Where is Hans?

Where is Hans? a story written by Wanchain Leong

Chapter 1 Chapter 1

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“I’ve got to tell you this story!” With one eye shut and the other eye half opened, Zaliya glimpsed the title of an incoming email from her Swiss penpal whom she emailed every day and discussed about all sorts of mystical and mysterious topics that most would find too weird to even imagine.

It was 7am, the most rebellious time of the day for Zaliya as she habitually and deliberately stayed in bed after her alarm had gone off. On this late summer day in September 2013, the sun had just risen on the Canadian horizon while she was struggling to get out of bed. She scratched her long black hair, while trying to open her other eye. Unwillingly, she got up.

Tracie was a journalist whose passion in creative writing made Zaliya one of her fans. Zaliya enjoyed reading her stories, which were always so full of emotions that sometimes they made her cry, either with joy or with sorrow.

In this email, Tracie told her a love story that happened 20 years ago when a purple-haired high school student fell in love with the voice of a radio show host. This teenager would record every single talk show on cassette tape, and then replayed it multiple times. While all the other high school students were busy dating the most popular girl or guy in school or chasing after idols, she was busy listening to the radio. She never mentioned the voice to anyone. She was convinced that no one would understand the special relationship she had with that voice. It was a relationship that nourished her soul.

It was her pastime. It was her first love. It was her life.

Fast forward 20 years, yesterday, this teenager, now a journalist, heard the same voice again, very unexpectedly, while she was talking to her friend in Australia. Again, she fell in love with the voice, and it was no less intense than 20 years ago. It was the exact same feelings. She was reliving the past again.

“I’m 100% sure that I heard his voice in the background.” Tracie wrote excitedly.

It didn’t require any convincing for Zaliya to believe that it was the same voice. She too had once fallen in love with a voice. She perfectly understood Tracie’s feelings, although she was aware that not many people shared their experience nor their understanding of the power of a human voice.

Reading Tracie’s story brought tears to Zaliya’s eyes.

“I completely understand the emotions you are going through now. Same as you, I had also fallen in love with a voice when I was in high school. The only difference is that the voice belonged to a female singer.” Zaliya replied her.

Tracie’s story brought back memories of Zaliya’s high school years, and most evidently, her fascination with a diva featured on the cover of Time magazine during the peak of her singing career.

Zaliya searched the internet for news of the singer, after having forgotten her for many years. Upon seeing pictures of her idol, Zaliya immediately fell in love with her again. It was the same facial expression, the same body gesture, the same voice that enraptured Zaliya 20 years ago. She showed Tracie the picture of her idol.

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“Wow, she’s very beautiful!” Tracie remarked, which surprised Zaliya, not that she didn’t find the singer beautiful, quite the contrary, she found the singer to be quite angelic, but her and Tracie almost never had the same taste in anything or anyone, except perhaps this one, which of course made it all the more special for Zaliya. Tracie was very intuitive and Zaliya was very analytical. Their thought patterns were engineered in totally different ways, but it was exactly their difference that strengthened their friendship.

“Yes,” Zaliya said, “A beautiful voice for a beautiful face.” Impossible not to love.

The next day, Zaliya received a message on a language exchange forum on which she was a recently registered member. The message came from a young Egyptian who had graduated from his bachelor of computer science degree a few months ago. He wanted to practice his spoken English with her, after reading her profile on the forum introducing herself as an accountant specializing in technical writing in Canada. Although she was passionate about teaching and learning English, she was not very keen on talking to Egyptian men, as the previous Egyptian man whom she had the misfortune to correspond with, suggested her to write to him every day, and gave her his mailing address so that she could send him hand-written letters, almost as if she was his lover, although that would be furthest from the truth, and would also never become the truth, as she could not tolerate him, or more precisely, his incessant messages, at all hours of the day, which on multiple occasions had forced her to consider blocking him. If she had not checked her Skype for half a day, there would be at least 50 messages waiting for her, from one sender. When she browsed through the messages, half of them were pictures of teddy bears and flowers, in other words, “messages devoid of substance”, as she often called it. He enjoyed speaking to her, which also added to her misery, as his very unusual Russian English accent coupled with his unusually fast talking speed, as if his tongue was running a marathon, had made his speech almost incomprehensible to her. She had several times wondered about his identity which she found to be a bit odd. He introduced himself as an Egyptian doctor who had received his education in Russia, of all places, and learned to speak English either before or after living in Russia, a fact which she didn’t bother to remember. He could speak also colloquial Russian too, as he proudly claimed, but she had no interest in that fact, nor any other facts about him.

Zaliya hesitated for a few seconds before replying to the message. Although she was afraid to talk to another Egyptian man, she was in general open to whatever came her way, hence by default, she agreed to speak to the author of the incoming message.

They exchanged contact information. An hour later, someone by the name of Hassan had added her on Skype. The next day, this stranger messaged her on Skype.

“Are you free to talk now?”

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She panicked. Unbeknownst to her, her fear to interact with Egyptian men had escalated to the level of a phobia. Nonetheless, a voice inside her said, “It’s okay, just talk to him like a normal person having a normal conversation.”

She took a deep breath, and replied him in the affirmative. During the next few moments, before he called, she experienced palpitations, as if her roof was about to collapse on her. Oh my god, an Egyptian guy is going to call me! What am I going to do? Holding her phone, she paced back and forth in her bedroom, somewhat erratically, as if trying to find a place to hide.

Her phone rang. Where could she hide? Nowhere! Her inner voice said, “Just answer it.” She did.

“Hello?” She continued to pace back and forth in her bedroom, unable to sit down or even stand still.

“Hi, this is Hassan.” A gentle and soothing voice spoke, very slowly, but clearly and politely.

Her eyes widened. The voice was lovely! There was no strain in the voice. It was very relaxed and peaceful. She was very surprised. This voice did not talk incessantly. There was not a trace of nervous or chaotic energy emanating from this voice. Instead, there was silence, after his greeting.

This voice was calm and pleasant. This voice actually knew how to stop after a sentence. How brilliant!

During the silence, she searched for the voice. She wanted to hear more of the voice. She stopped walking. She stood still, in the middle of her bedroom. Time stood still. Her world stood still.

The voice came again. Another wave of serenity and sweetness floated to her ear. Unbelievable!

The voice was divine! Oh my god! I love this voice! She almost cried. She touched her forehead. She didn’t know what to say. She was lost. She lost her senses. She had mentally floated into the clouds. She didn’t know what she said during the next few minutes.

The next few minutes turned into ten hours. The longest call she had ever made. The following day, another ten-hour call.

She could fall asleep in that voice. She could fall in love with that voice.

A week later, they switched to text messaging, as she could not keep up with the voice marathon with him. Nonetheless, their conversation continued to be long. They could talk about many things and anything.

Zaliya asked him what kind of animals did he like and not like. He told her he didn’t like flies. She tried to convince him that flies were actually quite lovely. He disagreed, telling her that they were filthy.

“They could have stood on dirt, dung, dust, …”

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“And then they sit on your face right?” She finished off his sentence for him.

“Well, no, I would never let them do that.”

“Okay, then why don’t you like them?”

“Because they don’t have much of a brain.”

“What do you mean?’

“They forget that you have just swatted them a second ago, and they come back circling around you.

And when you walk away from them, they follow you. It’s so annoying.”

“Oh, no, they’re not being annoying. They are just being friendly.”

“How are they friendly?”

“They’re saying hi to you. They follow you because they miss you. And when you wave at them repeatedly, they say hi to you repeatedly. Like ‘hi hi hi hi hi hi!’”

Silence. How was he going to reply to someone like that?

“Flies can transmit typhoid, cholera, dysentery, salmonella, anthrax, and tuberculosis. They can also transmit the eggs of parasitic worms. Very friendly huh?”

Zaliya burst out laughing. “Yes, they can also transmit love too.”

Little did she realize that although she had no interest in speaking to those who sent “messages devoid of substance”, she was in essence doing exactly that, and thoroughly enjoying it too.

“What are you doing now?” He messaged her later that day.

“I am going out for dinner.”

“Am I disturbing you?”

“No, my friend is driving. I am in the back seat.”

Their conversation continued, while Zaliya was in the car and later while she was in the restaurant.

Food had arrived.

“Hey, I’m about to eat now.” She announced to him.

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Messages continued to arrive. Seeing that there was no intermission, she picked up her phone and replied the messages. Then she returned to her dinner. More messages continued to arrive. She repeated: “I am going to eat now.”

Again, he continued to message her, uninterrupted, as if he did not see her messages. Thus she continued to reply him.

While the rest of her friends were actively participating in an offline conversation about the salmon sashimi in front of them, Zaliya was actively participating in an online conversation with someone she had only acquainted herself with not very long ago, but felt as if she had known for a lifetime.

A few hours had passed. Dinner was finished. Wine was finished. Dessert was finished. The friends had dispersed. Zaliya had returned home. Hassan was still frozen in time, happily sending messages to his new friend on the other side of the planet.

“By the way, have you had dinner yet?” Suddenly, he remembered to ask.

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Chapter 2

One day in October 2013, Zaliya began to ponder on her next vacation destination. Travelling was a means for her to temporarily disengage from the complicated civilized contrivances, much like unplugging an electrical device from the wall. She craved for that feeling of liberation.

Zaliya opened up the world map. Seven continents, and almost 200 countries. Where to go? How to pick? Tough choices! If her friends were to identify her one major weakness, without a doubt it would have to be her indecision. Zaliya specialized in hesitation, although not necessarily procrastination. She could spend 99% of her time hesitating, but once she had made up her mind, her decisions translated into actions almost immediately.

Much assistance would be needed, from all directions, to move her past 99% of her time, to bring her to a decision point. Tracie repeatedly said, “If you happen to be in Switzerland, please let me know.”

However, that did not entice her to visit Switzerland, a country that she had already explored. She continued to stare at the seven continents. Her assistant asked, “What’s your favorite country?”

That question gave her a starting point. It narrowed her selection to countries in the Middle East and in the Schengen Area. But it was still too long of a list to choose from. She needed more criteria.

Someone from the language exchange forum suggested Israel. She began to research that suggestion, and was more enticed by the neighboring Jordan.

Hearing that she was planning her vacation, her Pakistani colleague asked her about her travel destination. Upon hearing her answer, he began to tell her his travel stories. He had worked and lived in the Middle East for many years prior to immigrating to Canada, had travelled extensively, often flying in business class, and had many occasions of visiting countries in that region. Instead of telling her about Jordan, he told her which part of the Middle East she should not go. Instead of telling her how to get around, he told her what transportation methods she should avoid. He was not too keen on providing solutions, instead, he was more keen on presenting problems. Curious, she inquired about the potential problems in his apparently empty solution box.

“Well, first of all, public transportation in that part of the world was not reliable. The bus could come anytime, but most likely not the time that you want it to come. The bus could stop anywhere, but most likely not the place where you want it to stop.” He was more than eager to elaborate on the potential problems, as if they were some irritating itch which he couldn’t wait to get rid of, which made her want to laugh but she politely refrained while she envisioned him standing like a tree in the middle of the desert, unshaded and frustrated, waiting for a bus, only to be greeted by a camel.

“Okay, what about renting a car?”

“GPS is not reliable there, either because the map is not updated, or not properly translated. Road signs are also not reliable, because the sign that you need is most likely blown away by the wind or stolen by a farmer to make a scarecrow.” Again, he sounded as if he was speaking from experience, and again she couldn’t help but laugh at his ironically calm voice which seemed to imply a certain maturation of his frustration.

“Okay, and taxi drivers there specialize in ripping off tourists, like everywhere else in the world?”

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“Exactly.”

Her Pakistani colleague did not offer any suggestion, after listing out the potential risks. She was thankful for his warning, but found them unhelpful. So she stared at him, waiting for a seasoned traveler in that region of the world to volunteer for a feasible solution. Unfortunately, it was not forthcoming. Instead, he returned her stare with his equally steady stare.

“So what do you suggest?” Determined to get something useful out of him, she asked explicitly.

He suggested that she could ask the hotel reception to hire a driver for her, for one whole day, or for the entire duration of her stay, which would usually be cheaper than hiring a taxi, and the hotel usually had a network of trusted drivers whom they could recommend. Although the idea sounded reasonable, she was still somewhat hesitant, as she was not too fond of having someone following her around all day and every day. That would not be her idea of liberation, even though she still retained full control of her itinerary. Her ideal option was to wander around on her own, at her own pace, without feeling pressured to hurry up, and without the feeling of boring someone if she happened to fixate her attention on something frivolous. As someone who utterly enjoyed her own personal time and space, she was not too keen on hiring a driver. As such, she could not and did not decide on a transportation method. Nonetheless, that evening, infused by an inexplicable sense of excitement, despite her Pakistani colleague’s negation, she booked a flight to Jordan.

After her booking, a message came to her from a penpal website. It was from a Jordanian. She did not reply him immediately, but instead, she checked his profile. He was two years older than Hassan.

His interest in origami and photography, among other things, captured her attention. She was quite impressed with the origami that he had made and the pictures that he had taken, as she used to have an interest in them, but unlike him, her interests did not result in anything presentable. Instead, what she gained from her interests was a deeper understanding and appreciation of the art of origami and the art of photography. Indirectly, his art work sparked her curiosity in him, which marked the beginning of their friendship.

She did not immediately tell him about her upcoming visit to his homeland, nor did she find it coincidental that a Jordanian would message her almost as soon as she booked a flight to his country. She felt that they were independent and separate events.

During their conversation, she discovered that he was actually quite smart, quite educated, and quite liberal. Smart because he competently held a fairly interesting conversation in English after having learned the language for only two years, in a non-English speaking environment. Educated because he was an engineer working in an international company, which was harder to get into than a local company. Liberal because he did not subscribe to many of the rules and standards defined by his culture, tradition, and religion, although he followed them, out of respect rather than out of belief.

Her past experience with individuals from the Middle East on the penpal website did not result in any meaningful conversation. Surprisingly, he was an exception.

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As their conversation continued quite smoothly, they suddenly came to the topic of travelling and vacation. So she casually mentioned that she would be in Jordan the following month.

“What? Why?” He exclaimed. Why would anyone want to come to his country? The idea was quite exotic!

She explained that she liked dry weather, she liked camels, and she liked the Arabic culture. Upon hearing her explanation, he was even more surprised and at the same time, even more excited about her visit.

“I would like to show you around, if that’s okay with you.” He very eagerly offered to be her tour guide. He wanted to be a good host. He wanted her to see the beauty that his birthplace had to offer. He wanted to meet a foreigner.

She was quite hesitant to accept his offer. After all, she had only met him a few hours ago.

Moreover, it was an online meeting, which was not always the most reliable way of knowing someone. Nonetheless, he repeated his offer several times.

“Okay, I have not finalized my trip yet. Once I have, I will let you know my plan.” Not declining and not accepting his offer, she used an excuse to disguise her signature hesitation.

“Are you going to meet Hassan?” While twirling her coffee cup, Tracie broached the question to her Canadian penpal who sat across from her at a table in a quiet corner of her favorite Italian restaurant. On a windy and starless night in November 2013, the two penpals finally met.

“Hmm … no.” Zaliya pouted. They had talked about Zaliya’s friendship with the Egyptian multiple times, at great length, as if it was the biggest news item in the world.

“Why not?” Surprised, Tracie knew that Zaliya liked Hassan very much. She wanted them to meet.

That would be like wishing the characters in a movie to have a happy ending.

“Because I don’t think he would want to meet me.” Zaliya said hesitantly.

“Did you ask him if he wanted to see you or not?” Surprised again, Tracie wondered how she would have arrived at that conclusion. Unlike Zaliya, Tracie was hopeful, and excited about their friendship.

“Hmm … no.” Zaliya was afraid to ask. She was afraid that she would hear an answer that she did not like, or worse yet, an answer that he was not comfortable in giving, and in disguise, gave an answer that he did not mean.

Tracie was quite puzzled, but sensing her unease, decided not to press further. Meanwhile, Zaliya continued to mentally sink into the abyss of not being able to see the person she liked. A cloud of gloom and doom hovered over her. Silence dominated their conversation. Tracie idly shuffled the

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sugar packages at the center of their table. Zaliya stared into her empty cup, as if waiting for Hassan to appear from the bottom of the cup, like a genie rising out of a teapot.

Hassan did not appear from her cup, neither did any turban-wearing genie, but a thought appeared in her mind. She welcomed its encroachment.

“Hey Tracie, could you do a reading for me?”

Tracie’s mind momentarily went blank. She stared at Zaliya blankly. Although she had mentioned to Zaliya several times before, quite casually that she enjoyed practicing cartomancy with her friends, Zaliya had always remained silent on that topic. The fact was, Zaliya had always thought that card readers, like psychic, were often crazy women, not much unlike those gypsies who stared into a big crystal ball, and perhaps out of their own illusion, saw a vision of what they believed to be the future.

That was Zaliya’s opinion and knowledge of cartomancy.

Tracie had always been very sensitive and intuitive, while Zaliya had always been very logical and rational. One was left-brain dominant; the other was right-brain dominant. They appeared to be from two opposite extremes, yet, they got along well, and respected each other differences.

Upon hearing Zaliya broached the topic for the first time in their friendship, Tracie was very surprised, but at the same time, quite pleased that her penpal was finally open to the idea of card reading.

“Sure. What would you like to ask about?”

“Umm …” It did not take long for Zaliya’s signature hesitation to take center stage, and to take hostage of the encroaching idea. She wondered what the outcome would be. She feared knowing the unknown, in case it might not match her heart’s desire, in which case her sky would crumble. In an effort to keep the sky high above her head, she oscillated over the question in her mind back and forth like a pendulum for what seemed like an eternity, and finally found a sliver of courage to release the wild idea into the air, almost like releasing a wild monkey into the ocean, after repeatedly asking the monkey, “Do you want to swim?” even though the monkey had been repeatedly screaming, “Let me go!”

Tracie stared at her Canadian penpal, whose mind finally ended several series of oscillation with an invisible monkey.

“I want to know if I will ever see Hassan in real life.”

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Chapter 3

One afternoon, in November 2013, Zaliya was standing in the arrival hall of Aqaba airport, waiting among a handful of other non-local passengers for an officer to sell them tourist visas. A German couple hushed loudly among themselves, while trying to suppress their impatience. Next to them was a young man carrying a backpack and pacing back and forth in front of the counter, making no effort to hide his irritation at the lack of customer service, tried to talk to the airport staff around the counter, in a somewhat unfriendly tone, only to be greeted with minimal response. Apparently, there was an unspoken order and rhythm to the modus operandi of the airport, and they were not to be disrupted by an outsider.

After finally getting her tourist visa and passing through the passport control, Zaliya exited the building to hire a taxi, since that was the only mode of public transportation available at the international airport. Since Aqaba was a small city, the airport was naturally located within close proximity to the city center, such that even with traffic congestion which triggered a series of Arabic profanity by the quick-tempered taxi driver, her trip was less than 15 minutes. However, upon arriving at her destination, the taxi driver charged her 25 dinars, where Jordanian dinar was stronger than USD. Although not entirely unexpected, the exorbitance still had the effect of shocking her, but in the absence of a better option, and she was not prepared to upset her otherwise peaceful visit, she paid the amount that would satisfy the easily irritable driver.

Checking in at the hotel, she inquired about attraction sites, tips on getting around, and the average cost of commute. A very good-looking concierge wearing a traditional white robe answered all her questions in very fluent English. He was charming, not simply in appearance, but also in his mannerism. Whatever it was that he was saying, he would always say it with a smile. And whatever it was that he was saying, he would always make her smile. Seeing that she was a woman travelling alone, he offered her as much help and advice as possible. Upon hearing her experience with the irritable taxi driver, he almost exploded with rage. His outburst stunned her. Speechless, she looked at him, not knowing how to console him for her loss.

“What’s the name of the driver?” His rage reverberated in every word that shot out of his mouth.

He looked as if he was about to run to the kitchen to grab the biggest cleaver to avenge her.

“Hmm … Mohammed.” She answered calmly, although she didn’t see a point of answering, since that was the most popular name on the planet.

“Did you take down his license plate?” He asked.

“Hmm … no.” She knew she was supposed to do that, but she always forgot.

Still extremely upset, he paced back and forth behind the reception desk, his hand rubbing his beard while cursing incessantly at the driver.

“A trip like that should not be more than 10 dinars. Ten dinars is already the maximum. If we can find the driver, we can report him to the police, and get you back your money.” He made a quick phone call, and spoke in Arabic.

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At that moment, she wanted to pray to his God, to tell Him to calm him down and to forget about her money. Sometimes justice was simply not worth a few dollars. It would be pointless if she were to sit for half a day in a police station, when she could be out enjoying the desert. Justice should not come at the expense of peace.

As if his God had heard her, he calmed down and arranged a driver for her for the next day, and negotiated the fare for her.

The sun had retired for the day, and she had to hunt for food for the day. Taking the city center map that the concierge gave her, she ventured out to explore Aqaba. She passed by many shops and restaurants and camels and men and children, but not women. She walked along the beach, and passed by more camels and men and children, but not women.

Kids greeted her. They were excited at the opportunity to demonstrate their English proficiency.

She was drawn by their exuberance. She chatted with them, something that she never did to other people’s kids back in Canada.

Wandering around the city center, she did what most tourists did: shopped and ate. In between, she attracted many stares, not only from those in the shops and restaurants, but also those in the cars.

While strolling on a sidewalk, a driver pulled up to her and offered her a ride. She declined. While crossing the street, another car honked at her to ask her if she needed a ride. She ignored the driver.

Then again, she got another offer, either to give her directions or to be her tour guide. Her presence had turned into the biggest walking advertisement in town. She wondered why such an unusual experience was never mentioned by her Pakistani colleague.

While interacting with the locals in this odd fashion, she began to muse about the existence of a certain kind of people who had nothing better to do than to drive around the city center multiple times, honking at a certain kind of people, and inviting these targets into their cars. Was that some sort of predatory activity or was that just a Jordanian pastime?

The next day, a driver arranged by the hotel took her to the desert. Without much of a plan, she accepted the suggestions of the driver, although not without much hesitation. She had the free time to roam around, because her Jordanian penpal had suggested her to spend the day by herself. He seemed to know that she needed her personal time and space.

After a long day in the desert, she checked in at a hotel in a little town in the mountains. Her Jordanian penpal left her a message at the concierge. She phoned him.

“Hey, are you coming tomorrow?” She asked.

“Yeah, I’m coming. I just want to ask you what time you want me to come?”

“Hmm … what time is good for you?”

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“Anytime is fine with me. You decide.” He had previously told her that this was her trip, and had reassured her that she would be the one to decide on how she wanted it to be. That comment made a strong impression on her, as no one ever said it to her so straightforwardly and so plainly, although many would be considerate and respectful of her need for personal space.

“Hmm …” She really did have a time in mind, but was hesitant to say it.

Silence.

“How about 9am?” The silence was too awkward. She had neglected the distance between his apartment and her hotel, which was three hours away.

“Okay, sure.” He calculated his wake-up time. It would be about 5.30am. The time would have been dreadful for him had it been for any other reason, but for her, he would gladly wake up at any hour.

“Alright, see you then.”

After she hung up the phone, she remembered that she needed something from him. She dialed his number again.

“Sorry it’s me again.”

“Yeah I know.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, anything you want.”

“Can you bring me a jacket? I didn’t bring a summer jacket, and I didn’t realize that it could get so cold in the evening.”

“Okay, I will bring you something tomorrow. Is there anything else that you’d need?”

“Hmm … no, that’s it. Thank you.”

“Welcome. See you tomorrow.”

“Okay, good night.” Happily, she ended the call. While she enjoyed her personal time and space, she also enjoyed the care and attention of another person, and it was all the more better if that person was sensitive enough to respect her freedom and personal boundary while at the same time, be available whenever she needed him.

The next morning, she sat quietly at the hotel lobby, facing the entrance. There was no one else in the lobby, as everyone was either sleeping in their room or sitting at the rooftop restaurant. The hotel was known not only for its panoramic view but also for its great chef. Every morning, a buffet

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was served until 9.30am. Zaliya waited for her Jordanian penpal to arrive. She wanted them to breakfast in front of the panoramic view at the top of the building.

A few minutes past 9am, the door of the hotel opened. A tall bespectacled young man donning a brown dress shirt and khaki pants stepped in. Spectacles? She couldn’t recall whether her Jordanian penpal wore glasses or not. All she remembered from his photos was that he was very good-looking.

Since there was only one person in the hotel lobby, the young man’s gaze immediately landed on her. She looked at him, wondering, was he the one she was waiting for? He smiled.

As her gentlemanly chauffeur, chaperon, and translator had promised, he took care of her every need, big and small, every step of the way.

He brought her to many places, some of which he had never been to. Together they explored his homeland.

On the top of a mountain where a forsaken fortress stood, they watched the expansive landscape of his birthplace. The sun was bright but the wind was strong. They listened to the billowing wind and the bleating goats from a neighboring mountain, and watched the shepherd dog chased the goat with the bell on his neck.

"I really like this view." She laughed at the animals who were completely oblivious to a Canadian woman who flew half way across the world to watch them go about their daily life with much interest.

Silently, he stood beside her, reveling in the same panorama. Surrounded by mountains and sand on all sides, silence stood between them for a very long time. During that silence, their presence grew louder, and on a nonverbal level, they came to recognize each other's presence--sweet, gentle, and pleasant.

They stood on the top of the mountain until the view, the tranquility, and the sweetness were permanently etched in their memory. They stood next to each other until that moment became eternal.

Later that afternoon, he drove her to Madaba, a small Jordanian city famous for its Byzantine mosaics. On the top of the tallest church, they viewed the small city with many satellite dishes on the rooftops of the low-rise apartments, the olive farm immediately outside of the city boundary, and the quiet desert further away from the dark green olive trees.

On top of the church, again, they stood silently next to each other, breathing in the air of joy and liberation, as they watched the rest of the city below their feet hustled and bustled during the peak hours. Within the silence, they came to appreciate the beauty of the city. Within the silence, they came to appreciate the beauty of each other.

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On her last night in Jordan, in her hotel room, they made sure that she had everything, including cash, that she needed to exit the country the next day.

“I don’t have anything to give you. Why don’t you keep this as a souvenir?” He gave her the brown jacket that she had asked him to bring for her.

She happily accepted the very practical memorabilia, which she could use on the remainder of her journey in the Middle East.

On a piece of paper, he scribbled something down. She thought he was doodling out of boredom, so she left him alone and went to busy herself with her luggage. Moments later, he handed her the piece of paper. On it, she could see a phone number next to his full name, written in very faint ink.

“This is my number. Call me if you need anything.” He waved his hand, as if to wave away all of her hesitation, but he didn’t realize that for that job, he would need ten hands with ten times more strength in order to momentarily fan away only a sliver of her doubt and hesitation. He gestured that she could call him for absolutely anything, anything at all.

“Okay,”she replied affirmatively, while thinking, oh I better not bother him.

In total, he had given her his phone number three times, each time with the hope that she would call him, while at the same time, trying to respect her freedom.

Upon parting, they stood at the door of her hotel room. Unwilling to part, he stood before her, and gazed at her, unsure of what to do or what to say. He knew he had to leave, but he didn’t want to.

“I don’t know if I will see you again or not.” He uttered the words in such a sad tone that she almost wanted to cry. That was how he felt during that parting moment.

He moved toward her and gave her a cheek kiss, which made her smile, as the feeling of his beard against her cheek reminded her of her stuffed animal’s cheek against hers.

Unbeknownst to her, the universe had arranged a fifth mode of transportation for her.

Unbeknownst to her, the universe had taken care of her every need. Unbeknownst to her, the universe had left her an email.

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Chapter 4

After Zaliya’s return to Canada in December 2013, Tracie’s card reading arrived in an email.

“You have the best card in the deck, so your wish will come true.” In addition to answering her question, Tracie also described the circumstances around which they would meet. One of the many details that Zaliya focused on was the timing. The card revealed that the meeting would be in the far future.

Surprised, and half-heartedly believed in the almost-too-good-to-be-true reading, Zaliya continued to wonder, “Will I see him in real life?”

In the meantime, Hassan was preparing to commence his one-year conscription term. It was not an easy transition for him. It was a phase of his life which he labeled as a “waste of time.”

While he was reluctantly wasting time, the frequency of their exchange dwindled. A change in life circumstances triggered a change in human relationships. Frustrated, Zaliya and Hassan gradually accepted the change and acclimatized themselves to their new circumstances.

While Hassan was phasing out of her life, her Jordanian penpal, on the other hand, seemed to have taken center stage in her life. Zaliya shifted more of her attention to her Jordanian friend, whom she missed very much. They both had very fond memories of each other. Their memories drew them closer to each other. Unfortunately, the mental closeness didn’t last. It didn’t take long before the Jordanian lost interest in their exchange and barely replied her messages. Although she had every intention to keep in touch with him, the simple fact was that, it took two hands to clap, and if one hand started to drift away, there would be no more clap.

One day in November 2014, during Zaliya’s trip to visit her cousin in Sydney, Tracie emailed and asked about her Jordanian penpal.

“How’s Hussein?”

A year ago, Zaliya would have thought that her friendship with Hussein would last forever. A year later, the only traces left of the temporal existence of their friendship were his jacket and his number. When Zaliya first told her about Hussein a year ago, Tracie’s remark was, “I have the impression that Hussein came into your life so that you could be unstuck from Hassan.” Zaliya was surprised by that remark, and wondered if it was a message from the universe, or simply a random conjecture. But now that a year had transpired, she had on occasions wondered why he would very suddenly appear in her life, only to vanish from it just as suddenly.

While lazing around on the sofa enjoying a cup of cappuccino that her cousin had bought for her from the coffee shop next door that morning, Tracie’s question suddenly inspired her to ask the cards, which specialized in providing clarity, something that had been absent for quite some time.

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“Could you please do a reading about my friendship with Hussein?” Over time, she had gone from distancing herself from cartomancy, as if it was an alien, to accepting it, as if it was a friend, not simply because of her insatiable and compulsive desire to know, but also because of her innate fascination with mystery, and the cards never failed to mystify her.

Since card reading was her passion, Tracie happily agreed. Yet, she did not do a reading. For the first few days, she was asked to help find a missing kitten. Therefore, her free time was spent on walking up and down her town, in search of a little black cat who had recently perfected the skill to open her neighbour’s highly secured door. Then the next few days, she found herself in another city, where her sister lived, to discuss some family affairs which did not concern her, yet her presence was requested. Then when she came back to her apartment, she was suddenly enlisted to help her friend search for a temporary venue for their yoga classes, as the studio that they normally used had to be shut down for an indefinite length of time due to a small fire.

Zaliya found the sudden commotion around Tracie’s life rather peculiar, as if there was something odd surrounding her question.

In the few months preceding her visit to Australia, Zaliya had the unexpected occasion of channeling angels, an act of establishing an ethereal communication channel between her and those in the angelic realm. Although unexpected, it was only a natural outcome of her extreme curiosity about these celestial beings, after reading a book on Egyptian Seichim, which she presumed to have some association with Hassan’s culture, but only to discover that ancient Egyptian culture had no overlap with modern Egyptian culture as the latter was largely imported Arabic culture.

Channeling offered her a completely different perspective of the cosmos. She learned that, unbeknownst to most humans, there were thoughts that did not originate from the human thinking mind. Instead, they were simply thoughts that the human mind received but mistaken as being conceived. The invisible mental boundary was oftentimes not well delineated. With this awareness, she understood that Tracie’s talent was her sharp reception and translation of messages from the ether.

After many days, Tracie still could barely get to her cards, as if she had a mountain to climb in order to reach her cards. Although not impatient, Zaliya started to develop a suspicion of the sudden and unwelcomed appearance of this invisible mountain. Was the universe trying to delay its response to Zaliya? And why would it?

Being a skilled reader, a reading was hardly a time-consuming undertaking for Tracie. Instead, it only required mental clarity and concentration, something that Tracie was temporarily robbed of. Zaliya was tempted to tell the universe to leave her friend alone, but instead, she told herself to be more patient.

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Not knowing why the sudden ethereal traffic congestion, Zaliya parked aside the question and shifted her attention to the exploration of the Australian city. Sydney was a city full of sightseeing options for every type of tourists. In the face of a wide range of options, her signature hesitation appeared again. Her cousin recommended her to an art museum in downtown Sydney, although she thought of going to the beach. Nonetheless, she took his advice, not because she had any artistic leanings, but because he highly recommended it.

In the museum, there were many exhibitions of unrelated themes, most of which she did not know how to appreciate, although she tried, only to fail miserably. She was trained to analyze and rationalize, not to appreciate art work. Nonetheless, since her cousin considered the visit quite rewarding, she was determined to explore carefully every inch of the museum, in hope of finding the hidden reward. As she progressed through the unrelated themes, she came across a small exhibition about a Brazilian who professed to be the reincarnation of Jesus Christ. She wondered why an art museum would exhibit something that was not artistic in nature. However, what piqued her curiosity more was the authenticity of the professed reincarnation. She wanted to know.

She stepped away from the teenager in a black-and-red punk jacket who seemed to be following her wherever she went, and stood in a quiet little corner. Facing an indecipherable oil painting and pretending to be mesmerized by it, she asked Jesus about the authenticity of this Brazilian fellow by the name of Inri Cristo. She received a hazy response, but it was definitely in the affirmative. That did not surprise her. Instead, what surprised her was that that was not the only message that came to her. The ethereal being sent her another message, which made no sense to her, although she was confident that there was no error in her reception, because of her repeated confirmation with the above. The puzzling message was that Hassan and Hussein would meet because of her. How were an Egyptian and a Jordanian going to meet because of a Canadian? What unforeseeable and unlikely events would have to transpire in order to bring that about? Her relationships with both of them only existed at the mental level. There was no conceivable way that the three could exist in the same physical space. Such an idea would be quite a far stretch from her already wild imagination. As with all other silly and senseless thoughts that she had, she parked this one aside, and labeled it as rubbish.

Finally, Tracie had managed to lay her hands on a deck of cards, but it was not her usual deck, which also sparked Zaliya’s curiosity. She was using a deck named Sybil fortune teller. If a surgeon was used to a particular tool, why would he suddenly switch to a different tool? Was there something unusual about the patient?

Zaliya was tempted to ask, but she knew that she was not going to get any explanation from Tracie, because Tracie was not someone who liked to rationalize every little detail. Tracie was someone who would do whatever felt right, while Zaliya was someone who would do whatever was right.

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Zaliya read Tracie’s card reading. It was so incoherent that even after rereading Tracie’s email several times, Zaliya still could not make sense of it. One of the details that confused her was that Tracie mentioned Hassan and Hussein, almost interchangeably, several times in the same reading, as if she was thinking of Hassan even though Zaliya asked about her friendship with Hussein. Another detail that seemed to be out of place was that Tracie said she was to hear from Hussein today, and that he would bring good news, both of which were untrue, as he no longer initiated conversation with her.

Zaliya could easily disregard that detail as divinational inaccuracy, but still, it puzzled her, because she was absolutely confident that Tracie would not be wrong.

Tracie admitted that she did get a little confused during the reading, but she assured Zaliya that she did focus on Hussein. However, she also realized that the message that she received was a bit illogical, so she was not surprised when Zaliya replied, “Je ne comprends pas!”

Several emails went back and forth on this reading. Seeing that she was not able to make her reading coherent enough for the left-brain dominant Zaliya, Tracie offered to do another reading on the same question, in hope of extracting greater clarity from the cards. Zaliya agreed. This time, Tracie decided to use her usual deck of cards.

The second version of her reading came out more or less the same as the first, fuzzy and convoluted, with Hassan and Hussein still intertwined, as if they were one person. Apparently, there was something really unusual about the patient such that no tool would ever be good enough for the surgeon to use.

Again, the reading said that Zaliya didn’t really need anyone in her life, and that after the completion of a project, something or someone good would enter her life. On that last point, Tracie emphasized, “But you have to believe it!”

What exactly was she talking about? Zaliya thought. It had absolutely no correlation to her question about her friendship with Hussein. Were her cards drunk?

Zaliya’s obstinate need for logic failed to process such an illogical answer, despite Tracie’s repeated attempt to explain. She also could not understand why the universe took so long to craft such a convoluted answer for her. Perhaps the universe needed the time to decide on the best course of action for this inoperable patient.

In the end, an odd and unexpected comment came from Tracie, who picked up the additional message from the ether that the cards were not able to communicate, “Perhaps you would meet someone who was a blend of both Hassan and Hussein. Then I thought of the name Hans, and I burst out laughing.”

“Alright, if you see Hans, please send him to me!”

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Chapter 5

At the end of February 2015, Hassan celebrated the end of his conscription term. Although their exchange had become sporadic, Zaliya had not forgotten him, as the memory of his voice had been firmly implanted in the deepest level of her psyche, which penetrated all ideological differences that separated humanity. They maintained their friendship despite their gaps in culture, geography, language, religion, age, and tradition.

After having unwillingly wasted a year of his life, he was very keen on catching up on the loss of time.

He quickly busied himself with job searching, as he had many dreams and ambitions in life to pursue, and all such pursuits required a strong career foundation.

At the same time, Zaliya wanted to meet him.

“Well, I will be busy with my new life.” He expressed great hesitation, as if her signature hesitation had suddenly been transferred to him.

She was very disappointed to find that he had mentally pushed her out of his life. After an extraordinary lengthy deliberation, much more so than usual, she booked a ticket to Cairo. What if she was there and he was not available to meet her?

Would she meet him?

After much mental agitation and anxiety, he finally appeared in front of her, in front of the Giza pyramids, one evening in March 2015 after the sun had set and the laser light show at the pyramids had begun. They sat on the rooftop terrace of a little hotel situated several hundred meters in front of the pyramids. Isolated from the rest of civilization, the two friends quietly enjoyed the presence of each other. The feeling was the same both online and offline—gentle and pleasant.

While watching the light show, they lifted their heads toward the sky, to gaze at the stars and to feel the evening breeze. Millions of stars lit the sky, including the three main stars Alnitak, Alnilam, and Mintaka, which were the celestial counterparts of the three terrestrial monuments.

In front of the celestial-terrestrial alignment, he told her a story about star-gazing. He smiled gently as he spoke, as if he was speaking to a teddy bear. She inched closer to him, in hope of catching every word that he uttered.

“Oh, I like your cologne!” A light and soft fragrance emanated from him as she moved closer to him.

He smiled gently, and said, “It’s Gucci.”

While millions of planetary beings stood from light years away witnessing this human event, millions of celestial beings descended over the rooftop, all congregating in that moment to rejoice and revel in the universal party where the central characters were the two friends. For the first few minutes of the light show, neither of the two friends could concentrate on the show, as an intense whirlwind of celestial energy danced around them. He said, “I can’t understand a single word from the show.”

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That was what Tracie’s cards were trying to tell her, when she got the best card in the deck, that she would have an extremely favorable meeting.

Soon after the meeting, he returned his attention to his busy life. He gradually acquired the taste of life in the workforce, and gradually acquainted himself to the challenges and demands of adulthood.

Meanwhile, Zaliya found other distractions to fill the void that Hassan had left in her psyche. She started writing, an idea that had first appeared to her in the summer of 2014, when she pondered about her life direction. Her first response was hesitation, but over time, as she received more and more praises on her writings, most of which were comments that she should write a book, she began to write more, which was not hard to do, as she was never devoid of topics to write about, given the many unusual events she encountered in recent months. Writing therefore became a good excuse for record-keeping, and experience-sharing with those interested in a different dimension of existence.

In June 2015, while Zaliya was vacationing in Portugal, Tracie’s cat Leo greeted her.

“Does he have something to say to me?” Zaliya asked Leo’s human companion. He had never communicated with her in the past, although she had always been curious about interspecies telepathy, an interest born out of her abrupt but brief exposure to angel channeling.

“Yes, but he didn’t tell me what his message to you was. Did you hear what he said?”

Surprised and intrigued by the implied privacy over a long-distance conversation between her and a cat that she had never met in person, Zaliya was simply not aware that there was such a thing as ethereal privacy. Since there was no human to relay the feline message, she decided to stretch out her rarely used and never tuned antennae.

She approached his ethereal home, and knocked at his invisible door. He opened it. She greeted him and started to pet him. He exhibited a lukewarm response. In hope of soliciting a more enthusiastic response, she hammered his head. The moment her hammer landed on his head, his white paw swung across her face, almost like the instinctive response of a martial artist.

After being smacked, which proved his responsiveness, she calibrated the strength of his signals and began to ask him questions.

He faintly mentioned something about a collaboration of some kind between the two penpals.

Zaliya would not settle for any hazy thought. She strained for more details from the soft-spoken cat.

“What kind of collaboration? Are we going to write a book together? What kind of book?

Something about cartomancy? Something to raise human awareness?”

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Either Leo was very reticent, or Zaliya’s antennae were broken; she didn’t receive a clear answer.

“Can you be my translator?” Frustrated, she solicited help from Tracie who often communicated with her feline companion.

“He said, ‘Sure, if you like.’” The human translator relayed the cat’s response to her Canadian penpal.

Zaliya punched him a couple of times, as if punching her pillow, but disallowed him to retaliate, “Don’t whack me.” She rejoiced in the sight of him being flattened by her fist. He gave her an expressionless face, as if showing a total disinterest in her mischief. Since he was so stingy with words, she punched him a couple more times, in an attempt to squeeze out another word from him, but instead of talking, he turned grumpy, as if saying he was not at all impressed by her childishness.

“Hey, can you ask your feline roommate to speak louder?” Zaliya emailed Tracie.

He felt that their conversation was already over. She felt that their conversation had barely started.

“He said, ‘I love you.’”

“Huh? Why does your roommate talk like that? It’s not even coherent!”

“You can’t just look at the words. You have to look at the feeling behind the words.” The intuitive card reader explained the art of telepathy. This long lost art was not easy to revive in an era where humans said what they didn’t mean, and didn’t say what they meant.

“The feelings behind the words?” Zaliya was lost.

In July 2015, Zaliya submitted a short story to a Writer-in-Residence for a critique. A month later, she received the critique, which her South African colleague was extremely mad at.

“This woman could not write!” He threw the critique on the desk after reading only a couple of the comments.

Several other colleagues and friends also read the critique, and they either did not agree with some of it or all of it. A Croatian colleague told her that she just needed to practice more. Therefore, she did.

At this point in time, Hussein had completely exited her life, but Hassan still had one of his foot in her life. One day, he messaged her quite out of the blue, and discovered that she would be competing in two writing contests.

“Wow! Sounds marvelous! What are you going to write about?” He was incredibly excited.

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“Well, one of the contests states that I have to write about a first meeting with someone who had a significant meaning in my life. The other contest has no theme.”

“A first meeting? Wow! It must be a fabulous true story! I can’t wait to read it!” His enthusiasm was overflowing.

“Oh, hmm … it didn’t say that it has to be true.” Zaliya was puzzled by his overzealous reply. She hadn’t decided on what to write yet. Nor did she expect it to be true.

“Well, it says first meeting, so doesn’t it have to be a story that happened in real life?”

Zaliya asked herself, does it?

Soon after their brief exchange, she thought of writing about her meeting with him in front of the Great Pyramids. That would constitute a first meeting, with a special meaning, and was a true event.

Indirectly, he had given her ideas on both of her submissions. Both would be based on the same true story; the first one with a word limit of 1,500 would be about the meeting, while the second one with a word limit of 7,500 would be about the friendship.

A few days prior to the submission deadline, Hassan asked her again about her writing. Never had he shown so much enthusiasm.

“I am almost done.”

“I can’t wait to read it!”

“I have two versions. Which one do you want?”

“The better one.” He could barely contain his excitement. She sensed a certain eeriness hovering in the air, as if a million angels were flying above her head, waiting impatiently for her to finish writing, so that they could crack open their invisible champagne bottles to celebrate the significant milestone in her life. Naturally, Hassan would have to be part of the celebration, just like an actor would have to celebrate the end of a film production.

On the day of her submission to both contests, her South African colleague suddenly popped into her office.

“How’s your writing?”

Zaliya was surprised at his sudden and opportune appearance. She did not mention to him about the deadline of the writing contests.

“I have just submitted my story to the writing contests.”

“Wow! Send it to me! I want to read it!” He was prancing in front of her.

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“Okay. I have two versions. Which one do you want?”

“The better one.”

Very shortly after she emailed her story, her South African colleague again barged into her office.

“Wow!” His mouth agape. His eyes sparkled. His face was so bright that she could have mistaken him for the sun.

She stared at him blankly, wondering what sort of corporate disaster had struck his office but not hers. Having worked with him for many years, she was used to his hilariously positive reaction to all kinds of illogical and incomprehensible executive decisions that sparked his ingenuity and innovation.

Their silent conversation continued for several seconds, after which she finally came to her senses, and realized his compulsion to give her his feedback, visually.

Shortly after, she received another surprise. Hassan emailed her expressing his ecstasy, congratulating her on such a fantastic story, and wishing her the best of luck on the contest. She did not expect any good news from him. In fact, she could not predict how he would react to reading a story about himself.

Looking back, she found that his sudden reappearance in her life to inspire her to write a story about him, after a prolonged absence, was quite uncanny.

While reflecting on the occurrence of the recent events, she suddenly recalled Tracie’s card reading about Hussein, especially the mysterious blend of Hassan and Hussein, a nonsensical detail which she had long forgotten.

Now, that nonsense began to make sense. In November 2014, she never would have thought that she would write stories. Not only that, she never would have thought that she would write a story about Hassan and called him Hussein, because Hassan was an extremely private person, and she wanted to protect his anonymity.

She was a storyteller. She was a creator. That was the universe’s message.

The good news that the cards portended in November 2014 arrived on August 31, 2015, the day that Hassan congratulated her and wished her luck on the contest.

The revelation of Tracie’s readings enchanted her. She couldn’t wait to find out the “someone or something good” that was portended to enter her life.

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Chapter 6

“There is a change coming up soon, in your employment situation,” a practicing tarot reader whom Zaliya had met on an online forum portended, on a random day in June 2015.

Puzzled and in doubt, Zaliya struggled to peruse the rest of the divination.

“You are in good hands! Your angels will assist you during the transition.”

“Huh?” She frowned at the reading. She had no intention of leaving her job, nor would she be removed involuntarily.

Meaningless things were so easily forgettable. As such, Zaliya quickly forgot about this reading.

One day in September 2015, her Pakistani colleague asked, “Why are you still here?” Many of Zaliya’s top-rated colleagues had resigned.

She was like a mountain who was heavily stagnated on a career path. Every time he saw this mountain, he had an uncontrollable urge to take the biggest spade to dig it off the ground. Over the years, he repeatedly dug, “You either move up or move out.”

Every time when she received his unsolicited advice, she couldn’t resist wondering, why did he have such an urge to impose his values and definition of success on her?

The endless corporate drama had debilitated employee morale in her office. Neither her nor her Pakistani colleague was spared from the incomprehensible corporate lunacy. Ironically, the aggressive proponent on jumping ship had changed his opinion and no longer encouraged her to leave, at a time when it was difficult to stay.

While she deliberated over the question of whether to leave or to stay, he kept chanting, “Well, we should be thankful that we have a job.”

On the day that Mercury entered the retrograde station, Zaliya tendered her resignation. On the day that Mercury turned direct, she purchased a ticket to fly to Australia the next day.

Upon hearing the news of her resignation, her cousin clapped his hands, blew his trumpet, and congratulated her wholeheartedly. He was the only person in her life who was truly happy for her.

Finally breaking free from the big red apple, she was ready for a big happy vacation.

An old episode had ended. A new one had yet to begin. The universe had scheduled an intermission for her. Her cousin, who previously resided in Sydney and now in Melbourne, happily welcomed her to his home.

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Following the 1,500-word story and the 7,500-word story, Zaliya embarked on another writing project: an 80,000-word novel based loosely on her friendship with Hassan. In October, she finalized her novel in Melbourne.

“Now what?” Being jobless and unencumbered, she asked the universe.

One day, her cousin suggested her to go to St Kilda Beach, although she was more interested in visiting an art museum. Nonetheless, she took her cousin’s advice. Arriving at St Kilda Beach station, she disembarked from the tram which was situated in the middle of the road in a mid-scale neighborhood populated by funky shops and restaurants. Immediately before her was a shop that advertised tarot reading. She wondered if the universe had something to tell her, or could it be a meaningless coincidence that she happened to stand in front of a door that opened up to a divine message? To satiate her curiosity, she ventured into the store, which was packed with all kinds of colorful crystals, hippie clothing, handmade jewelries, unusual statutes of different deities, hanging wind chimes, spiritual books, etc. Her nose was immediately greeted by the scent of a burning incense. She spent a few minutes exploring the store, before inquiring about the card reading service.

“Oh yes, she’s available right now, and she’s really good!” Holding up his thumb, the shopkeeper beamed like the salesman of the year.

His smile piqued her curiosity, almost like a chocolatier inviting her to try his signature handmade truffle in his store which happened to be right in front of her. Being in an explorative mood, she immediately asked for a reading.

“What do you want to ask about?” The tarot reader led her into a tiny little room painted in many happy colors, and invited her to sit in a tiny little chair that was probably made for a happy child, and began asking her for the purpose of her visit.

“Oh, I have many things I am curious about …” She wondered if there was any special message that the universe wanted to deliver to her.

“Is there anything that happened recently that you need guidance or clarity on?” While shuffling a deck of cards, the tarot reader gently guided her toward a question.

“Oh yes! I am jobless! Can you comment on that please?” Like a light bulb suddenly switched on, she blurted out her question.

Details and clarity came through the cards in the next 20 minutes. It was an extremely favorable reading. Perhaps she was guided to the beach, to receive a divine message, just like how she was guided to the museum a year ago, also to receive a divine message?

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From time to time, she still wondered what that “someone or something good” would be. Was her travel something good? Was her new friendship with her Dutch colleague something and someone good? Was her change in employment status something good?

After her stay with her cousin, she continued her vacation in Brisbane, where she wrote a synopsis of her 80,000-word novel. After reading the synopsis, Tracie replied, “I would suggest mentioning Canada, Morocco, and Switzerland; three continents, three strangers whose paths happened to cross one day.”

Sitting in front of an omelette, she gazed at the pedestrians busily rushing to their offices in downtown Brisbane. She was lost and puzzled. Why the sudden mention of Morocco? Zaliya’s synopsis only mentioned Egypt, and Hassan was a frequent topic in their email exchange. Thus Tracie should know very well that Zaliya’s novel only had an Egyptian, no Moroccan. How did and could Morocco appear, especially when Tracie had a strong dislike of Maghreb men?

On the last day of 2015, she embarked on her return journey to Canada. The weather did not cooperate. After half a day of misery, she appeared in Amsterdam, stranded. She was quite annoyed at the misfortune, and openly expressed her displeasure at the angels for not taking care of her.

Oddly, her anger at the celestial beings never lasted. Every time when she tried to shoot an ethereal bomb at them, they shot her back with divine love. In this way, the war was over as soon as she started it. Such was the nature of their relationship.

Very quickly, she discovered that the misfortune was a blessing in disguise. She was offered free room and board for two days at a four-star hotel that was connected to Schiphol Airport in Amsterdam. After dropping her belongings in her hotel room, she ventured out in a t-shirt and jeans, a pair of flip flops, and a teddy bear in her arms.

“What do you recommend that I do for the next two days in Amsterdam?” She asked a young blond lady at the tourist information center in the mall that connected to the airport, the train station, and the hotels.

Like a palace, her new living environment had every amenity and facility, and many servants, all within easy reach, by foot in a pair of flip flips. What a fun way to live!

The concierge gave her some suggestions.

That night, she took the train from her temporary home to celebrate the end of 2015 and to open 2016 in the Dutch city. Fireworks decorated the sky for more than an hour.

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The unexpected stay turned out to be the most pleasant part of her entire three-month journey. If something that happened to her by chance, without her intervention, was better than something that she had painstakingly organized, wasn’t that a very clear sign for her to trust, to let go, and to go with the cosmic flow?

The universe knew what she liked more than she personally did. It also showered her with abundance—having everything which she could possibly need, at her finger tips, without her asking for it. All she had to do to experience abundance was to be open, to be receptive, and to allow events to unfold, without any attempt to resist nor interfere with the cosmic process.

On her way back to Canada, she had the precognition that a job would appear immediately for her, in the first week of her return. The following day after her return, she received a message.

“Hey Zaliya, how’s it going? Are you still looking for a job?” Her former manager asked.

“Hey Jason, nice to hear from you! I am good. Yes, I am. I just got back into the country, and will need to start looking soon.”

“That’s cool. Can you send me your resume? I think I have something coming up that will suit you.”

The following month, she messaged Jason, “Hey, I got the job!” It happened exactly the way the tarot reader at St Kilda Beach had portended.

As part of the cosmic ebb and flow, life became more demanding for Tracie. In order to concentrate all her efforts on her battles, she had made several temporary exits from Zaliya’s life.

Tracie’s appearance in Zaliya’s life had pulled her closer to the cards. Now, without convenient access to the cards, or more precisely, to a human translator of the cards, Zaliya began to learn cartomancy. She chose the Lenormand cards, after a practicing card reader from the same online forum where she met the practicing tarot reader portended her career situation quite accurately, and told her that Lenormand was easier to learn than Tarot.

One day during the second Mercury retrograde of 2016, Zaliya recalled Tracie saying that she was not a tarot reader, but a cartomancer. Curious, Zaliya searched her email. Coincidentally, the name of the deck of cards that Tracie used was also Lenormand.

That coincidence seemed frivolous, but what was less frivolous was that, within the same email, Tracie also mentioned Morocco. Likewise, throughout their two-and-a-half year email exchange, Tracie had only mentioned Morocco once.

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In an attempt to solicit a second opinion, Zaliya showed her Russian friend the two versions of Tracie’s readings.

“Eh … I don’t see any correlation between the two.” Squinting and blinking, her very intuitive Russian friend compared the readings up and down, left and right, front and back.

Zaliya was suddenly illuminated. All the while she was misled to think that the two were the same, but now an emotionally detached bystander immediately saw the essence of the two readings: Two stories. Both about Hussein. One was about Hassan, which she changed the name to Hussein. The other was about her first story, and the Jordanian Hussein.

Two readings. Both about her friendship with Hussein. More precisely, both about her ability to stitch characters onto the same page. The day she succeeded in stitching Hussein and Hassan beautifully, was the day the third person would appear in her life.

Her life was full of mysteries. Whether knowingly or unknowingly, Tracie had thrown in another mysterious detail: Morocco!

For an hour Zaliya did nothing but sat as still as a rock in front of the readings. These seemingly meaningless readings were actually bits and pieces of her future haphazardly sprinkled before her in a nonlinear and disorderly fashion. Such was the language of the universe.

What was the universe trying to say? Where was Hans? Could he be a fictional character in her story?

Was she supposed to write another story?

Over the next few months, she focused on writing. More precisely, she focused on manufacturing Hans.

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Chapter 7

Zaliya was sandwiched in the backseat of a seven-seater van, with seven other passengers, heading toward an unknown destination, late at night, in a lively cosmopolitan city with no name, and many pedestrians dressed in funky and colorful clothing. The road was not well signposted, and the driver did not know where he was going. But that did not bother Zaliya, as she had thoroughly immersed herself in the exotic feeling of a foreign landscape.

Along the way, the passengers discussed about various unimportant subjects with much fervor, almost like a rowdy fish market, but Zaliya naturally tuned out of such conversations, and instead, focused her attention on the odd-looking buildings that passed them by, the schizophrenic driving styles of the drivers, and the little white Pomeranian that stared at her from a white Mercedes Benz.

Suddenly, the driver stomped on the brake, and a woman in her mid-thirties rolled on to the windshield of their van, then rolled off their van and landed on the road in front of them. The van had stopped running, the driver had stopped driving, the passengers had stopped yapping, and the Pomeranian had stopped staring.

A young man next to Zaliya wrapped his arms around her, like a koala hugging a tree. His face rested on her neck, like a koala napping on a tree, oblivious to all the commotions around the tree. He had found solace in her. She was entranced by the gentle and peaceful rhythm of his breathing on her skin.

She didn’t know him. But she let him hug her.

Everyone had shifted their attention to the woman on the road. Everyone except the koala.

Everyone panicked. But not the koala.

Everyone except the koala had the same question in their head: Was she still alive?

Zaliya wanted to inch forward to gain a better view of the body on the ground, but being a tree and immobile, her vision was limited.

Suddenly, everyone gasped. “What happened?� The tree asked.

The woman on the ground stood up, and started prancing toward the sidewalk, as if nothing had happened. At that moment, she might have been the dancing queen of the world, as everyone fixated on her every move, not to assess her acrobatic talent, but her physical body.

Zaliya watched the woman dancing casually toward the sidewalk. She was particularly attracted by the black rubbery platform shoes that the dancer was wearing. She estimated that the soles were at least four inches thick. Even a normal person would have trouble dancing in those shoes, how could someone who had just gotten hit by a van dance in them?

Zaliya wanted to photograph the woman. She gently removed the arms around her.

The arms released her. She opened her eyes and found herself snuggly ensconced in her bed.

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How should Hans look? Tall, young, and handsome?

Zaliya began to manufacture Hans. An image of the koala appeared. She didn’t remember how he looked like, but she remembered the feeling of his embrace, the feeling of peace and bliss. It was a feeling of closeness, trust, and comfort, intensified by the alien feeling of being in a foreign city surrounded by people she didn’t know. It felt like the warmth from a cup of hot chocolate on a cold wintry night. Zaliya began to manufacture that feeling.

After finishing several short stories, Zaliya wanted some reader’s feedback, to see whether the details made sense, and whether her jokes made sense. She began searching for volunteer readers, but soon discovered that most organizations only offered an exchange, which meant she had to give feedback to someone else’s writing in return.

In her mind, that did not constitute an exchange. An exchange was the interaction between someone who wanted to write and someone who wanted to read. She wasn’t looking for writers, nor was she learning to read. So her search continued, until one day, she came across a writers section in a forum, which was part of the penpal website that she used a couple years ago to meet Hussein. Some members posted their poems on the forum. She wanted to post her stories on that forum. Thus she re-registered to that website, after deleting her account a year ago.

After registration, she found that she could not post to the forum. The website said registration could take up to 48 hours to activate. Thus, she could only read. Therefore, she browsed through some postings about renewable resources, and found a funny comment. She wanted to respond to the funny author, who was a year older than Hassan, but since she could not post to the forum, she decided to send him a private message.

A week later, she still could not post to the forum. The funny author said, “Maybe you need to finish setting up your account, with a profile picture, a self-description, and everything.”

She thought his advice was strange, but took it nonetheless. After enhancing her account with an elaborate self-introduction, and 18 pictures, she asked, “What do you think?”

“Why you like this thing so much?” He was bewildered by a webpage filled with 18 copies of the same image of a silly-looking black-and-white stuffed animal holding a stalk of green bamboo.

Another week had gone by.

“I still cannot post! What should I do?” Frustrated, she asked her funny penpal.

“Maybe you can create another account?”

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Thus she did, using the username thisbetterworks. As the username suggested, that account did work!

“Hey, I can post to the forum with this account!” thisbetterworks messaged him.

“Hahahahaha ...” He was thoroughly tickled.

By then, she no longer needed reader’s feedback. Instead, she visited the website to tickle her funny penpal.

Their friendship began with laughter. Their laughter turned into arguments. For many days, they argued, about everything.

“Why didn’t you answer my question?” He asked angrily.

“What question?” She looked at his previous question which she had just answered.

“I asked you why.”

“Because you didn’t ask me why. You asked me what.”

“Yes, I did ask you why.”

“No. You asked me what. You didn’t ask me why.”

“Okay, I am asking you now.”

In this way, their anger continued to simmer, and like a kettle, which whistled when the heat reached a certain threshold, the two penpals bickered when their anger reached a certain boiling point. But unlike a kettle, their boiling point varied. In this way, the kettle whistled randomly, for many days.

Then suddenly one day, quite out of the blue, in May 2016, he apologized.

Perhaps the kettle was broken? Perhaps he had a power outage?

She still wanted to turn on the kettle, but since he sounded unusually and unexpectedly friendly that day, she momentarily parked aside her anger, and they managed to carry on a somewhat friendly conversation.

During the conversation, Zaliya thought of Tracie, perhaps due to the influence of Mercury retrograde, and decided to review some of her emails. Moments later, she came upon Tracie’s readings about Zaliya’s friendship with Hussein.

Tracie said, “On the cut, it says that you will receive good news from Hussein today.”

Good news? Today? Were the cards talking about the broken kettle?

Tracie’s email had shifted Zaliya’s attention away from the kettle. She was no longer interested in boiling water. Instead, she was more interested in unraveling the mystery in the email. Could the

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same reading apply to more than one situation? Or was she simply repeating the same pattern, as she was stitching Hussein and Hassan together?

All these questions! Her curiosity was piqued! She wondered if she could uncover the answers in her funny penpal.

She became more enthusiastic in the conversation. He reciprocated her enthusiasm. They talked about silly things. They played and laughed, just like how Hassan and Zaliya played and laughed.

“How long does it take for a letter from Canada to arrive?” She asked about the postal service in his country.

“I think I will come to Canada, marry you, have a child, and still the letter will not arrive.”

She laughed and asked if he had prayed for a wife.

“Yes, of course. I pray for a good wife, and I think I have found her.”

“Oh really? What’s she like?”

“Hmm … She’s like a child.”

She laughed and asked why.

“Hmm ... Because she likes stuffed animals. All her pictures have a stuffed animal in them.

Sometimes, all you see in her pictures are stuffed animals; nothing else.”

Again, she laughed. She asked if he had any stuffed animals, and he said he only had real animals.

“Do you take Suisse for a walk?” She asked after he introduced her to his dog, whose French name meant Switzerland.

“No, but my twin brother does.”

“Oh I didn’t know you have a twin brother. Does he look like you?” She recalled that Hassan also had a fraternal twin brother.

“No.” “What’s his name?”

“Hassan.”

In the following weeks, the koala feeling began to evolve between her and her funny penpal.

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Like a bear who had just woken up from his hibernation, Hassan started to come back into Zaliya’s life, after journeying through multiple rapid changes, including three job changes in different cities ever since he entered the workforce a little over a year ago.

Still as lovely as a bear, still joking and laughing with Zaliya like they used to, Hassan still cherished his interaction with her. With the added life experience, there was more depth to his character, and he began to talk about bigger life issues. In response, she began to share more of her life experiences.

Their friendship reached new heights, as their personal growth had reached new heights. Human relationships evolved as the individuals within the relationship evolved.

After a brief period of laughter, Zaliya and her funny penpal became silent. He didn’t talk much.

Every day, he asked, “How’s your day today?” She would tell him about her day, but he would not tell her about his. When she asked him about his day, his answer would invariably be, “Fine, thanks.”

When she asked him what he had done that day, he said nothing.

There was no exchange. There was no sharing. There was no connection. But somehow, a friendship existed.

From that friendship, she came to understand that she was someone who needed a lot of personal time and space. Despite having a need to socialize, she also had a strong desire for personal territory, as expressed in the prolonged silence that was typically present in most of her human relationships. That was what the koala tried to show her, that her emotional bonds were formed in silence, and were strongest only in silence. Only the strongest essence of two individuals could and would exist in silence, and that essence would determine the overall color of the relationship.

She recalled what Hussein once said, “I suggest that you spend a day by yourself first, then we’ll meet up and I can take you around.” At the time, she didn’t understand why he would say that. But now, she did. She was someone who needed a lot of space in order to thrive. Hussein knew. She realized, she tended to gravitate to those who were highly intuitive and perceptive.

From there she also came to a deeper realization of the meaning of Tracie’s reading: “You don’t really need anyone in your life.”

One day, Zaliya messaged her funny friend, “Hey, how are you?”

“Fine. I want to tell you that I’m going to stop using the internet.” Very abruptly, their friendship was heading toward disengagement. Was this going to be like her friendship with Hussein?

“Okay,” she answered. Instead of resisting, she simply sailed into the cosmic ebb and flow.

“I will message you when I can, okay?”

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At that moment, she recalled Tracie’s reading: “You have to believe in yourself!” She finally understood what Tracie meant in order to invite that someone or something good to come into her life.

“Sure Houssam.” All she had to do, was to have absolute faith that the life-transforming events that awaited her would open up a beautiful chapter in her life.

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Postface The writing of this story began in the beginning of May 2016. This story went through unusually many revisions, during which many things happened, and I eventually came to understand that the story is not the ultimate product, but only a lesson for me to learn to manufacture my ultimate product--my life.

One of the notable understandings I learned during this writing process is that the conception and inception points of each project, each job, each relationship, each new life, etc., play a very critical role in the overall trajectory of that process. This writing project began during the Mars retrograde, which meant that it would be unusually difficult to complete, and it was.

This writing project allowed me to discover my inner nature, and by extension, embrace and appreciate my uniqueness, without the need of external acknowledgement and appreciation, thereby empowering myself to fully be me, to return to myself, without being tugged by external circumstances, resistance, or expectations. This is the feeling of home. This is the Tao in Taoism.

Wanchain July 2016 Canada