The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe by Romain Puértolas Page A
Authors: Romain Puértolas
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baggage carousels.
More out of professional conscientiousness than suspicion, he stopped his golf cart and went to pick up the clothes. They turned out to be elegant ball gowns and some rather enticing sexy underwear in a size 8, which made him imagine that their owner was probably not too ugly.
“What is all that?” asked the taxi driver, who had gone over to join him.
“I don’t know. It looks like someone threw all this away without really looking at it. These are some nice threads. I’m pretty sure they must belong to someone rich, or important, or both. Definitely a woman, anyway, and probably not an ugly one, if you want my opinion.”
“Where are those bags going?” Gustave interrupted him, pointing to the luggage that continued to move along the carousel.
The baggage handler went over to look at apassing stroller and read on the green-and-white label attached to it:
“FCO.”
“FCO?” Gustave repeated, uncomprehending.
“Those bags are going to Fiumicino Airport, in Rome.”
As soon as the engines roared and the airplane took off, Ajatashatru realized that: 1) he was in an airplane; and 2) the suitcase in which he had hidden had not just arrived, as he had thought, but was about to depart.
For someone who had never traveled before this adventure, it seemed the fakir could now do nothing else. Travel broadens the mind, according to the famous saying. At his current rate of progress, Ajatashatru’s mind would soon be so broad that his head would no longer fit inside the wardrobes and trunks which had, so far, been his means of conveyance.
He had been in Europe for twenty-four hours, but it seemed like an eternity. He had already set foot in France, England and Spain. And by tonight, he would be somewhere else again. Was Buddha going to condemn him to being an accidental illegal alien for the rest of his life? Or would he finally be allowed to stay this time?
He had no idea. He just hoped the airplane wasn’t going to New Caledonia. He could not imagine spending the next thirty-two hours crammed inside a four-foot trunk with nothing but half an
ensaïmada
to eat.
At least he wasn’t upside down. That would be unbearable. The trunk lay on its side, which was conducive to getting some sleep, even if he had his knees in his mouth. He hoped that this trunk would not become his coffin. A beautiful Vuitton coffin.
Because, while it was true that he wished to be buried—unlike other Hindu fakirs who continued the age-old tradition of cremation—he would prefer his death to be postponed as long as possible. He had told Marie, during their meal, about his wish to be buried. You never knew. If a terrorist carrying a bomb had blown the Ikea cafeteria to smithereens and Marie had survived, at least she would have been able to grant the poor Indian’s last wish.
“I would rather be cremated, personally,” the Frenchwoman had told him. “I’m too afraid of waking up inside a coffin.”
“And waking up in an urn wouldn’t scare you?” the fakir had retorted.
The idea that he might die without ever seeing Marie again haunted Ajatashatru’s mind. Heremembered her smile, her beautiful hands, her face like a porcelain doll’s. He promised himself that he would call her as soon as he arrived at his destination, wherever that might be.
Let me survive, he prayed, and I will become a good, generous and honest man, just as she imagined me.
At that very moment, Buddha replied with a sleepy bark.
There was a dog in the baggage hold. And to judge from its plaintive whining, it was not a frequent flyer.
With his agile fingers, Ajatashatru searched blindly for the little mechanism that he had engaged when he closed the trunk after getting inside. If he had been able to close it from the inside, then he ought to be able to open it in the same way.
A few seconds later, he burst from the suitcase like an overripe banana escaping its skin. As luck would have it, there were not so many bags in the hold that
More out of professional conscientiousness than suspicion, he stopped his golf cart and went to pick up the clothes. They turned out to be elegant ball gowns and some rather enticing sexy underwear in a size 8, which made him imagine that their owner was probably not too ugly.
“What is all that?” asked the taxi driver, who had gone over to join him.
“I don’t know. It looks like someone threw all this away without really looking at it. These are some nice threads. I’m pretty sure they must belong to someone rich, or important, or both. Definitely a woman, anyway, and probably not an ugly one, if you want my opinion.”
“Where are those bags going?” Gustave interrupted him, pointing to the luggage that continued to move along the carousel.
The baggage handler went over to look at apassing stroller and read on the green-and-white label attached to it:
“FCO.”
“FCO?” Gustave repeated, uncomprehending.
“Those bags are going to Fiumicino Airport, in Rome.”
As soon as the engines roared and the airplane took off, Ajatashatru realized that: 1) he was in an airplane; and 2) the suitcase in which he had hidden had not just arrived, as he had thought, but was about to depart.
For someone who had never traveled before this adventure, it seemed the fakir could now do nothing else. Travel broadens the mind, according to the famous saying. At his current rate of progress, Ajatashatru’s mind would soon be so broad that his head would no longer fit inside the wardrobes and trunks which had, so far, been his means of conveyance.
He had been in Europe for twenty-four hours, but it seemed like an eternity. He had already set foot in France, England and Spain. And by tonight, he would be somewhere else again. Was Buddha going to condemn him to being an accidental illegal alien for the rest of his life? Or would he finally be allowed to stay this time?
He had no idea. He just hoped the airplane wasn’t going to New Caledonia. He could not imagine spending the next thirty-two hours crammed inside a four-foot trunk with nothing but half an
ensaïmada
to eat.
At least he wasn’t upside down. That would be unbearable. The trunk lay on its side, which was conducive to getting some sleep, even if he had his knees in his mouth. He hoped that this trunk would not become his coffin. A beautiful Vuitton coffin.
Because, while it was true that he wished to be buried—unlike other Hindu fakirs who continued the age-old tradition of cremation—he would prefer his death to be postponed as long as possible. He had told Marie, during their meal, about his wish to be buried. You never knew. If a terrorist carrying a bomb had blown the Ikea cafeteria to smithereens and Marie had survived, at least she would have been able to grant the poor Indian’s last wish.
“I would rather be cremated, personally,” the Frenchwoman had told him. “I’m too afraid of waking up inside a coffin.”
“And waking up in an urn wouldn’t scare you?” the fakir had retorted.
The idea that he might die without ever seeing Marie again haunted Ajatashatru’s mind. Heremembered her smile, her beautiful hands, her face like a porcelain doll’s. He promised himself that he would call her as soon as he arrived at his destination, wherever that might be.
Let me survive, he prayed, and I will become a good, generous and honest man, just as she imagined me.
At that very moment, Buddha replied with a sleepy bark.
There was a dog in the baggage hold. And to judge from its plaintive whining, it was not a frequent flyer.
With his agile fingers, Ajatashatru searched blindly for the little mechanism that he had engaged when he closed the trunk after getting inside. If he had been able to close it from the inside, then he ought to be able to open it in the same way.
A few seconds later, he burst from the suitcase like an overripe banana escaping its skin. As luck would have it, there were not so many bags in the hold that
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