The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe by Romain Puértolas
Authors: Romain Puértolas
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in view of its owner (it was not every day that you had the famous and beautiful actress Sophie Morceaux in your airplane), and was therefore not traveling with the rest of the suitcases in the large metal AKH containers. He then pointed to a beautiful brown Vuitton trunk, the size of a small refrigerator (22 × 50 × 22 inches), perched on a trolley.
The Spanish woman rummaged around in the outside pocket of the trunk, took out a matching toiletry bag, and zipped it back up again. This was the first time she had ever seen such a luxurious piece of luggage. With hermiserable salary, and in these lean times of economic crisis, she knew she would never be able to buy anything like it. She could barely even afford the toiletry bag, in fact.
“OK, we’re done,” she told the chief baggage handler, who, aided by two other men, loaded the trunk into the only heated, ventilated and pressurized baggage hold on the airplane.
If, in the dark depths of that trunk, sandwiched between a pair of underwear and a piece of
ensaïmada
, Ajatashatru had called for a genie, the genie would have said to him, in a voice as deep as Barry White’s: “Fakir, I have some good news and some bad news for you. The good news is that you have been put in the only heated, ventilated and pressurized baggage hold on the airplane, which means you will not have turned into an ice cream by the time you arrive at your destination. The bad news is that you will never see Barcelona, because you have just been loaded in the hold of an airplane that is taking off shortly for an unknown destination. Here we go again!”
The scene had lasted only a few minutes, but when Gustave Palourde and Tom Cruise-Jesús etc., etc., entered the baggage depot, the Indian had disappeared.
Gustave, who felt bad about lying to a fellow gypsy, had told the baggage handler the truth as soon as he got in the golf cart. And the truth was that he wanted to beat the shit out of the foreigner who had conned him out of €100. The young Spaniard, for whom blood ties were the most sacred of all and who never missed an opportunity to beat the shit out of somebody, rallied to the cause of his blood brother without any further explanation. Besides, he had been relieved to find out that the pretty teenage girl, who was not diabetic, was also not in any danger.
And so, excited by this impulsive manhunt, the two gypsies drove through the labyrinthine corridors in search of the Indian who had once offended one of them.
Gustave no longer had his cooler handy, but in his pocket he was caressing the ivory handle of his beloved Opinel knife, which he had joyfully recovered from his luggage after disembarking from the airplane. If the thief did not pay him back what he owed him, plus interest, he would not hesitate to put so many holes in him that he could be used as a sieve.
The two men had soon examined the whole of the carousel inside the depot, but still without discovering any trace of the crook. A baggage handler walked past them, and the young Spaniard asked him if he had, by any chance, seen an Indian, tall, thin and gnarled like a tree, with a mustache and a white turban on his head.
“The only Indian I can see is him!” replied the man, pointing an accusatory finger at Gustave. “What is he doing here? He’s not allowed on this side.”
“I know, I know, but we’re looking for a suitcase containing a Gluco … um, sugar for his daughter, who’s having a fit,” the young gypsy lied.
“Oh, I see …” Then a few seconds later: “But hang on, what does all that have to do with the Indian?”
Tom Cruise-Jesús did not know what to say.But he did realize that he would never be given his permanent contract if he got mixed up in crazy adventures like this. So he backed off.
Just as he was about to accompany the Frenchman to the passenger zone and forget this whole unhappy episode, his eye was caught by a pile of clothes that had been thrown to the floor near one of the
The Spanish woman rummaged around in the outside pocket of the trunk, took out a matching toiletry bag, and zipped it back up again. This was the first time she had ever seen such a luxurious piece of luggage. With hermiserable salary, and in these lean times of economic crisis, she knew she would never be able to buy anything like it. She could barely even afford the toiletry bag, in fact.
“OK, we’re done,” she told the chief baggage handler, who, aided by two other men, loaded the trunk into the only heated, ventilated and pressurized baggage hold on the airplane.
If, in the dark depths of that trunk, sandwiched between a pair of underwear and a piece of
ensaïmada
, Ajatashatru had called for a genie, the genie would have said to him, in a voice as deep as Barry White’s: “Fakir, I have some good news and some bad news for you. The good news is that you have been put in the only heated, ventilated and pressurized baggage hold on the airplane, which means you will not have turned into an ice cream by the time you arrive at your destination. The bad news is that you will never see Barcelona, because you have just been loaded in the hold of an airplane that is taking off shortly for an unknown destination. Here we go again!”
The scene had lasted only a few minutes, but when Gustave Palourde and Tom Cruise-Jesús etc., etc., entered the baggage depot, the Indian had disappeared.
Gustave, who felt bad about lying to a fellow gypsy, had told the baggage handler the truth as soon as he got in the golf cart. And the truth was that he wanted to beat the shit out of the foreigner who had conned him out of €100. The young Spaniard, for whom blood ties were the most sacred of all and who never missed an opportunity to beat the shit out of somebody, rallied to the cause of his blood brother without any further explanation. Besides, he had been relieved to find out that the pretty teenage girl, who was not diabetic, was also not in any danger.
And so, excited by this impulsive manhunt, the two gypsies drove through the labyrinthine corridors in search of the Indian who had once offended one of them.
Gustave no longer had his cooler handy, but in his pocket he was caressing the ivory handle of his beloved Opinel knife, which he had joyfully recovered from his luggage after disembarking from the airplane. If the thief did not pay him back what he owed him, plus interest, he would not hesitate to put so many holes in him that he could be used as a sieve.
The two men had soon examined the whole of the carousel inside the depot, but still without discovering any trace of the crook. A baggage handler walked past them, and the young Spaniard asked him if he had, by any chance, seen an Indian, tall, thin and gnarled like a tree, with a mustache and a white turban on his head.
“The only Indian I can see is him!” replied the man, pointing an accusatory finger at Gustave. “What is he doing here? He’s not allowed on this side.”
“I know, I know, but we’re looking for a suitcase containing a Gluco … um, sugar for his daughter, who’s having a fit,” the young gypsy lied.
“Oh, I see …” Then a few seconds later: “But hang on, what does all that have to do with the Indian?”
Tom Cruise-Jesús did not know what to say.But he did realize that he would never be given his permanent contract if he got mixed up in crazy adventures like this. So he backed off.
Just as he was about to accompany the Frenchman to the passenger zone and forget this whole unhappy episode, his eye was caught by a pile of clothes that had been thrown to the floor near one of the
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