The Coincidence Makers

by Yoav Blum

  Yes, that’s what he’d done. He’d played the role of characters. Or at least he had expressed various sides of himself. When you were the imaginary friend of a lonely or sad child, you couldn’t allow yourself to be in a bad mood or to show despondency, even if you were personally having a not-so-great day. You had to take the little spoon of your personality and dig deep in the cold ground until you reached water that you could serve to someone else despite your own thirst.

  When you were someone’s imaginary friend, a number of very clear rules applied to you.

  The first rule was that you existed for that someone completely. The annoying speeches, the attempts at re-education, the moral preaching—all this had to be saved for the future, if and when you became a person. When you were an imaginary friend, you were there for your boy or girl, and you needed to lead them to a better place they wanted, not the place you wanted. And that wasn’t easy. Many times, Guy wanted to grab the child imagining him and shout, “No! Not that way!” or “Just say it!” or “You must stop doing this!”—but he had to take a deep breath and remind himself that the child was the captain, while he was only the ship.

  The second rule was that you could not be seen in the same outward appearance by more than one client. Guy switched countless characters and faces during these years, not to speak of names. Sometimes he only changed one nuance in order to adhere to the rules. He was tall and stern-looking, or tiny and unruly; he played sweet teddy bears and exuberant toy soldiers; he assumed the appearance of celebrities and cartoon characters and famous dolls. He was a farmer, a magician, a pilot, the skipper of a ship, a singer, a football player. He used small sweet voices, thunderous authoritative voices, smiling voices, and hushed voices before bedtime.

  The third rule was that if one day you quit your work as an I.F., you could never reveal yourself to the children who imagined you. The concept was clear: if a child met someone in the real world who until now had existed only in his imagination, someone who could come up to him and tell him secrets about himself that no one else knew, someone familiar with places inside him no one else had entered—this was liable to generate doubt in the wall of the imagination of children throughout the world. From the moment you quit, you quit. Period.

  Guy didn’t completely agree with this. Sometimes he wondered what could really happen. After all, people grow up, change, understand. But there were no exceptions. They made the third rule very clear.

  Guy still remembered most of those who had imagined him.

  He remembered the ten-year-old girl who wanted someone to look at her and tell her how beautiful she was. The right side of her face was reddish and wrinkled from a large burn scar, and each time she looked in the mirror, she needed him—cast in the role of a popular Hollywood actor—to look over her shoulder and whisper, “You’re really beautiful. I see this better than everyone. Someday others will see it too.” For four years, he snuck up behind her shoulder when she looked in the mirror and consoled her with words as simple as dust, until one time she imagined him while she sat with one of the children in the class and did schoolwork with him. They sat at the table and argued about the question they were answering. Guy stood in the back, near the wall, watching. At some point, he heard the girl’s heartbeat quicken, and she stole a glance at him. He smiled a calming smile at her, and the girl played with the pencil in her hand and casually asked the boy sitting next to her whether it didn’t bother him to do schoolwork with her. “No,” he answered in surprise, “of course not.” And she continued: “The way I look doesn’t bother you? I’m sure you think I’m horrible, that I’m horribly ugly.” He looked at her, thought a bit, and said quietly, “You? You’re not ugly! You’re actually quite cute. I like being with you.” She whispered, “Really?” And he said, bashfully avoiding her gaze, “Ah . . . really.” The girl stole another look at Guy, and he felt himself fading and disappearing, never to return to her life.

  He remembered the blond child who sat crumpled in a wheelchair, who imagined Guy wearing a Superman suit. “I want to fly,” the child told him. “Teach me.” He remembered those who took him to their tree houses and imagined him as a pirate holding a princess they had to save, and those who turned him into their favorite cartoon characters and placed in his mouth scripted, half-clever sentences they had heard hundreds of times. If he had a dime for every time he played a talking rabbit or a sarcastic flower . . .

  And there were those who always made him wonder what was going on in their little minds. The children who would grow up and become geniuses, or were just very strange. Those who used him as a paintbrush to add a colorful layer to the reality around them, a level of possibility beyond their lives, and then another and another. Those who imagined him as sounds, spinning him, straightening him, reorganizing him in the air, and ordering him to sing to himself. Those who would lie in bed at night, imagining him hovering above them as abstract numbers and complex geometric forms that intricately converged into each other, giving him the worst headache ever, and he suffered in silence for the sake of their sense of mathematical harmony.

  But mainly there were all of the children who were simply looking for a playmate. Loners or those who were compelled to be alone who engaged his services with a brief thought.

  He remembered the small, fragile girl who dressed him as a prince and placed a white horse beside him that was no less imaginary, that smelled more like shampoo than like a horse. Speak words of love to me, like the grown-ups, she thought in her heart, so strongly that he heard. There were quite a few girls who wanted to hear “words of love” or to experience some fairy tale of their own. What he did was a complete improvisation at first, as he was still groping in the dark when it came to matters of the heart. He quoted sentences prepared in advance without truly understanding the gears within the complex clock that is romance. But after he met Cassandra, it all became much simpler. . . .

  And yes, he also remembered Cassandra. She wasn’t a child, not in any way.

  Being an I.F. had been a great time in his life. Heartbreaking sometimes, occasionally boring, and some clients could drive you crazy. But it was wonderful. Being a coincidence maker was also wonderful. How beautiful it was to sit opposite a tree swaying in the wind, with a cup of coffee and croissant in hand, with a past, and with a future, and with a present.

  CLASSICAL THEORIES IN COINCIDENCE MAKING AND RESEARCH METHODS FOR ENHANCING CAUSES AND EFFECTS

  FINAL EXAM

  Duration of the exam: two hours in class+one week practicum.

  Instructions: Answer the following questions. You should write the method in the exam notebook, even in the case of a multiple-choice question, if the question requires the use of a formula or includes a proof of level B or higher.

  PART A: MULTIPLE-CHOICE QUESTIONS

  Answer all of the questions.

  According to Kinsky’s Theorem, how many coincidence makers do you need to change a light bulb?

  A. One.

  B. One to screw it in and three to arrange for the establishment of the electric company.

  C. One, and two to arrange for the one to arrive.

  D. Kinsky’s Theorem does not provide an answer to this question.

  Starting from which factor in the chain of causes and effects is the “cloud of uncertainty” created according to the methods of Fabrik and Cohen? Add a diagram of explanation and development of the proof in your notebook.

  A. The uncertainty is created from the first moment.

  B. The uncertainty is created when the object decides to use his or her head.

  C. The uncertainty is created when the object decides to use his or her heart.

  D. According to Cohen’s deterministic model, there is no uncertainty as long as there is desire or hope.

  According to the method of classical calculation, what are the chances that two men from the same group of 10,000 will love the same woman?

  A. Less than 10 percent.

  B. Between 10 to 25 percent.

&n
bsp; C. Between 25 to 50 percent.

  D. Above 50 percent, but they’ll get over it quickly.

  PART B: OPEN QUESTIONS

  Answer at least two of the three questions.

  Two trains leave two cities simultaneously, heading toward each other on parallel tracks. We know that at least 25 percent of the men and women in each city are unmarried, with a character distribution according to the method of Fabrik and Cohen. Calculate the chances that two people will see each other when the trains pass and their hearts will flutter.

  Show how it is possible to prove, according to the expansion formula of Wolfzeig and Ibn Tareq, that starting from a certain level of social proximity, happiness acts as a communicable disease. Calculate the level of social proximity required.

  Demonstrate how the order of presenting possibilities affects the choice in one of the following cases:

  A. A salesman who suggests suits to a customer at a men’s clothing store.

  B. A saleswoman who suggests dresses to a customer at a women’s clothing store.

  C. A waiter who offers various types of beverages at a restaurant.

  D. The order of arranging the ballots in the voting booth.

  PART C: PRACTICAL EXERCISE

  Perform one of the two following coincidences:

  1. Cause three childhood friends to board an airplane, taxi, or train at the same time. Provide proof that the childhood friends studied at the same educational institution for at least three years. The trip on the airplane/taxi/train will be set in advance and will not be a one-time event organized especially for this coincidence. An initiative that includes adding an unplanned trip will result in disqualification. A bonus will be awarded if two or more of the childhood friends engage in a conversation.

  2. Create a traffic jam in which over 80 percent of the vehicles are the same color; the particular color is not important. The traffic jam must last for no more than twenty minutes. You may not use traffic accidents or traffic light malfunctions. A traffic jam that also includes over 80 percent of vehicles from the same automaker will merit a bonus.

  Good luck, if you deserve it!

  7

  The Man with the Hamster stood on the street corner and surveyed the location designated for the assassination of his next target.

  He was split—or perhaps it’s more accurate to say he was divided into three parts.

  One part of him was aware of the fact that it was impossible to execute a good hit without checking, preparing, and planning. Everything could not just be treated as “something that happens.” He had to check the victim’s schedule. (No, no, not the victim. The target, he reminded himself.) He needed to calculate firing angles, identify escape routes, check the wind conditions. That’s the way the job got done.

  A second part of him tried to persuade himself that all this was superfluous. That in his case, it really was a matter of “something that happens.” That the whole business of calculating the amount of time he needed to disassemble his weapon and return to his car was foolish, meaningless. Whoever needed to live lived, and whoever needed to die, died. That’s the way it worked with him. That’s why he was considered so good.

  And a third part of him simply wanted to return to the room, collapse onto the bed with a bottle of good whiskey, pet Gregory until the nervous sniffing of his little nose stopped, replaced by a snuggle of complete trust, and watch a television program in a language he didn’t understand.

  This three-way ritual had repeated itself during nearly all of his recent assignments. He was starting to get tired of it.

  The second two parts forged an alliance and launched an offensive against the first part—the logical, responsible adult among the three. It wasn’t easy. He had quite a few convincing counterarguments, particularly against the argumentation of the third part, which sounded like nothing more than, “Come on, what do you care? It’ll be fun.” But ultimately the hired killer shrugged his shoulders and started to walk away. He would position himself on the roof and use a long-barreled sniper’s rifle. Here, planning.

  The only problem was that he had two such rifles, both of them appropriate for the mission. A careful calculation of the data was necessary in order to decide which of the guns would be preferable. The analysis included factors pertaining to the weather, conditions of visibility from the roof, sensitivity of the trigger, and air humidity.

  He stopped walking and looked again at the street corner, then put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a coin. He tossed it into the air, caught it, and peeked at the result.

  The problem of the rifle was resolved.

  8

  You’re not good enough.

  You’re not good enough.

  You’re not good enough.

  Quiet!

  Emily stood opposite the scribble-covered wall in her home and tried to quiet the thoughts running through her mind.

  Why did she always approach her missions with a sense of impending failure? After all, there was no basis in reality for this.

  She was good. She was really good. Even Eric allowed himself to compliment her for the quiet coincidences she successfully created. So every time a new envelope arrived, why was she certain that this time—yes, this time—she would fail?

  And in fact, what difference did it make? The average success rate of coincidence makers was 65 percent. Her success rate was 80 percent. To whom did she owe anything? So what if this accountant continued to be an accountant? He wanted to pursue this path, so be it! She wasn’t in the course anymore. She didn’t have to impress the General. Or Eric, or Guy . . .

  She sat on the floor.

  Again, she was doing everything just to impress others. That was precisely the reason why she felt pressure from all sides, felt trapped in this unstoppable chase, constantly looking at herself through the eyes of everyone around her. She felt a need to be amazing, to be extraordinary, to be so charming and terrific and successful and full of humor that he would finally be swept to her shores, leaving behind all the ruined ships and the open sea and the seductive Sirens.

  There were a few words she really couldn’t bear.

  “Ticking,” for example. A word that always made her feel anxious and gave her the sense of something approaching its end, of suffocation from lack of oxygen, of a bomb about to obliterate everything. “Alone” could keep her awake all night, tossing and turning in an unsuccessful effort to flee from imaginings in which she continued to lie in an empty bed while the world around her forged ahead. She could spend days on end trying to evade “failure” or ignore “reasonable.” For some unknown reason, she also couldn’t bear “biscuits.”

  But lately, there were few words she hated as much as “friend.” She was so sick and tired of being a “friend,” of the repartee that stood exactly on the edge of the cliff of flirtation, of the heart-to-heart talks in which she could only discuss things that didn’t directly pertain to him, of the frustrating attempts to interpret whether there was something in his smile that hinted about something beyond, of the nauseating dance of trying to draw closer for a moment and then slowly stepping away without turning her back, just out of fear that this would ruin even the little that still remained.

  She hated being Guy’s friend.

  And there was always that something else as well. A different feeling. Something so right. And that need. Ohhh, that need to see him happy about little things. The uncontrollable need to give yourself to someone just to know that you were capable of illuminating something within him. How could this be? Why did this shy lost boy make her head so dizzy?

  Every time she thought about him, images came to her that seemed like fragments of a dream.

  Moments of light and darkness, days of excitement and disappointment. She fondly recalled the moment when the butterflies disappeared, when she was able to smile to herself and know that this wasn’t a case of falling in love; it was love. She wasn’t a high school student swept up in romance; she was a puzzle piece that had found the match to
interlock beside it. And she shuddered each time she recalled the moment she realized that he, on the other hand, wasn’t there with her at all.

  To hell with her poet.

  Today was the day. She had waited for a day exactly like this—free, with no work, when Guy had nothing to do.

  She had to make this happen. And she could.

  She got up and moved to the other room. On the wall next to the door was another sketch, no less important to her. Guy was the one who suggested that she use the walls to plan coincidences, so why not use this “against him”?

  Dozens of small circles were drawn there, events that she stretched like a spring, preparing to release them on a day when she could combine all of them in a small and revolutionary journey. “Us” was written at the top, with a chaotic sprawl of lines and forms and words and numbers below. And two circles, with the words “Guy” and “Emily,” rested in the middle of this mess.

  This diagram was large. It extended beyond the boundaries of the wall, past the window on the adjacent wall, and crawled to the ceiling, spreading like an oil spill and filling the room. The number of details in it sometimes amazed her. But she had to give it her best shot, take no prisoners, take no risks. She had one opportunity in which to take all of the weapons from her arsenal and toss them into the arena of her most important coincidence ever.

  She would often wake up and find herself on the floor of this room, after lying there and trying again to follow with her eyes all of the planning that surrounded her on four walls and one ceiling. She would fall asleep and dream that the diagram continued to crawl and grow while she slept, moving across the floor in an effort to climb on top of her and bury her underneath it, wrapping her in data, possibilities, and old hopes.