The Coincidence Makers

by Yoav Blum

  The entire maneuver he’d tried to execute was sketched on four pages in the notebook. Four pages! Damn, who did he think he was?

  Someone else arranged for the man to be fired five months later. He also managed to return the man Guy had mistakenly fired to the newly vacated position. Guy had no idea who did this. He figured several musical compositions would never be written because of his mistake.

  Not all of his mistakes were corrected in this way. There wasn’t always a second chance.

  Across the street, he saw the waitress who knocked over his cup arrive at the bus stop.

  At that moment it seemed like the entire world revolved around the rhythmic tapping of her steps on the sidewalk. That and the small swish her arm made as it brushed against her clothes, and the touch of the label in the back of the blouse. When she was irritated, she paid attention to unimportant details.

  She’d discovered this not long ago.

  Strange, but it wasn’t her abrupt firing that disturbed her now, but the feeling that it hadn’t occurred as she imagined it would. Just like that, in a second, everything changed? Life was not supposed to treat you this way. Life was supposed to slowly bring you the tidings, good or bad. It shouldn’t throw stones into your pond and point to the circles disturbing the water’s tranquility with a malicious smile. Why did she have the feeling that what happened was like a headon crash with a distant acquaintance just as you were turning the corner?

  It had rained earlier, and despite the bright and warm sun that now bathed the street, there was the smell of something new in the air. A small brown stream flowed at the edges of the street, to the sewers, allowing a rude bus to splash her as it passed by, wetting her shoes again. She had missed her bus. Of course, it was one of those days.

  She just had to get through it without serious bodily injury, or something like that, and tomorrow would be more reasonable. Tomorrow there would be time for damage assessment, for a meticulous inspection of her basic fortifications, and for a rational decision about how to move forward, and where.

  She scolded herself for her histrionics. So she’d been fired from work, big deal. It wasn’t a formative experience she would recount to her grandchildren or to a psychologist. It was just a lousy day. You’re quite familiar with days like this. You’re good friends. No drama, please.

  She stuck out her hand. It could be an hour until the next bus came. It would be better to just get a taxi, take a long shower, and climb into bed until tomorrow. And tomorrow we’ll see. We’ll see if there’s work somewhere. We’ll see what to do about next month’s rent. We’ll see what the instructions are for washing shoes.

  Guy was worried. She didn’t seem despondent enough. He had expected a medium-high level of despondency.

  Actually, it might be good that she wasn’t so despondent. She’d remain open to new ideas.

  On the other hand, some light frustration peppered with a dash of sadness was likely to make her yearn for someone to lean on.

  Or it could simply encourage her to stay away from people.

  I should have taken this possibility into account, Guy thought. I’m such an idiot. I should have calculated her level of despondency in advance, precisely. You need to minimize the chances of error in all things pertaining to choice. It’s the first lesson. Okay, not really the first. Perhaps closer to the fifth.

  Perhaps it’s the tenth. I don’t really remember anymore.

  In any case, she doesn’t appear to be sufficiently despondent.

  “What’s happening?” he asked.

  One of the passersby on the sidewalk stopped. “What?”

  “What’s happening?” he asked again. “Why aren’t the cars moving?”

  “A water pipe burst,” the man said. “They closed the street.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  He’d drive around it. If he turned right here and then left, he should be traveling parallel and come to . . . no, there’s no entry there. Maybe he’d turn right twice and then left via that one-way street. Or maybe it wasn’t a one-way street, but a dead-end street? Sharon always laughed at him. “How did you complete officer training if you can’t even navigate around the city?”

  “In the city it’s different,” he would tell her.

  “It should be even easier,” she would say.

  “I didn’t have you in the course,” he would tell her. “You completely ruin my concentration.”

  She would smile that smile and tilt her head a bit. An offside Mona Lisa smile.

  “No, no, really,” he would say. “Maps, streets, diagrams, directions. I get everything jumbled. Right now, there are only two places—by your side, and not by your side. So how am I supposed to remember how to drive to the movies, huh? You tell me.”

  And she would lean over a bit and whisper in his ear, “Left, then right at the end of the block, and straight at the traffic circle, commander.”

  So the pages were ruined—so what? He wouldn’t let that spoil his day . . . or any day. Any day at all.

  He would go home, toss all of the lousy papers into the darkest corner of the apartment, download a comedy, the most inane comedy he could find—something with college students, or neurotic Brits, or Spanish women who spoke really fast—and then he’d sit with beer and peanuts and enjoy them without any feelings of guilt.

  Then he’d go to the beach. That was also a possibility.

  In any case, beer was an important ingredient. The beer would be insulted if it were not involved. You don’t mess around with beer; he had learned that the hard way.

  He tipped back his head and roared with pleasure. Every time he postponed a task related to his studies, he got into a good mood. So alive. He loved this “zone”—his happy, nice zone, the one that managed to see life beyond its obligations, as something through which you needed to flow.

  One day I’ll be a Zen teacher, he thought. I’ll put people in cars and watch them roar and laugh themselves to life.

  But until then, we’ll make do with being nice. We’ll help some old lady, we’ll pick up a hitchhiker, we’ll buy a flower and give it to a random young woman in the street. He was roaring with pleasure again.

  People respond to things in different ways.

  People also had different weaknesses. Guy discovered the student’s weakness somewhere in the middle of conducting his research.

  None of these weaknesses worried Guy in particular, except for the student’s difficulty with finding his way around the city.

  So he arranged for the student to watch a military documentary the previous evening. He loved to influence people’s thoughts by changing the television schedule. It was relatively easy, and it had the pleasant aroma of a wager. And he no longer dared risk a larger wager than that.

  After the student had watched the film, Guy felt there was a chance that when the student asked himself where to drive after leaving the coffee shop, something similar to “left, right, left” would come to mind. In any case, the other roads would not be open.

  Too much time had passed. She had to catch a taxi. She lazily lifted her arm again and tried to calculate the chances of finding a new job that week.

  She reached the conclusion that there was no chance, and just then a small blue car stopped next to her, and the window opened.

  Distractedly, she conducted the short conversation about her destination and entered the car. A moment after closing the door, she realized that it wasn’t a taxi. She had inadvertently been hitchhiking, apparently, and now, seated next to her was the student from the café who was sure that she had waved at him. . . .

  He put the car into gear, smiled at her, and began to drive.

  And now, as they were moving, the ground could not swallow her up even if it wanted to.

  She was cute, and quiet too. A dangerous combination from his point of view.

  It seems you cannot refrain from fantasizing a relationship with any creature of the female persuasion you encounter, he scolded himself. And now get on with your life
, my friend.

  But, actually, if I’m going to the beach with beer . . .

  He made a real effort, it should be said to his credit.

  She silently counted nearly a full minute before he broke down and started to speak.

  “I hope he didn’t yell at you too much?” he asked with a small smile.

  “No, he’s not a yeller. When he’s upset, he simply speaks in a very accentuated way.”

  “Accentuated?”

  “Each and every word. Like gravel.”

  “How accentuated was he this time?”

  “He fired me.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  Half a look, half worried. “Really?”

  “Really.” Never had the word “really” been uttered so sharply and curtly. That was the last word in the conversation, my friend, she thought. Hope that got through to you.

  Part of her was like this. A part that liked to be abusive in small talk. To break the accepted continuity of question and obvious response, to say the inappropriate word or the sentence that would make everyone fall silent, feel unpleasant, squirm in discomfort and think: Okay, she apparently r-e-a-l-l-y doesn’t want to talk.

  Don’t talk to me about work. Don’t talk to me at all. Drive. I’m just here by chance. Simply drive.

  “I, um, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’m sorry about your papers. I saw that everything spilled onto your notes.”

  “It’s nothing. I’ll just photocopy them again.” Now it was his turn to shrug.

  “Okay.”

  “It’s really nothing.”

  “I understand. Okay. So I’m not sorry.” She smiled to herself.

  “Um, yes.”

  “I’m Dan.”

  “Shirley.”

  “I have a cousin named Shirley.”

  What do I care? “Really? Wow.”

  “Yes.”

  Guy counted breaths again. It was supposed to be more effective than counting seconds, he knew, but it became problematic when the pace of his breath was irregular.

  He took the cell phone from the bag and waited a bit.

  And a bit more.

  You could call this conversation an “insurance policy,” no?

  He punched in the number.

  “I’ll drop you off at the corner before your street, okay? If I go down that street, it becomes a one-way, um, I think.”

  “Great. No problem.” She allowed herself to flash a smile.

  “Your apartment is close to the beach, right?”

  “Yes, quite close.” A step forward.

  “Do you go to the beach often?” he tried.

  “Sometimes. Not so much.” Two steps backward.

  “I go there occasionally. It really clears your head.”

  “Actually, not at all. The noise of the waves breaks my concentration.”

  “You don’t have to concentrate to clear your head.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  She smiled. It’s a good smile. That is, a smile is good in general, right?

  “I might go this evening. Do you feel like joining me?”

  “Listen . . .”

  “Really, nothing special. I’ll bring beer and you can bring something if you feel like snacking. Just to sit, to talk. I’m serious.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Usually, I would wait until a conversation developed between us, of course. Charm you with all sorts of banal insights. I’m not one of those guys who rushes things, but it’s just that we’ll be arriving in a moment and . . .”

  “I’m not into that.”

  “Into what?”

  “Relationships.”

  “At all?”

  “At all.”

  “Sort of like a nun?”

  “More like a sort of strike.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “How long have you been on strike?”

  “I don’t think it’s worth . . . what’s that noise?”

  “I think it’s from your bag.”

  “Ah, it’s my cell phone, shit.” Searching, groping, fumbling for it. “Hello?”

  “Hi.”

  “Yes?”

  “Is this Donna?”

  “No.” She felt her eyebrow rising up on its own, annoyed.

  “Hello?”

  “No, no. It’s not Donna.”

  “Donna?”

  “There’s no Donna here. Wrong number.”

  “Hello?”

  “Wrong number! Wrong number!” she shouted.

  She closed her cell phone and tossed it into her bag, on the floor by her feet. “Ugh! What a crazy day.”

  Guy put the cell phone back into his pocket.

  Okay, now all he could do was hope and go home.

  And paint the wall.

  “Okay, we’re here.”

  “Great. Thanks.”

  “So I won’t see you there anymore?”

  “No, I was fired.”

  “And there’s no chance you’ll break your strike?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sane. Completely. I’ve been examined by leading experts.”

  “I’m sure.”

  A last smile, eyebrows raised. “Not even a chance of one in a thousand? You won’t leave me a telephone number?”

  He should’ve given up a long time ago.

  “No, thank you.”

  I’m outta here.

  A huge and detailed diagram of the last mission was sketched on the wall. There was one circle with “Shirley” written in it, and a second circle with “Dan” written in it, and countless lines branching out from them.

  On the side were long lists of character traits, aspirations, and desires.

  And there were a great many circles linked to one another with blue lines (actions to execute), red lines (risks), broken lines (things that might happen), and black lines (connections that must be taken into account). A note was written inside each circle in small and hesitant lines—“Bruno” and “Julia” and “water pipe” and “bus no. 65” and other several dozen elements that ostensibly had no connection at all, such as “basic training and dreams—documentary film” and “David, cable company technician” and “Monique, David’s wife.” In the left corner at the bottom was a space for calculations. The amount of coffee that would make the falling cup sufficiently spectacular, how much perfume had to remain in Julia’s perfume bottle, how much water flowed per hour in the pipe, the desired depth of the puddle that the bus encountered on its route, the songs that girls liked to hum.

  There was also a list of air conditioner technicians and conversation topics related to pelicans, and entry codes of at least nine banks, and ingredients of Irish beers, and television schedules of channels in three countries, and the way in which the words “good luck” were spoken in various languages, and time zones, and associative connections that could be created between Peru and goat’s milk, and hundreds of other details in small letters in different colors, with lines stretching back and forth for all of the possibilities and subpossibilities, and the contexts and the thoughts and the combinations that could lead to a single point.

  Yes, definitely, he was long past the stage of working with a notebook.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi:”

  “Dan, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “It seems I left my telephone with you.”

  “Yes, it was on the floor of my car.”

  “I guess I dropped it there instead of in my bag.”

  “Apparently. So it seems you did indeed leave me your telephone number, or at least your phone.”

  “So it seems.”

  Half a silence, a quarter of stillness, a tenth of tense expectation.

  “Um. Could you come by and bring it to me?”

  “Yes. Sure.”

  “Great.”

  “But I have a better idea.”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m at the beach. You’re welcome to come and get
it.”

  “Um, okay.”

  “Great.”

  “It’ll take me about fifteen minutes.”

  “I’m not in a hurry.”

  “Okay, bye.”

  “And . . . Shirley?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have drinks here, so bring something to snack on if you can.” Precisely calculated angles of tossing a telephone in anger, thin and long cracks in dams of solitude, roars of pleasure that echoed in a car for several minutes—everything would ultimately converge at this single point.

  “Okay.”

  Night. The sea. Another young man and young woman sat to talk. Nothing out of the ordinary. Small smiles, discreetly protected by the darkness. Newspapers spread on the floor and another coat of paint added to a wall that had seen the world from all sides.

  On an electronic sign somewhere in a nonexistent airport, another entry was added under “Love—Arrivals.”

  Under the Reason column, the words “coincidence of the second degree” was illuminated.

  And another day passes.

  2

  When Guy woke the next day, the faint smell of paint lingered in the air, even though he had left the balcony doors open all night for ventilation.

  He mentally patted himself on the shoulder. Waking up naturally is another good sign. You’re starting to be a professional.

  Professional enough to be able to fall asleep after a successful mission. Professional enough to know that after you did your part, you did not remain on the scene too long and did not check on the client. Professional enough not to lie all night with eyes open just to catch the moment when the envelope was slipped under the door.

  Not that he really ever succeeded in capturing that moment.