Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(7)
He had bluntly asked Silverson about his background. “Told me he made a name as a Hollywood auteur, a producer–director of small-budget films. He wrote the scripts, did it all. He obviously still loves the camera; totes it around everywhere.”
“His switch to guru suggests he didn’t enjoy a dazzling film career.”
“Told me he rejected the Hollywood lifestyle after undergoing a ‘revelational experience,’ sort of like finding God, except he gets to play the part of God. His followers are in purdah, protected from worldly concerns, no newspapers, magazines, radio — Silverson wants them to have only happy thoughts in their quest for universal love and connectedness.” Al dropped his voice to a soft, ominous whisper. “He wants to inhabit our bodies.” He grinned. “Maybe they just do a lot of drugs.”
Rumours abounded: an underground lab for meth, LSD, ecstasy; nude-fests on the beach; partner-swapping. But Garibaldi had a long tradition of mischievous gossip.
Silverson and Forbish were still at close quarters — or what would be considered close if it weren’t for the barrier of the reporter’s Falstaffian paunch. Doubtless, Nelson was cadging an invitation to Starkers Cove and a hearty meal.
Silverson would soon learn it was almost an inviolable tradition to regularly feed Nelson — almost every home on Garibaldi had had him over. He had the uncanny knack of knowing when a roast was in the oven of one of his subscribers.
Silverson moved on, prowling for new adherents, pausing to video several young women running a raffle table, a fundraiser for the women’s ball team, the Nine Easy Pieces. They bunched around him, cats lapping up the milk of flattery. He got a playful shove from Felicity Jones and slipped his arm lightly around her waist.
“Under his spell already,” Al said. “Won’t be long before they’re out there feeding slop to the pigs.”
§
Arthur and Margaret were late getting home to Blunder Bay Farm. They had to stop at the Legion for a traditional Victoria Day observance, then for a longer visit to the common room of the elders’ hostel, where a throng of descendants of Winnie Gillicuddy were celebrating her 110th birthday. “Or 109, I ain’t sure, but it’s up there.” A trooper, she had knocked on doors for Margaret.
Tea was poured. Great-great-grandchildren were cooed over. A massive heat-emitting cake was produced, requiring volunteer lung power to help Winnie snuff the candles. In the process, Arthur singed his new moustache.
Somehow, he bore up under the ritual of departure, the ghastly kissing and hugging of these touchy-feely times. Arthur had been raised in the 1950s, when restraint was still in vogue.
Twilight was setting in as they drove off in Arthur’s venerable Fargo pickup. Margaret was on a roll, tuning up for the House of Commons, lashing the cabinet. They were addicted to tar sands, that cancerous drug. They were too busy shining the boots of the resource multinationals to care about poverty, education, health. They had a scheme to Americanize Canada. A cabal of right-wing ministers was running Ottawa secretively, denying privacy to others, tapping phones, scanning emails, clamping down on whistle-blowers; 1984 had finally arrived.
Arthur managed a few intermittent phrases of encouragement, about battles not yet lost, but kept the hopelessness he felt to himself. This country, the world, was on a downward spiral; Margaret was fighting an ever-rising tide. It was easier, though more guilt-inducing, to focus on immediate concerns. For instance, he hoped the Woofers had remembered to water in his freshly planted beans and brassicas.
Woofers — Workers on Organic Farms — were mostly youngsters, travelling the world on the cheap, working half-days for board and room. Blunder Bay Farm was currently hosting two of them, just back from college in Japan: Yoki and Niko, competent, hard-working girls. (“Young women, please,” Margaret would chide.)
Arthur’s mental meandering was interrupted, confusingly, by Margaret, as they turned onto Potters Road, the home stretch. “They seem to be doing something interesting with that sustainability project.”
Arthur looked at her. “Who?”
“Starkers Cove. The Personal Transformation Mission. I don’t have time, but why not take up Jason’s invitation?”
Jason. Her new pal.
“Wander down there and take a boo.”
“A little soul attunement might do me good,” said Arthur, a failed effort at sarcasm. If the Transformers ran workshops for the grumpy, he ought to sign up. “Al Noggins has already taken a boo, and came away satisfied that Silver Tongue collected a bunch of weak egos and is emptying their minds of the ability to think critically and refilling their tanks with happy thoughts.”
“Oh, God, that’s typical Al Noggins, feeling threatened by an intrusion on his fiefdom, as if it’s some kind of competing church. He can’t abide anything that’s outside the ecclesiastical status quo. He’s got you infected, dear. I mean, you guys have become a pair of cynical old goats. I am one with the Transformers. They’re trying to make a statement about sustainability. Jason simply doesn’t seem like your typical New Ager, and I thought he showed a very good mind. Discerning. Quite charismatic, really.”
Charismatic! Arthur detested the word. What was usually meant was showy.
“And he donated two hundred dollars to the women’s ball team.”
His astute political wife was normally not so credulous. The blond bombshell had worked his magic on her today. And on others too. Before leaving the flower show, he and his underling had invited all comers to see their “digs,” as Silverson put it. For starters, they left with several Easy Pieces.