The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe by Romain Puértolas Page B
Authors: Romain Puértolas
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his exit was blocked. Finally free, he stretched his legs for a while, massaging his lower back and his calves. One Indian airline used the slogan “Travel with us and we’ll treat you like a (holy) cow.” After traveling in the baggage hold of an airplane, locked inside a trunk, the fakir understood that the concept of a cow might not have the same meaning in every country.
The Indian stood up, but the ceiling of the hold was far too low for someone of his size, and he was obliged to double over. So he decided to crab-walk in the direction of the whining. Crab-walking toward a dog struck him as rather original.
As it was pitch black in the hold, Ajatashatru felt his way forward. Each time he came upon an obstacle—one of those UOs (unidentified objects)—he pushed it out of the way or moved around it, depending on how heavy it was.
Soon he arrived in front of two glistening eyes, which looked at him unblinking through the darkness. He liked animals. He was not afraid of them. No one who spent his early childhood cuddled up to a pet cobra is likely to be afraid of any other animal, and certainly not a dog, man’s best friend.
Ajatashatru held out what was left of the
ensaïmada
toward the cage.
“Nice doggy, nice doggy,” he said, just in case the animal preferred the taste of human flesh to that of brioche.
He felt a large, cold, wet tongue, with a texture like veal escalope, greedily licking his fingers.
The dog’s whining ceased. It seemed justas soothed by the piece of
ensaïmada
as by this unexpected company.
“Do you happen to know where we’re going? Because I have no idea. I don’t even know if we’re going south, north, east or west, if we’re flying over sea or mountains. And I’m also slightly illegal. Although I doubt whether I’ll feel that fear in my gut when the airplane slows down and comes to a halt. The European police don’t actually stop and search planes midflight, do they?”
The dog, apparently clueless on this subject, did not reply.
In the darkness of the hold, the power of the Indian’s senses had increased tenfold, just as they had when he was trapped inside the wardrobe during the journey on the truck to England. To his great displeasure, one of those heightened senses was his sense of smell. The filthy animal stench made his nostrils quiver, but he then realized that it was not coming from the cage in front of him. He was the one who stank. Although he was not resistant to tiredness, hunger or thirst, our fakir was highly resistant to showers. Sometimes he would go several weeks without taking one. While it was true that, for the last two days, washing himself had been impossible, he couldeasily have done so on any of the five days preceding his trip. But he had not even wiped his face clean. The last time he had felt water on his head, it had been rainwater. And it doesn’t rain very often in the Tharthar Desert!
Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, had meditated under the bodhi tree for seven weeks. Had
he
taken showers?
As he had time, and as no one was going to disturb him here, Ajatashatru crouched on the metal floor of the hold in the lotus position, facing the dog’s glistening eyes, and began to meditate on his new life—the life of a good, generous and honest man which awaited him at his next port of call. He had given the dog some
ensaïmada
, but that in itself was not enough to constitute a complete change. So, who could he help? And how?
The fakir had often wanted to write.
He did not lack for ideas. He had a very active imagination, and his eventful life probably helped too. In any case, that unbounded imagination had served him well when it came to inventing magic tricks that made the unreal real and the impossible possible.
He had never set his stories down on paper, though. Perhaps the act of writing was more complicated than he thought, as he had always put off attempting it.
But maybe that time was now at hand? Maybe the honest and lucrative
The Indian stood up, but the ceiling of the hold was far too low for someone of his size, and he was obliged to double over. So he decided to crab-walk in the direction of the whining. Crab-walking toward a dog struck him as rather original.
As it was pitch black in the hold, Ajatashatru felt his way forward. Each time he came upon an obstacle—one of those UOs (unidentified objects)—he pushed it out of the way or moved around it, depending on how heavy it was.
Soon he arrived in front of two glistening eyes, which looked at him unblinking through the darkness. He liked animals. He was not afraid of them. No one who spent his early childhood cuddled up to a pet cobra is likely to be afraid of any other animal, and certainly not a dog, man’s best friend.
Ajatashatru held out what was left of the
ensaïmada
toward the cage.
“Nice doggy, nice doggy,” he said, just in case the animal preferred the taste of human flesh to that of brioche.
He felt a large, cold, wet tongue, with a texture like veal escalope, greedily licking his fingers.
The dog’s whining ceased. It seemed justas soothed by the piece of
ensaïmada
as by this unexpected company.
“Do you happen to know where we’re going? Because I have no idea. I don’t even know if we’re going south, north, east or west, if we’re flying over sea or mountains. And I’m also slightly illegal. Although I doubt whether I’ll feel that fear in my gut when the airplane slows down and comes to a halt. The European police don’t actually stop and search planes midflight, do they?”
The dog, apparently clueless on this subject, did not reply.
In the darkness of the hold, the power of the Indian’s senses had increased tenfold, just as they had when he was trapped inside the wardrobe during the journey on the truck to England. To his great displeasure, one of those heightened senses was his sense of smell. The filthy animal stench made his nostrils quiver, but he then realized that it was not coming from the cage in front of him. He was the one who stank. Although he was not resistant to tiredness, hunger or thirst, our fakir was highly resistant to showers. Sometimes he would go several weeks without taking one. While it was true that, for the last two days, washing himself had been impossible, he couldeasily have done so on any of the five days preceding his trip. But he had not even wiped his face clean. The last time he had felt water on his head, it had been rainwater. And it doesn’t rain very often in the Tharthar Desert!
Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, had meditated under the bodhi tree for seven weeks. Had
he
taken showers?
As he had time, and as no one was going to disturb him here, Ajatashatru crouched on the metal floor of the hold in the lotus position, facing the dog’s glistening eyes, and began to meditate on his new life—the life of a good, generous and honest man which awaited him at his next port of call. He had given the dog some
ensaïmada
, but that in itself was not enough to constitute a complete change. So, who could he help? And how?
The fakir had often wanted to write.
He did not lack for ideas. He had a very active imagination, and his eventful life probably helped too. In any case, that unbounded imagination had served him well when it came to inventing magic tricks that made the unreal real and the impossible possible.
He had never set his stories down on paper, though. Perhaps the act of writing was more complicated than he thought, as he had always put off attempting it.
But maybe that time was now at hand? Maybe the honest and lucrative
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