Serendipity Foundation_292

by The Serendipity Foundation (retail) (epub)

People started noticing flowering plants in their front gardens. Had they always been there, or had they been planted or nurtured by someone else? Little details drew attention to themselves. People didn’t know if they had previously taken them for granted, or whether they were newly delivered gifts: the clean streets, the trees rising from pavements, the flower boxes. They couldn’t have just appeared, but how else could people explain them?

  In week four, people questioned whether they could really have been this unobservant. How could they have become so blind to all these displays of beauty and happiness that surrounded them? Couples stared at each other, in awe of being loved for who they were. Friends marvelled at each other’s capacities for empathy. Children thought about their indebtedness to parents and grandparents.

  By week five the website had transcended the debate between overt and covert acts of guerrilla kindness, and instead saw lists of everything worthy of thanks. The source of the gift was no longer as important as its recognition. People gave thanks for their health and education. They looked at their homes and realised that despite their desire to better themselves, their position was still enviable in the eyes of billions around the world. They gave thanks for their ability to make themselves, and others, happy. They gave thanks for the people and things that gave their life meaning. They gave thanks for their skills, interests and potential. They gave thanks for being able to see the best in everything if they chose to do so. They gave thanks for the fact that it was never too late to take advantage of everything they had been given.

  The Serendipity Foundation made no further statements or demands.

  PART FIVE

  The Release

  The Kingdom of How the World Should Be

  The guests awoke around midday, and were given time to wash, eat and regain a little mental clarity. There was no rush: the best time to take a reputable walking tour was in the late afternoon. They started at the north of the village. They were shown inside stables, granaries and storerooms. They were invited in to see the work of carpenters and metal smiths; they witnessed strange instruments being strung, and drum skins being stretched; puppets were carved, clothed and animated. As they headed south down the only road, they entered huts where groups of children were being taught the various components of delivering a story that might just save the world.

  They took a short break before being shown into more modern classrooms teaching IT, business, foreign languages, politics and law.

  The sun started to set, and they entered a circular clearing, where a giant acacia stood over the embers of a fire that would soon be reignited. A middle-aged man invited them to take a seat and relax: Al-Shā’ir would join them shortly. The man read the confusion on their faces. ‘The Poet,’ he said with a smile, as if the translation solved the misunderstanding.

  Which it did: without knowing it, they had been awaiting his arrival for years.

  ‘I have a story to tell you that is, and is not so,’ said Al-Shā’ir, his face gently lit by the fire. Jordie, Miller, Liam and Richard sat on rugs beside him.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a land devoid of purpose. Things neither declined nor improved. Failure was unknown as no one could remember the last time anyone tried to do anything new. Sullen communities remained so without protest: things had always been so, and how could they change?

  ‘However, in this land there was a king who dared to dream. His realm was known as the Kingdom of How the World Should Be. There were rumours this kingdom sought not only to tell stories about the world but also to imagine change within it.

  ‘The king had a wife who was the most beautiful, intelligent and empathetic woman . . .’ Al-Shā’ir paused and took a deep breath; a look of sorrow crossed his face before he smiled at his audience. ‘When the king looked into her eyes he encountered something no man had ever experienced: in her eyes he saw possibilities. With her love he had the potential not just to be himself, but to be better.

  ‘They had a daughter who took on the best attributes of both her parents.’

  Jordie smiled at Al-Shā’ir from across the flames.

  ‘At first the king’s idea that things could improve confused his population: they had no reference to what this meant. So one day, he spent the kingdom’s savings to provide food to his hungry population for a week. The population started to believe.

  ‘The invention of the possible would change the world for ever.

  ‘The myth of the kingdom held magical sway over the minds of the world’s dreamers and visionaries. Among them arrived journalists, businessmen and development practitioners.’

  The five men around the fire smiled at each other, before their gazes returned to the fire.

  ‘It was a remarkable time. Harvests grew bigger; houses became more comfortable; a health system emerged.

  ‘The king built an army, which struck terror into the hearts of other tyrannical kings; for this was not an army that marched visibly to your city’s walls, with uniforms, banners and bugles. They arrived, one by one, dressed as citizens, armed only with an alternative to how things had always been. On street corners, cafés, taverns and inns, in squares and in hiding, the soldiers spoke of incredulous worlds where things – and thus, everything – could change for the better.

  ‘As you can imagine, the despot kings were not best pleased. It was time to fight back. When fighting a change for the better, the obvious response was to change things for the worse. Crops were destroyed, houses burned: a reign of torture began. Secret police targeted those who harboured dreams of progress. The dungeons were filled with screams of hope that refused to die.’

  Al-Shā’ir turned around to find a log and placed it carefully in the embers.

  ‘But the tyrants became frustrated. While their torture apparatus kept them in power, what they craved was the absence of change, rather than opposing versions of it.

  ‘One day, an adviser sought the ear of one of the tyrant kings. “Dear King,” he said, “we have fought the wrong enemy.”

  ‘The tyrant king looked bemused. “What do you mean?” he said.

  ‘“We thought our enemy was the idea of change. It is in my opinion, however, that our true enemy is that of the possible. It is this idea we need to destroy.”

  ‘“And how do you propose we do that?” said the tyrant king.

  ‘The adviser laughed. “It is my greatest achievement yet. I have created the idea of the impossible.”’

  The four-man audience smiled.

  ‘Before long the tyrant king’s plan wrought its damage. The Army of How the World Should Be still inspired thousands to dream, but it took only a few years until they started to believe their dreams were unattainable. The tentacles of scepticism proved the greatest form of suppression the tyrant king had ever known.’

  Al-Shā’ir gestured to a boy to refill their tea glasses.

  Al-Shā’ir stared at the fire for a few moments. ‘But this is not a story about the tyrant king, but about the King of How the World Should Be, and his daughter. The impossible affected him more than most. The more he tried to change, the more his visions were criticised. His court focused on abstract utopias rather than real change. The king slowly withdrew from the world, believing good could only survive if it was heavily fortified.

  ‘Soon after, his wife died . . .’ – Al-Shā’ir paused and took a couple of deep breaths – ‘and with her his ability to imagine possibilities. The world no longer seemed worthy of his faith in it. The possible no longer contained any magic.

  ‘The daughter, too, tragically lost her husband before her own daughter was born. This princess grew up to be the most precocious child the court had ever seen. If she had arrived a decade earlier, her grandfather would have celebrated her as a saviour. But now the king could see in her only futility.

  ‘The king had been blind to how his disillusionment had affected his own daughter. She had retained her belief in the world, but hidden it to appease her grieving father. Now she too had a child, she could no longer
accept such denial. One day she found her father in the palace, looked into his eyes, and said, “I still believe in the world.”

  ‘The next day, she left the palace with her daughter. They left behind the luxury of the court, and departed through the gates dressed as peasants. They arrived in the City of Cynicism, a city whose people endured unceasing loneliness. They found a small building in a run-down part of town that had two rooms: one on the first floor, and one in the basement.

  ‘The king retreated even further into his utopias. He would receive letters from his daughter inviting him to visit, but with each year his fear of the world that had robbed him of his wife and of his hope increased.

  ‘The city disintegrated further. The acceptance of failure hardened hearts and silenced tongues. The Cult of the Impossible had destroyed every last sign of confidence. The last optimistic voice had been ridiculed into silence with the taunt that it did not understand the real world, that it was sentimental and naïve.

  ‘The king asked what she hoped to achieve.

  ‘“It has never been about the destination, Father. Only the journey is important.”’

  Al-Shā’ir took a sip of tea and stared at the fire as if it were a portal to his past.

  His audience thought it was a momentary pause, but a minute passed and it appeared his story had finished. Jordie and Liam looked at each other, confused.

  ‘And?’ said Liam. ‘What happened next?’

  Al-Shā’ir looked up at Liam, gave a light smile, and shrugged. ‘The greatest battle in the world is not between good and evil, but between the idealist and the cynic, the optimist and the pessimist. For too long the king fought for good against evil. It was only as he grew old he realised that was never the battle. It was the princesses who fought alone in the battle to save the world.’

  Crackles from the fire merged into the soundtrack of river and cicada.

  ‘How did they do?’ said Liam.

  Al-Shā’ir once more lost himself in the flames. ‘Sometimes the one who listens knows more of the story than the one who narrates.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘But I believe even the king, hidden in his palace as he was, heard of their courage, his heart overflowing with pride and regret.’

  Smiles broke out over the faces of audience and storyteller alike: each of them was the king.

  ‘Do you think the king will be with his princesses again?’ asked Miller.

  Al-Shā’ir nodded slowly. ‘If they can forgive an old fool,’ he said in a wavering voice.

  Miller smiled as he looked at Al-Shā’ir. ‘I think they’d like that.’

  Open Returns

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Larry, it’s me.’

  ‘Larry it’s me who?’

  ‘Wow, this phone call hasn’t quite hit the emotional climax I imagined.’

  ‘Is that . . . is that you, Richard?’

  ‘Am I not sounding so recognisably narcissistic as before?’

  ‘Man . . . Jesus. Where are you? How are you? What’s happening?’ Larry said with urgency.

  ‘Calm down. Seriously, I’m fine. Being held captive for three months was more bearable than your haiku CD.’

  ‘I hoped it might’ve helped you find God in 88 ways. Fear can keep you prisoner; haiku can set you free. Where are you? Tell me what I can do.’

  ‘I’m fine. If this was the end of a bad drama, I’d say something like, “For the first time in my whole life, I’m truly free.”’

  ‘People say that stuff as they’re about to die. It’s the type of freedom only imminent death provides.’

  ‘I hope it’s not imminent.’

  ‘Thank Christ. What can I do? Who can I get hold of?’

  ‘Larry, you know I only come to you for special types of advice.’

  ‘And what type of advice do you need now?’

  ‘Nautical.’

  ‘Nautical?’

  ‘I thought it might be nice to sail on the ocean rather than destroy it. I heard from someone you were close to finishing a boat.’

  ‘You have reliable sources.’

  ‘I was wondering if you still needed a first mate.’

  ‘Not so much. But I could do with a best mate.’

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘The boat’s done. I was kind of hanging around in case I had to go to my friend’s funeral.’

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure if anyone else would show up. We can leave when you get back.’

  ‘I was hoping you might come pick me up.’

  For five weeks, the male members of the Serendipity Foundation immersed themselves in the daily routine of the madrasa. By day they attended classes on delivery and repertoire. They learned how to turn a silence into poignancy, excitement and comedy; they found ways of accessing the stories that had lain within, and were given the confidence to showcase their vulnerability to an audience.

  On the second evening they sat with Al-Shā’ir by the fire.

  ‘It is said that hidden among us, a secret order lies in wait.’ He smiled at his audience. ‘It is entirely possible that one of them might have sought out your company for pleasure. They could be masquerading as your colleague, friend, or lover . . .’

  Over the duration of the next five weeks, Al-Shā’ir initiated them into The Order. It seemed a purely fantastical tale: talk of Persian assassins, Arabian nights and sleeper storytellers spoke to their Orientalism, not to their experiences within the Serendipity Foundation. By the end of their fifth week, they were still unsure what they had to do with storytelling.

  Al-Shā’ir nodded. ‘Before you leave the madrasa, I have one final story to tell.

  ‘Once upon a time there was the Kingdom of What Could Have Been. The kingdom lay in torment: its people lived a life haunted by their dreams. As they awaited sleep, their younger selves returned to berate them for having given up on their ambitions. Their young idealism felt betrayed by how their older selves had settled for mediocrity.

  ‘Then one day, a coach carrying four of the kingdom’s most noble minds got held up by a group of bandits. “We don’t want your money, but your life,” they told the travellers.

  ‘The next day the kingdom received a statement by the bandits. “In return for the four men we have kidnapped, we demand that the younger selves who haunt each and every one of us at night, write what they demand of their older selves . . .”’

  Al-Shā’ir remained silent for a few moments.

  ‘In life, you can either tell a story worth telling, or you can be a story worth telling.’

  They had agreed with Jalila and Aiya to stay in the madrasa for five weeks to let the final ransom run its course, but with those weeks at an end, the four of them focused on their return.

  ‘I think for the first couple of months,’ said Jordie as they sat around the fire late one evening, ‘I’m just going to sleep around. Put it about a bit.’

  The others burst out laughing.

  ‘What? I don’t think you guys understand how women love the whole damaged genius thing, even if you’re 80 pounds overweight. They’ll see straight through the fat and get stuck into the pain. “Who hurt you, Jordie, my love? Who hurt you?”’ he said in a high-pitched voice as he stroked his face.

  ‘You’re not going back a superstar,’ said Miller, ‘but a hostage, who over three months in captivity managed to put on an extra ten pounds.’

  Liam and Richard laughed.

  ‘Richard,’ said Jordie. ‘You’re with me on this one, right?’

  Richard shrugged. ‘I don’t think I’m going straight back.’

  Miller and Jordie looked at him, confused.

  ‘I’m being picked up by a sailing boat in two weeks’ time in Alexandria.’

  Jordie shook his head. ‘I mean like . . . fuck, Richard. You were going to be my wingman. You were also going to pick up my bar tab. Well, with Miller filling his boots with lusty teenagers, it looks like it’s down to me and you,’ he said, looking at Liam, ‘to giv
e the mature women what they want.’

  Liam remained silent as he poked the end of a twig into the embers.

  ‘Not you as well? Women love a second coming.’

  Liam looked up and smiled. ‘I was thinking of hanging around a bit longer here.’

  ‘To do what?’

  Liam shrugged, slightly embarrassed. ‘I feel that my last book needs a bit of a rewrite, based on some first-hand exper­iences. This seems as good a place as any to write it. See whether I can rebrand myself as a writer of relevance.’

  The others nodded.

  Liam smiled, but quickly reverted to an introspective look. ‘I suppose in some ways what we’ve done shows how it’s possible to achieve the change you’d dreamed of. But what about the others who are fighting callous regimes? Are we saying they should do a bit of street performance, big picnics and an injection of good manners? In places that are massacring women and children, it seems ridiculous, and in many ways offensive. But then again, I look at all these people who’ve put their faith in international law and politics and been repeatedly let down. I’m not convinced that forcing enemies to share a communal meal is any less futile than a UN resolution. I guess I want a few weeks out here to work out where I stand.’

  Jordie smiled. ‘Modern futility does seem to be defined by a room of 10,000 bureaucrats all staring at screens and wearing headsets.’

  ‘Thank God they hold the meetings in places I like holidaying in or else the lobbying would’ve been a nightmare,’ said Richard. ‘Copenhagen, Lisbon, Cancun, Durban. It’s like a bucket list.’

  ‘If the UN were serious about a climate change agreement,’ continued Jordie, ‘they’d hold the conference in Aberdeen and say no fucking off until an agreement has been reached. A threat of winter in Aberdeenshire focuses the mind like no other.’

  They descended into a brief silence.

  ‘What about you?’ said Miller to Richard. ‘What are you planning to do after your boat trip?’

  ‘I’m a rich man who wants to do some good in the world. I should probably get involved in some philanthropy, right? You?’