffen. He whispered urgently: “Her truck was in the shop. I offered a ride. She’d had a few. It was nothing.”
“I’m sure it was, Arthur.” Was she smiling? Yes, maybe at his discomfort. He wanted to fall into a hole.
But then came the next sequence: Stoney escaping in the Fargo, Arthur scrambling down the road after it, shouting, waving, surrendering to the inevitable, standing there glowering and panting. This time Arthur joined awkwardly in the laughter, and Margaret couldn’t contain herself.
Arthur felt relief — his life companion surely wasn’t harbouring dark suspicions. But he also felt shame — he had just lied to her: “It was nothing.”
He had a moment of fear that the Transformers had hidden a camera up on East Point Ridge, the site of the steamy romp. But no, the screen was now showing footage of the annual Canada Day parade, Morg piloting a tractor towing the Transformers’ float. Under its banner, “JUST DO IT!” there were pots of steaming dry ice, making hazy, ghostly shapes in the air. This elicited light applause, which grew enthusiastic for the funkier local floats, the Sproules and their ghoulish gnomes, the Easy Pieces acting out a baseball game, Cud Brown as guest batsman, striking out. A joke on himself.
Arthur had to admit the movie captured the oddball essence of Garibaldi Island. There were a few more episodes, the political rally for Margaret, people pouring through the gate as the Transformers swelled their ranks, Zoller and Ida Shewfelt campaigning for the Trust, interviews with the newly converted, residents greeting each other with bows and namastes.
Finally, a scene of the November evening when the Transformers’ van was loaded, and a score of Californians formed a solemn procession on vehicle, bicycle, and foot to Ferryboat Cove, the locals looking on in shock as cast and crew waved their farewells from the departing boat.
The final credits rolled, listing names of the multitude of islanders who’d played their unwitting roles, all greeted with applause as the happy, unstressed, uncomplicated folk of Garibaldi rose to their feet.
Mookie again mounted the stage, waving everyone back into their seats. “I have another surprise,” she shouted.
From behind the curtain emerged a tall, broad-shuldered man in a sports jacket, tie, and tailored shirt, and with a confident, winning smile. He seemed somehow familiar to Arthur. He took the microphone, and in a deep and well-trained voice, delivered a brief, famous line by Virgil. In Latin! He translated: “Fortunate isle, the abode of the blest.”
The Aeneid, Book VI. The isle of Elysium, where the upright, those chosen by the gods, live in eternal happiness and harmony. Who was this erudite fellow?
“How lovely it is to be back on this blessed island, among my charming, open-hearted friends.”
Recognition dawned on Arthur, and on everyone else. Morg. Morgan Baumgarten. Introducing himself by his real name: Morgan Bromley, actor. He was now beardless, in rimless glasses, and his prosthetic scar was gone. His had been the voice-over introducing the “lovely little laid-back island.” Obviously, and cleverly, he had sneaked back onto the island.
“I hope no one here is upset by the lighthearted way we have portrayed the island that you love, your homes, your friends, yourselves. If so, our sincere apologies, and we offer amends, as you will see.”
“No apology!” a man shouted.
“It was awesome, Morg!” a woman exclaimed.
“Thank you, thank you. Our aim was to honour you, in our way, and we have been honoured too. The Awakening is being considered for this fall’s Toronto International Film Festival.”
Huzzahs, applause.
“Whether it will be accepted may be up to you.”
Arthur got it. This pitch was all about getting releases from the cast of Garibaldians.
“And now may I introduce my friend, my gifted friend and creative artist, the portraitist of Garibaldi Island: Mr. Jason Silverson.”
There was a roar as Silverson stepped from behind the curtain. He stood mutely for half a minute, grinning widely, his eyes sparkling, waving greetings, then ruefully shaking his head as the cheering continued.
Even Margaret was caught up in the moment, laughing and clapping. But Arthur felt a tinge of the old cynicism: this hugathon had been too well orchestrated.
“Very kind of you,” Silverson said. “Thank you all. What a marvellous audience. You’re the best. Good lord, maybe for the first time in my life, I’m lost for words.”
“We love you, Jason!”
“Thank you. Wow. And I love you too. I love Garibaldi Island.”
Still the master of blarney, the film-flam man. But Arthur could not deny him credit: The Awakening was a tour de force of gentle ribbing, however deceptive in its conception.
“Regrettably, I’m on the industry circuit pitching this flick, and I have a water taxi to catch, and a late flight to L.A., but Morgan here is going to hang about for a few days — he has some release forms he’ll be asking some of you folks to sign if you’re so inclined. But before I leave I’m coming down there to shake hands with every one of my great cast of characters.”
Again, he motioned for quiet, then said, “But first, allow me to announce a small gesture of thanks for your kindness and your patience and your forebearing.” He pulled some papers from his pocket and held them in the air. “This is a deed of land. It will transfer free title to Starkers Cove to the Garibaldi Land Conservancy. Starkers Cove Park. It will be yours to enjoy for all time to come.”
Arthur found himself finally joining in, as everyone stood and applauded the man he’d loathed, Silver Tongue! He felt silly, but . . . what the hell.
Even the curmudgeon Reverend Al was on his feet. A brilliant sales job. No one in this room would decline to be memorialized on film.
Watching Silverson work the crowd, touching hands, hugging, signing autographs, Arthur recalled their encounter almost exactly one year ago, at the spring flower show. He’d been seducing them all with his charisma, his flashy smile. “Quite the politician,” Arthur had cynically mused.
Euphoric over the fame they were soon to enjoy, locals were crowded about a table stacked with Morgan Bromley’s releases, eagerly scribbling signatures as Bromley charmed them with cool Hollywood panache — a thousand-dollar honorarium was an added enticement.
Herman Schloss had recruited volunteers from the hall committee to stack chairs, sweep up the debris of paper and popcorn. Mookie was outside in the Schlosses’ hybrid SUV, waiting to drive the counterfeit guru to the ferry.
Silverson finally made it to the open door, but he made a quick detour when he spotted Margaret and Arthur. “Ms. Blake, I can’t tell you how much I admire your commitment to the future of our imperilled planet.” He kissed both her cheeks, took her hands in his, and expressed his delight in her election win, her even more smashing victory against that “reptilian reactionary your husband took to the cleaners.”
And with that, he pulled Arthur into an embrace. “You sly son of a bitch, you saw through us right from the start. But you didn’t blow our cover. That was incredibly gallant of you. The Trials of Arthur Beauchamp — that should be my next documentary.”
And he was out the door. But Arthur thought he could still hear his voice. “Live in the moment not in the mind.” A memory? A voice from the forest? Why was he laughing?
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