Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(107)
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.”