by Yoav Blum
“But I’ve already started to move things.”
“Submit a retroactive cancellation form.”
“I don’t return missions,” he said. “When I start something, I finish it.”
Baum shook his head. “Whatever you say. Principles are something I respect.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
Baum thought a bit. “That’s a good question.” He took another sip from his glass and said, “Honestly, I have no idea.”
The moment Baum said this, it was clear to Eric that he had to find a way.
He would solve the problem for which Baum saw no solution. He would—and must—find a solution.
It had to be something that wouldn’t occur only in the imagination, and which would be true and natural. And wouldn’t break the rules. Ugh—he really couldn’t stand that third rule.
He had called Baum and said, “I need your help with something.”
And of course, Baum said, “I know.”
“I need to organize a Coincidence Makers Course. We’ll submit a request to transfer my two clients.”
“Yes, yes.”
“The course will be quite small, just three people.”
“I said I know.”
“You enjoy knowing in advance what people are going to say, huh?”
“You have no idea how much.”
And now he was about to witness the final chord in a symphony of coincidences.
Or the opening one—depending on how you looked at it.
He got up from his chair and signaled to the waitress that he had left a tip, folded under the empty cup. As he went out into the hot sun, he took a deep breath. It was time to go to the park.
1
The moment she left the house, she felt today would be a good day. Perhaps it was the way the light poured onto the sidewalk; perhaps it was that new and strange aroma from the balcony of her neighbor on the first floor; perhaps it was because her shift had been canceled again and she had at least one whole day to be by herself. In any case, today would be a good day.
Something white, semiliquid, and indescribably disgusting landed on her right shoulder, and she looked up just in time to see the flash of a fast, rude pigeon with now-empty bowels. Without saying a word, she went back in to change her clothes.
When she emerged from the house again, this time wearing a red dress with white stripes, she decided that the good day would actually start n-o-w.
“Your book still hasn’t arrived,” the bookseller told her.
He was a pimpled, indifferent young man who was playing a game on his telephone while, all around him, the world’s treasures waited patiently for him to take a break and consider reading them.
“Do you have any idea when it will arrive?” she asked. “Because these coupons are only good until tomorrow.”
“It won’t come tomorrow,” he said. “It’d be best for you to look for something else instead. There are new books in the corner that I haven’t arranged yet.”
He gestured with his head toward the corner of the small store and immediately refocused on his telephone. Priorities.
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. She had a plan for situations like this.
Someone watching from the side would probably see a dreamy student browsing the shelves while humming an unfamiliar tune to herself. From her perspective, it was a simple lottery in which the lucky book would be the one her eyes fell upon the moment she finished the song.
She approached the seller and placed what fate had chosen in front of him.
She had never heard of this poet, and she usually read prose, but you didn’t get to new places when you followed the same path every day.
On the way back to her apartment, she almost fell into an open manhole. Of course. That’s how it was on good days—the sewer was open in the middle of the street.
She lifted her eyes from the open book a moment before the worker in the yellow hat ran toward her and stopped her.
“Working . . . Dangerous.” He panted at her. “Go around.” He pointed toward the park.
“Why don’t you just put up a barrier or something?” she asked.
The worker shrugged his shoulders. It seemed he didn’t speak English very well. “Dangerous,” he said. “Go around.”
Something in this book of poetry had grabbed her. Almost without thinking, she sat down on a small bench in the park, opposite the lake, in the shade of a large tree. She read and felt that the curiosity from the pages was seeping into her. The text seemed childish and very secretive, which obliged her to stop demanding answers from the world and to allow herself to experience it in silent amazement.
She lifted her eyes from the book, closed them, and felt that the wind was again blowing the scent of a good day toward her. The tree above her made light rustling sounds. She opened her eyes and let the world enter.
The green of the park, the sparkle of the water, the changing colors of the balls that a young man was tossing into the air on the other side of the lake.
Today would be a good day.
1
The park was quite empty at this hour of the morning.
He came here, occasionally, when he could no longer bear sitting in the lecture hall, no longer stomach the incessant babble. With all due respect for the term “student,” the human spirit wasn’t designed to be shut in a classroom for such a long time. He needed some space.
So he would come here occasionally, mainly at the expense of statistics class and similar courses, run around the lake a bit, stare at the growing grass or at the gardener who was always around, who glanced back at him with an amused look. He would contemplate life and practice his juggling. Today, he was outside before the end of the sentence announcing the lecturer’s flu.
The gardener was there today too, on the far side of the park, on a small hill, his knees planted in a bed of miniature roses. Not far from him sat a long-legged guy who was immersed in thought, an open notebook in his hand.
He was up to four balls.
It had been very easy to learn this. The main rule, he reminded himself each time, was not to look at your hands. You needed to watch the balls in the air and not try to see how you caught them.
It was strange, but he never really practiced juggling. The movements flowed almost naturally from the start.
He stood opposite the lake in the center of the park and started to toss the balls in the air, trying to get into a steady rhythm, which would enable him to continue to juggle with his hands while sailing off to a different place in his mind.
When he saw her looking at him from the other side of the lake, something happened.
His hands unwittingly stopped, allowing the balls to fall around him, and her look (perhaps curious, perhaps amused) pierced his soul.
She sat there, her hands resting on a book, her red and white dress fluttering in the wind in rhythm with her red hair.
He was used to having women around him. He was used to trying to charm them, trying to get them to look at him or trying to excite them with his wit, but none of them made him feel—how did you say?—that he really cared. It was a sort of game. He didn’t understand why, but it always seemed to him that someone was whispering to him that the time had not yet come.
But here was this young woman on the other side of the lake, and he felt something starting to blaze near his heart.
Like a small, strong flame; like another heart beating; like an old love letter that had just awakened and was burning under the skin, one line after another, thanks to her eyes.
She curled her hands around her mouth and called to him: “Why did you stop? It was quite nice.”
He tried to regain his composure and quickly picked up the balls.
“What are you reading?” he called to her.
She raised the book so he could see. “It’s called Humanityism,” she called. “By someone named Eddie Levy.”
“What’s it about?” he yelled back.
“You
know, poems . . . I just started . . . I was busy watching you. I haven’t delved into it yet.”
“Wait a minute,” he yelled, and started to circle the lake.
In a small suitcase somewhere, several memories moved around, like children turning over in their sleep.
He’d never remember this, but it really wasn’t easy to find that butterfly.
He felt a bit idiotic flying all the way to the rain forest, roaming around the jungle for a week in order to find the home of the right species. He’d been stung by mosquitoes, nearly eaten by a leopard, and then had conducted exhausting negotiations with a butterfly for three days.
Though he finished the course with honors following this test, he always wondered why it was necessary. A simple movement of a wing that was supposed to happen precisely at a specific second—what good would come from it?
He was familiar with the theory behind “small actions and large repercussions,” but let’s be honest: this butterfly wing would not generate world peace or a technological revolution. A bit of air moves and, at most, makes a lot of air move in the end. That’s the extent of it, right?
As talented as this butterfly might be, nothing would come of this beyond . . .
An errant breeze tossed her hair when he finally reached her, making him think that this was probably the single most beautiful picture he had ever seen in his life.
She sat and waited for him, her hands still resting on the book, and that same breeze carried to her nostrils a nearly familiar scent that made her eyebrows arch a bit in surprise.
Too many words ran through his mind at that moment. The pages by his heart, under his skin, were almost glowing with heat.
At last the one who was no longer Guy said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” said the one who was no longer Emily.
The tall man on the opposite bank of the lake made a small, decisive check mark in his notebook.
The gardener on the hill stroked a delicate petal with his finger.
And the four of them smiled, each one for a slightly different reason.
Yoav Blum is an international bestselling author and software developer. His first three books became instant bestsellers in Israel. The Coincidence Makers, his debut, will be translated into twelve languages. He currently lives in Israel with his wife and daughter. When he is not writing (literature or code) he contemplates what he’ll do when he grows up.
This is a work of fiction. The characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Characters, institutions and organisations mentioned in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously without any intent to describe actual conduct.
Originally published in Hebrew in Israel under the title by Keter Publishing House
First published in the United States of America 2018 by St. Martin’s Press
First published in Australia 2018 in Picador by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia, 2000
Copyright © Yoav Blum 2011
Translation copyright © Ira Moskowitz 2018
The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry is available from the National Library of Australia http://catalogue.nla.gov.au
EPUB format: 9781760559311
Cover design: Based on original design by Rich Deas
Cover images: Shutterstock; Kazunori Nagashima/Getty Images
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Table of Contents
About The Coincidence Makers
Title
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
FROM INTRODUCTION TO COINCIDENCES-PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
CLASSICAL THEORIES IN COINCIDENCE MAKING AND RESEARCH METHODS FOR ENHANCING CAUSES AND EFFECTS
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
FROM METHODS IN DEFINING GOALS FOR COINCIDENCE MAKING–INTRODUCTION
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
FROM THE WORKBOOK FOR THE COURSE FREE CHOICE, BOUNDARIES, AND RULES OF THUMB, PART III (HUMAN BOUNDARIES)
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
FROM KEY FIGURES IN THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE COINCIDENCE-MAKING PROFESSION, MANDATORY READING: H. J. BAUM
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
FROM THE LETTER DISSEMINATED AMONG STUDENTS IN THE COINCIDENCE MAKERS COURSE WITH THE AIM OF ENCOURAGING INITIATIVE
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
FROM INTRODUCTION TO COINCIDENCES, PART I
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Chapter 1
About Yoav Blum
Copyright page