by Yoav Blum
Yours,
Always,
And perhaps no longer,
Emily
29
Eric sat by the bed where Guy lay.
He wouldn’t have to wait much longer. He wondered which transit station Guy had chosen for himself. A train station, a bus station? He had heard of some who made the transition via a movie theater. It was very hard to predict these things.
The device next to the bed monitored Guy’s heartbeats, and Eric watched it intently. He focused on the shaky line on the small monitor and silently started counting down to the final heartbeat.
A nice device, almost poetic. A single line with a simple statement: if there were no ups and downs, you were no longer alive.
It was a lot more comfortable when there were instruments around, it turned out. With Emily, it was much more difficult to determine the specific point when her heart stopped beating. But here, here the soft beeping did half the job for him. Poor Emily, how frightened she was when she saw him there at the door, a second before she fell to the ground, a second before he lunged at her and stretched his hand toward her heart.
“The doctors don’t know you’re going to die,” he whispered to Guy. “They still haven’t detected the internal injury. That’s what happens when the doctor sees you after thirty-six hours without sleeping.”
Guy didn’t move.
“You know, I’m always surprised to discover how easy this is,” said Eric. “It’s all just a matter of how much time you’re willing to invest, how much patience you have. People are so accustomed to looking at cause and effect as something immediate. The moment you make the mental jump to a world in which they can be spread over a very long time, it’s much easier to understand them.”
The instruments continued to beep, expressing agreement, or something similar.
“It was nice knowing you,” Eric said. “You should know you’re quite a funny guy when you want to be.”
He fell silent for a moment and pondered.
“When you wanted to be,” he repeated.
He bent forward a bit, sitting more comfortably. His elbows were resting on his knees, his fingertips pressed against each other.
“I hope you won’t be angry. When you find out. If you find out.” He tilted his head and thought. “I very much doubt that will happen, to tell you the truth. But if it makes any difference, I really like you. You were one of my favorites. I like the ones who lack confidence and are unaware of their lack of confidence. To a certain extent, it’s like a beautiful woman who doesn’t know she’s beautiful. Your blind spot toward yourself makes you more interesting.”
Very soon, he’ll need to be ready to reach out his hand at the right moment.
“I told the nurse that I’m your brother,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind. I have no idea why she believed it; we’re not similar at all. People see in you what they want to see, it turns out. With a sufficiently worried face, they’re certain that you’re a family member, even if you aren’t so similar.
“On the other hand, I had to change my appearance quite a bit for you. After all, you know how much I detest mustaches. They itch and make the face ugly. I always thought the mustache was invented by someone who forgot to shave because he didn’t have a mirror. But when you choose a name like Pierre for yourself, a thin mustache is almost a moral obligation, right?”
Guy didn’t respond.
“Have a good trip, buddy,” Eric said tenderly. “However you choose to travel.”
Guy’s last heartbeats appeared on the monitor, and Eric reached out his hand.
At exactly the same place, and at an infinite distance from there, Guy folded the letter and sat limply, his arms drooping in front of him.
He looked up and again discovered that the airport was completely empty. Just the bald attendant sat at the other end of the hall and looked at him curiously.
He looked down and saw the small suitcase waiting for him, practically staring at him with eyes full of hope.
If he had any energy when he started to read, none of it remained now. To hell with everything.
He got up slowly, the envelope and the folded letter in one hand, the suitcase in the other. He walked toward the check-in counter. The eyes of the attendant were still fixed on him.
The distance he had traversed before so quickly now seemed endless. He moved slowly. He didn’t care. Finally, he arrived and put down the suitcase.
“I would like one ticket, please,” he said in a flat voice.
It was as if the attendant awoke from a deep sleep. “Terrific. No problem,” he said. He looked down at the screen in front of him and typed quickly. “Did you happen to think about my question?” he asked hopefully.
“Excuse me?” said Guy.
“The taste in the mouth,” the attendant said, still typing. “Six letters.”
“I have no idea, sorry,” said Guy.
“It’s okay,” said the attendant.
He continued to type at a rapid pace.
Guy thought for a moment. “ ‘Bitter.’ ”
The attendant looked at him quizzically before raising his eyebrows in joy. “Right! Right! That fits with the b in twelve-down,” he said. “Good job!”
“Happy to help,” Guy said sourly.
The attendant didn’t take notice. “Place the suitcase here please, on the conveyor belt,” he said.
Guy did as he was told.
“And also the envelope with the letter,” the attendant added.
“I . . . I want to keep this, if possible,” said Guy.
The attendant shook his head sadly. “That’s impossible, unfortunately.”
“That’s all that I have left from . . .”
“You can’t carry memories from a previous life,” the attendant said. “Rule number two. Number one is not to urinate in public places, number two is not to take memories from a previous life.”
Guy looked at him, frustrated.
“Umm, I’m not good at jokes, apparently,” the attendant said. “Sorry.” He pointed at the suitcase. “Put it there, inside.”
Guy opened the suitcase and looked for the last time.
Some of the memories came closer now. Memories of Cassandra and memories of Emily crowded side by side, like distant relatives rediscovering each other. . . .
“There’s something I need to check,” said Guy.
He rummaged through the merging memories until he found what he was searching for. Slowly he stood up over the suitcase with two memories, one in each hand. Cassandra’s laugh and Emily’s.
He held them up to the light and examined them, one in each hand, and the two laughs rolled, sparkled, and twirled in his hands, the light passing through them and falling on his face. They were exactly the same. How, how had he failed to notice, how?
He put them back into the suitcase, and they hurried to move closer to each other and embrace, giggling.
For several moments, he looked at the envelope in his hand without saying a word. He looked at the attendant, who again signaled that he should put the letter inside.
He bent over and put the envelope into the suitcase, covering a few memories of Emily and of Cassandra with it, then closed and locked it again.
“That wasn’t so hard, right?” The attendant smiled and handed him the ticket.
The conveyor belt began to move and the suitcase started to fade into the distance until finally it disappeared in the small opening at the back of the terminal.
“And thus,” Guy said quietly, “my life as a coincidence maker ends and life as a person begins.”
The attendant typed absentmindedly on his keyboard. “Well, okay, but that’s not exactly true,” he said.
“Excuse me?” said Guy.
“Maybe not every coincidence maker is a person, but every person is also a coincidence maker,” the attendant said. “You didn’t go over this in the course?”
“Apparently we didn’t go over a lot of things.” Guy smiled.
&nb
sp; “Oh, a smile!” The attendant rejoiced. “I thought it would never come.” He smiled at him in return. “You’re at Gate One,” he said and pointed. “Have a good trip.”
“Thank you.”
He turned and walked away, still smiling to himself, but not for the reason the attendant thought.
Somewhere on its way to getting lost was his suitcase, and it contained everyt hing that had happened till now, including a long white envelope with his name written on it.
But the letter itself—the letter itself was stuffed under his shirt, next to his heart.
“It’s a bit like being a magician—you make them look in one direction, and do something somewhere else. ”
While he’d bent over to place the envelope inside—making sure to flash it in front of the attendant—he was also stuffing the folded bundle of papers cautiously under his clothes. It was probably the sharpest, smoothest, and most decisive movement he had ever made in his blurry life, and he felt as if all the rest had only been preparation. When he stood up again and looked at the attendant, he realized he had succeeded. The attendant hadn’t noticed.
And thus, with the pages of Emily’s letter attached to his body, and with a small smile on his lips whose full meaning he had yet to understand, he walked with a straight back, plane ticket in hand, and entered Gate 1, excited about his small rebellion, the last in his old life.
“If someday a white grand piano falls on you while you’re walking down the street and you lose your memory, there’s one thing that’s still important for you to remember,” the General said. “You can forget your name, the names of the stars in the solar system, and the ingredients in margarine, but please remember this. There are two types of people in the world: those who see in every choice the possibility to gain something, and those who see in every choice the concession they need to make.
“People are free, and they forget this all the time. People hope in different ways, people are afraid in different ways. There are people who warn themselves that if they do x then y will happen to them, and there are people who explain to themselves why y is a good reason to abstain from x. This is ostensibly the same thing, ostensibly the same decision, but there is always a difference between checking the possibilities and mapping the obstacles. Courage is indeed important; people don’t understand what really constitutes courage. Every choice entails giving something up, and the courage required to make that sacrifice depends on how much you want something. Because, ultimately, you can’t always be right in your choices. Occasionally you’ll screw up, and not only occasionally.
“The difference is simple: happy people look at their lives and see a series of choices. Miserable people see only a series of sacrifices. Before every action you take when making a coincidence, you must confirm which type of person you’re working with—the hopeful or the fearful. They look similar. They are not.”
Eric exited the hospital and walked placidly along the street.
Upstairs, one of the doctors pronounced Guy’s death.
Eric got what he needed.
In his pocket, warm and flashing, was Guy’s last heartbeat. He decided he had time for a quick coffee before getting to the crosswalk.
And perhaps a piece of cake too.
He’d decide when he got there.
A bit of spontaneity, heh?
30
For every beginning, there is a beginning that preceded it.
That’s the first rule.
That means that this rule also has a rule that preceded it, of course. But that’s a different story.
When does life begin?
Is it the moment when the baby’s head emerges into the world? Or perhaps his entire body has to come out?
Or perhaps it’s only later, when he says his first word and becomes human in his own eyes?
And maybe it happens much earlier, the moment the sperm and the egg meet and get to know each other?
Every beginning has a beginning that preceded it. Life is a continuum, not a specific event.
But there is one point that is a bit problematic in this context.
The first heartbeat.
The first heartbeat generates the second one, and the second the third, but what generates the first heartbeat?
It happens somewhere during the fifth week, the doctors say. There are various and sundry explanations for how this occurs, but these explanations don’t really make any difference to the heartbeats themselves. They still need something to get them started.
And thus, driven by the law that precedes the first law, another type of person roams the world. They aren’t transparent, like imaginary friends, but neither do they exist like coincidence makers. They are seen and unseen, existent and nonexistent, imaginary and real exactly to the same extent, and they rove among us.
Occasionally they stand beside a pregnant woman, reach out a hand secretly and stealthily, and at precisely the right moment, grasp the new little heart between two fingers and give it one small squeeze. And that’s it.
They are the igniters.
Quiet, covert, and very gentle (there aren’t many things in the world as fragile as the heart of a five-week-old fetus), they are generally the best in their field when and if they decide to become coincidence makers.
Eric stands in the crosswalk. The red light lasted five seconds before surrendering to the passage of time and turning green, and people from both sides started to flow into the street.
This will be quick, so pay attention.
Here’s the green-eyed woman; here’s Eric.
He’s walking slowly and with concentration; she’s crossing the street opposite him, erect in posture and deep in thought.
Here, they’re approaching each other.
Now we’ll slow the world a bit. Pay attention.
Here, Eric is putting his hand into his pocket and pulling out Guy’s last heartbeat.
Here, they’re drawing closer and closer.
And now they’re exactly next to each other.
And here, he’s reaching his hand out sideways, and without even the birds noticing, he inserts the heartbeat in the small heart waiting inside the green-eyed woman. There’s no need to squeeze. The last heartbeat is inserted in a smooth motion and becomes a first heartbeat.
And here, they’re moving away from each other.
Eric smiles to himself. That was simpler than Emily’s last heartbeat, he thought. He had also planted it in a small heart that longed for activity. It was so simple. Like riding a bike. You don’t forget.
Once an igniter, always an igniter, he thought to himself.
On the other side of the street, life was beginning.
FROM INTRODUCTION TO COINCIDENCES,
PART I
Look at the line of time.
Of course, it is only an illusion. Time is a space, not a line.
But for our purposes, look at the line of time.
Watch it. Identify how each event on the line is both a cause and effect. Try to locate its starting point.
You will not succeed, of course.
Every now has a before.
This is probably the main—though not the most obvious—problem you will encounter as coincidence makers.
Therefore, before studying theory and practice, formulas and statistics, before you start to make coincidences, let’s start with the simplest exercise.
Look again at the line of time.
Find the correct spot, place a finger on it, and simply decide: “This is the starting point.”
1
Three hours before marking a small ü in his notebook, the man who had once called himself Eric and long ago stopped calling himself Pierre sat in a café and sipped from his cup with deliberate slowness.
Here too, like always, timing was everything, but he had a little more time, and he could actually allow himself to let the events happen on their own. That was the power of precise preparation. He had already fed the pigeon, plugged up the sewer, and even organized a rotte
n fish on the plate of the statistics professor yesterday, just to be sure.
He sat with his long body leaning back a bit from the table and reviewed the events in his mind again, the small cup of coffee gently held between his fingers. From the corner of his eye, he watched the progress of the second hand on the big clock hanging over the cash register. As always, in the final moments of implementation, he would enjoy going over the full picture of events in his mind, if only to confirm that there were no cracks in it.
“I thought it’d be simpler,” he had said to Baum when they sat right here, at this café.
“I told you,” Baum had said, “there’s a reason five coincidence makers returned this mission uncompleted. The objective is not to get them to meet, but to make it so that the connection will last.”
They sat and drank beer together. That was back when he had been Baum’s personal assistant. Years of work alongside someone who was touted as the greatest coincidence maker of all time had helped him to see things in a much clearer way when he at last set off on an independent path. But this mission appeared to be very complex, even borderline impossible.
“The laws of imaginary friends are very strict in this matter,” Baum told him. “From the beginning, I didn’t understand why you took this mission. Everyone knows that one doesn’t organize coincidences that include imaginary friends. That always complicates things.”
“I thought there was no problem in remaining someone’s imaginary friend over time,” he said.
“Correct,” said Baum, “but for that, one of them has to imagine the other. It’s not called ‘getting them together.’ The first rule in love is that it can’t exist only in the imagination of either person.”
“I know.” He remembered his heavy sigh. “I need to make them quit.”
“It’s impossible to quit being an imaginary friend,” Baum noted offhandedly. “They have to be fired, or there has to be an official transfer request. And this must happen simultaneously, otherwise you’ll have excessively large age differences in the next job. And even if you cause them to be fired, who knows which job they’ll be transferred to? Forget it. Return the mission.”