Authors: Danny Wallace
Now, people often talk, almost embarrassingly loudly, about the power of positive thinking
.
Take me: I’m usually quite a positive thinker. I tend to think things will generally work out okay If I was stranded on a desert island, and I saw a boat on the horizon, but the boat didn’t see me, I wouldn’t get all in a fluster and a huff about it. “It’ll probably be fine,” I’d say. “I bet they’ll probably be back in a bit.” At least then, I’d die happy.
There are others who take a more rigorous approach to positive thinking and dedicate their entire lives to the practice. I once read an article about a lady called Jessica who’d read a self-help book about positivity and found it to be so inspiring that she bought a caravan in Cumbria and moved there immediately. She’d be free to spend her days wandering around, thinking positive thoughts and spreading happy vibes. According to Jessica, just thinking positively could cure your illnesses, revive your love life, and get you a better job. Which is great, if you like taking career advice from a woman who lives in a caravan.
“I’ll give you an example,” she said. “If we keep repeating something good over and over, then eventually it will
become
the truth. If you just keep on insisting to yourself that you are a wonderful person, and that your marriage is amazing, it
will
be true.”
A handy tip for battered wives everywhere, there.
For me I had discovered that it’s not necessarily positive
thinking
that changes your life, but positive
doing
. Now, to be honest, my trip to Amsterdam hadn’t been quite as successful as I’d hoped. But that didn’t mean it was a failure (note the positive thinking, there). It was just another example of letting go, of going with the flow, of letting life lead the way. Sure, it had led me into a bit of a culde-sac, but I’d had fun. Fun I would otherwise have missed out on.
Yeah, so I’d wanted to prove Ian wrong. And no, I hadn’t returned home with twenty million dollars, despite endless positive thinking, but instead with a sore body and a portrait of me and a dog. Ian, of course, would say that this meant the
whole endeavour was doomed to failure. Me, being both a positive thinker
and
a positive doer, would not. I was sure it was all for the best. And I was sure that one day I’d find out how. One day I might even meet supermarket magnate Albert Heijn, and we’d have a good laugh about it all.
My phone rang. It was Brian of the Starburst Group. He said that his friend Pete, who knew a lot more about Maitreya than he did, had agreed to meet with me, and when would be convenient? I told him to suggest a time. He did. I said yes.
“Danny?”
“You must be Pete.”
“Come in.”
I did as Pete asked and stepped into his flat.
We were in Chancery Lane, and I’d reasoned that as I was here for such an odd purpose, it would probably be less awkward to cut straight to the chase.
“Basically, Pete … I’m here because Brian told me that Jesus was living on Brick Lane.”
Pete rolled his eyes and let out quite a piercing laugh.
“Hah!” he said, “Well, that’s utter bollocks, for a start.”
I smiled and tried a piercing laugh of my own, but it wasn’t as good.
“So it’s not true?” I said, relieved that this little piece of strangeness was coming to an end.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, Jesus does not live on Brick Lane.”
“Good.”
“No. Jesus lives in
Rome.”
“Oh.”
“Maitreya
lives on Brick Lane.”
This seemed to be getting complicated.
“Brian said that as well. But he said Maitreya
was
Jesus.”
“No. Some call him Jesus, but he is not Jesus. Jesus lives in Rome. Maitreya used to be Jesus, two thousand years ago in Palestine, but now Jesus is a master as well. Maitreya works closely with Him, but Maitreya is Maitreya, and Maitreya lives in London. So … why don’t you tell me why you think you met him?”
“What you have to realise, Danny,” said Pete as we sat in his living room, sipping at our Tetley, “is that we can never be sure where Maitreya will show up next. Or
to whom. He can be anywhere, instantaneously, and can show up to people of any faith, because, you see, he is
all
faiths. He showed up last year in Paraguay in front of two hundred Christians. He appeared in front of two hundred Muslims in Morocco the year before. He’s turned up in Japan and Italy and the U.S. and Zanzibar and Poland and just about everywhere else. But
never before
on a
bus
to
one man.”
I saw what he was saying.
“Fair enough. So it couldn’t have been him. I agree. It was just some bloke. Some bloke who said something, which then struck a chord. I think Brian’s just got a bit carried away with this, so …”
“Well, hang on, Danny. It absolutely
could
have been him. Because he is here to help all people. He is as likely to touch the life of
one
man as he is to touch the lives of a
thousand
. But he does so in a form which they can accept. Which is why he appears to some as Jesus, to others as Mohammed, and to others still as … well … a man on a bus.”
“But why?”
“Are you a man of faith, Danny?”
I shook my head. “Not in the sense that I’d call myself a Christian or a Muslim or anything like that,” I said. “I believe more in … people. The kindness of strangers. Mankind. That sort of thing.”
“And that is precisely why Maitreya would have chosen to meet you in the way that he did,” said Pete.
And that seemed to be that. It was case closed for Pete. He’d decided. I’d met Maitreya, whether I liked it or not.
“He stands for justice, sharing, and love—no matter what your beliefs are,” he said, offering me a biscuit.
“That sounds quite nice, actually,” I said, because it did.
“Hey—I’d love to interview you about your experiences with Maitreya, if that’s possible,” said Pete. “There are plenty of newsletters that would love to hear about it. Is there a number where I can contact you?”
“Er … well … I’m not sure if I’d be able to tell you much,” I said. “But … yes.”
I wrote my number down on a small pad Pete appeared to have stolen from The Swallow Hotel in Chollerford, and he beckoned me into another room.
“Look at this,” he said, and he showed me the same picture of a robed, bearded man that Brian had shown me that day in the restaurant.
“This was taken in Nairobi. Six thousand people saw Maitreya arrive at the Church of Bethlehem at a tiny village called Kwangware. They do miracles there. They heal people, make mad people sane again, that sort of thing. And one day the minister told the congregation that God had spoken to her and that a very special guest would be arriving in a few moments time. Well, the villagers didn’t know
what
to expect, but then …
then
he arrived. Maitreya. He appeared from absolutely nowhere, and he appeared to be almost
shining
. He blessed them, then got in a car and drove off.”
“Goodness,” I said. “What kind of car was it?”
I figured if he said it was a Nissan, something odd was going on.
“No idea. Now, if you want to know for certain whether that was Maitreya that you met that day, there is someone you can ask.”
“Who?”
“A man called Elias Brown.”
“Elias Brown?”
“Elias Brown, yes. He is in direct daily communication with Maitreya.”
“Really?”
“Oh yes. He has been ‘overshadowed’ many times, which means that the masters essentially got inside him, spoke through him. He is a brilliant man—kind, generous. Anyway, the masters got friendly with him, and eventually he started to have direct contact with Maitreya himself.”
“And this Brown guy definitely exists?”
Pete looked at me oddly.
“Of
course
he exists. I’ll check to see if he’s in the UK anytime soon. And if he is, I’ll call you, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I could ask him if he got home safely that night on the bus.”
Pete nodded.
And I finished my tea and, strangely excited, I left.
It was the next morning, and I was on my way to meet Thom, the man I’d met at the party, and to take a look at the car I’d blindly agreed to buy
He was sitting in the cafe outside Hendon Central Tube station when I arrived.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“Not bad. All packed and ready to go.”
“When do you leave?”
“Not for a couple of days. But I’m off up to Liverpool tonight, to say goodbye to my family and friends. I’ll stay there until I have to go, and then it’s New Zealand …”
“Ace. So, what kind of car is this again, exactly?” I asked as we walked up the road.
“It’s a Nissan Figaro,” he said.
It still didn’t sound particularly glamorous. But that was fine for me In the few days that had passed since our first meeting, I’d reasoned that so long as it wasn’t some kind of bright yellow, turbo-charged Porsche, which would both bankrupt me
and
have people pointing at me wherever I went, I’d be okay. And besides, he’d told me he’d give me “an amazing deal.” Money wasn’t important, he said. Living was.
“And… how old is it?”
“Nineteen ninety-one.”
“Oh.”
Suddenly part of me was wishing it
was
a bright yellow, turbo-charged Porsche, after all. A thirteen-year-old Nissan wasn’t something that I could see helping my standing with girls very much. Not unless it was made of gold or something.
“And what colour is it?”
“Mint green.”
Nope. This wasn’t going to help my standing with girls at
all
.
With that said, I’d already decided—a car could be good. And it would get me over a fear, too. I’d always vowed that as long as I lived in London, I’d never own a car. It was just too dangerous. And too much hassle. But that comes from someone who’s only ever owned one car in his life—a Mini Metro I’d bought for a thousand pounds after saving up all summer to buy one. And I only passed my test in the first place because I’d insisted on taking it in the town of Trowbridge. Trowbridge, for the uninitiated, has more roundabouts than almost anywhere else in Britain, and I could “do” roundabouts, so Trowbridge it was. I’d subsequently driven the Metro into the ground until every little bit of it was groaning or screeching and had lost the will to live. I sold the car the following New Year’s Eve for fifty pounds, and drank it that night. A few weeks later I’d moved to London and convinced myself that I just didn’t need another car. For one thing the Tube network took me everywhere I needed to go. And for another I’d been in enough taxis to know that driving in London takes a special sort of skill. And
a handgun in the glove compartment. But think of the freedom it would give me—I could go anywhere, see anything, at anytime. Me and my Nissan. Having adventures. Making new friends. Like Michael Knight and KITT from
Knight Rider
. But in mint green. A new car would represent
freedom
.
“Nearly there,” said Thom as we walked around a corner and onto a quiet, tree-lined street. We stopped at what would turn out to be his house.
“It’s in the garage,” he said.
I had been standing, looking at the car, for about two minutes, without really saying very much.
It was the oddest car I had ever seen.
“What … What on Earth is it?” I said eventually.
“I told you—a Nissan Figaro.”
It looked like something out of
The Fetsons
.
“Is this a real car?” I said. “Or did you make it yourself out of toys?”
“It’s real!” said Thom. “It’s just a bit … unusual.”
“I don’t see the word ‘Nissan’ anywhere.”
Now, I don’t know a lot about cars. It’s not a very macho thing to admit, and in front of mechanics or salesmen, I would always try to at least make an effort. When I’d bought the Mini Metro, I’d made a point of turning the indicator lights on, and then getting out of the car to take a good, hard look at them while they blinked, just so the salesman could see I really knew what I was doing. I even squatted while I watched them. The other thing I knew for definite was that you could tell the make of the car by looking for the little sticker on the back that had, well, the make of the car on it. There was no way of faking
that
.
“Look, Danny, I’m not being funny, but this is a collector’s item. They’re huge in Germany. Only twenty thousand were ever made. Probably only half that still exist. They’re imported from Japan.”
Which would explain why I’d never seen one before. Well, not unless you count the one I’m sure I saw in an episode of
Wacky Races
.
“So what do you think?” said Thom, sitting in the passenger seat. “Still interested?”
“The thing is, Thom, yes, I’m still interested, but it’s not like I can go around just buying random people’s cars….”
If only he knew.
“I told you,” he said, climbing out. “I’m looking for a quick sale. I put it in the
paper at four grand, thinking it would get a definite sale—which it bloody should have, ‘cause it cost me six—but no one bit. I’ll give it to you at rock bottom. I’m off next week, and it’s the last thing to go.”
He slammed the car door shut.
“Oh—unless you need a blender?”
I honk-honked outside Ian’s front door.
I’d made my way through the London traffic from Hendon to Bow, and I was feeling very pleased with myself. I hadn’t at any point felt the need for a handgun, and the whole thirteen-mile journey had only taken three and a half hours!
I honk-honked again, and eventually, Ian came outside.
“What in God’s name is that?” he said.
“It’s a car!” I said.
“Did you steal it from a fairground? What the hell is it?”
“It’s a Nissan Figaro. It’s a bit odd.”
“Yes. Yes, it is. But, hang on—is it yours? Why? How?”
“A man asked me if I was interested in buying a car. I said yes.”
“Jesus! Can you afford it?”
“Just. I got a good deal.”