The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe (13 page)

While he had no idea what was going to happen to him from one minute to the next, the Indian was happy to be where he was. He ought to have been in the airplane, on his way home. But, strange as it may seem, he didn’t wish that were the case. Here and now, at least, the pressure was off for a moment. He reminded himself that he was in the middle of an incredible journey and that he was meeting some wonderful people. And he had to make the most of this
euphoric mood because, very soon, he would probably be moping about in his bed, alone, prey to the most intense form of depression—that felt by exiles, people torn from their roots, homebodies who find themselves miles from the places they know and love, who are so homesick they can feel it in their veins, as if they are floating down a river without a single branch to hold on to.

He thought of his cousin Parthasarathy, so far away. He would have liked so much to be able to share all these emotional moments, but perhaps if he had been here, none of this would have happened. The two of them would certainly never have fit inside the Vuitton trunk. Never mind—he would tell his cousin all about it when he got home, if he ever did get home. If only he had been able to keep his family up to date on his progress as it happened. In two days in Europe, he had seen things he had never seen in thirty-eight years of existence, things he would undoubtedly never have seen if he had not one day decided to hide inside a wardrobe in a large furniture store. It just went to show how tenuous life was, and how the most ordinary places could sometimes be the start of the most exciting adventures.

Once he was inside his deluxe room, Ajatashatru
jumped onto the double bed to test its comfort. My life as a bohemian and charlatan is over, he thought. I have other ambitions now. Including, in no particular order, helping someone, publishing my book and seeing Marie again.

Satisfied with the mattress, he got off the bed and went to the bathroom. There was a white claw-foot bathtub with gold taps. The Indian thought that a nice hot bath would be the right way to begin a new life. It would be like washing all his sins away.

When he reemerged from the bathroom one hour later, in a soft white dressing gown, he found clean clothes folded neatly on his bed. A beautiful brown shirt, beige jacket and trousers, ecru socks and cream shoes. There were more shades of beige here than on a Pantone color chart. A note on hotel letterhead, left on the bedside table and written in a pretty feminine hand, informed him:
I will see you in one hour in the lobby
.

He quickly put on the clothes. They all fit him perfectly, as if they had been made to measure. He was not exactly a fashion connoisseur, true, but the sleeves were neither too long nor too short, and the hems of his trousers fell neatly onto his shoes.

Ajatashatru admired himself in the room’s large smoked-glass mirror. He did not recognize himself. He looked fantastic. Now, he really did look like a wealthy Indian industrialist. What elegance! He could hardly believe the man in the mirror was actually him. He thought he looked very handsome. If he’d had a camera, he would have taken a picture and sent it to Marie. But he did not have a camera, nor did he have her address. And anyway, this suit was just a facade. He did not have everything that went with it. The watch, the computer, the mobile phone, the car, the house, the Swiss bank account. Why was Sophie being so generous to him? He was a stranger. And he still hadn’t had the opportunity to help anyone. He wondered what it would look like, the face of the first person he would help.

For now, the only face he saw was his own. He took a step toward the mirror. There was something missing from this idyllic picture, something that would make the transformation complete. Or, rather, there was something that ought to be missing.

For the first time in his life, the Indian removed the piercings from his ears and his fleshy lips and shaved his mustache, taking as
much care as if this were his last day on Earth. This was, in fact, the final act in his metamorphosis and disappearance. The fakir had evaporated forever in the steamy bathroom, and a writer had been born.

During the half hour that remained before he had to meet Sophie, Ajatashatru decided to telephone Marie, as he had promised himself he would if he survived his journey in the baggage hold of the airplane. He regretted not having a mobile phone, like his cousin Parthasarathy. The official reason was that a telepath did not need one; the unofficial reason was that he didn’t have enough money; the real, shameful reason was that he had no one to call. So, he made do with the landline at his adoptive mother’s house.

He telephoned the hotel reception and asked to be put through to the number the Frenchwoman had scribbled on the chewing-gum wrapper.

While the telephone rang, the Indian’s heart began pounding in his chest like a techno song. What would he say to her? Did she still remember him? Had she waited for him?

These questions remained unanswered, because no one picked up the phone. Simultaneously
disappointed and relieved, he hung up, and his Coca-Cola eyes were sad. He wanted to see Marie again. He was sure of that now. What on earth had made him reject her advances? He had not wanted to get involved for fear it would compromise his mission. But what was that great mission? Buying a bed of nails that would be no use to him whatsoever now that he was a writer? Although it could be used to make shelves when it was disassembled, he supposed. Fifteen thousand nails—that would have been hours of fun for all the family! But, anyway, he had not bought that useless bed of nails. So much the better.

How stupid he had been! He thought again about the porcelain doll’s hand when it had gently touched his. He had pushed it away. Never would he have such an opportunity again. He walked slowly to the bathroom, and picked up his old shirt from the edge of the bidet, where he had left it while he had a bath. Then he went into the bedroom and sat down at the desk.

He took one of the hotel’s pens and a large sheet of paper and began to meticulously copy out what he had written in the baggage hold. At times the shirt was difficult to read. It had not been easy, writing in the dark. Like his blind protagonist, he had used one finger to guide his
pencil so that he was not writing on nothing. The letters were tiny and some of them had been rubbed out in places, transforming his novel into an exercise in filling in the blanks. But as he was the author, it was not too difficult for him to remember his words or to invent others.

He wondered what had become of his first listener—the dog in the baggage hold. As he had climbed back inside his hiding place when the airplane landed, Ajatashatru had never actually seen the face—or, rather, the muzzle—of his traveling companion. The animal could never have imagined that it had witnessed the last hours of the fakir Ajatashatru and the first hours of Ajatashatru the writer. It had enjoyed a ringside seat for the greatest human transformation ever to take place in the hold of an airplane.

The Rajasthani looked at the window. Outside, the sun was disappearing behind the trees in the garden. Time had passed quickly. He put down his pen and stood up. He would finish this later. Above all, he did not want to be late for his first ever date.

As soon as Gustave Palourde saw the luxurious clothes thrown on the floor, next to the baggage carousel, he realized that the man he was looking for must have emptied out a suitcase in order to hide inside it. At that moment, the Hindu must be somewhere on the runway, ready to be loaded into the hold of an airplane heading to Italy.

The gypsy might have told the other gypsy, Tom Cruise-Jesús, to drive him to the airplane. There, he could have inspected the baggage holds and stabbed his ivory-handled Opinel knife through every bag that might possibly have contained the tall, thin and treelike body of his sworn enemy.

But he didn’t do that. He had a much better idea.

Not all the holds were pressurized and heated; that depended on the model of the plane. So there was a good chance that, during the flight, the Indian would be transformed into
a very large ice cube. The baggage handler confirmed that, at 36,000 feet, which was the cruising altitude of a commercial flight, the temperature would be minus 56.5 degrees Celsius. Which explains why suitcases are often cold when you pick them up from the baggage carousel.

If the hold was not pressurized, there was even less to worry about. The thief’s head would explode inside his turban soon after takeoff.

Nevertheless, Gustave was a farsighted guy. In the eventuality that the thief survived (some particularly determined illegal aliens from Africa and South America had been found, frozen but alive, hidden in the undercarriages of planes), he would prepare a special welcoming committee in Rome. Gustave’s cousin Gino, a hairdresser by profession, had been living in the Italian capital for a few years now.

But first he had to find out exactly where it was going, the suitcase in which the Indian was hiding, because Rome was a vast playing field. He decided it would be wise to delegate this investigation to the perfect ally: his wife. Because, as the young Spanish baggage handler had so brilliantly deduced, the clothes that had been thrown away appeared to belong to someone rich, or important, or both. And Gustave’s wife, as a shrewd and devoted reader of
all the tabloid magazines, knew all the rich, or important, or both, people on planet Earth. In less time than it took to say it in sign language, she would lead him to the clothes’ owner like Professor Calculus’s clock had led Tintin to the seven crystal balls.

The taxi driver was not disappointed when he took a few samples from the pile of clothing to Mercedes-Shayana, who was sitting on the terrace of the airport bar with their daughter.

“Mother of God!” she cried out, after inspecting a black dress set with diamonds. “That looks like Sophie Morceaux’s dress!”

The woman had recognized the low-cut ball gown, which the famous actress had worn when she climbed the steps at the Cannes Film Festival last May.

Mercedes-Shayana measured the garment with her thumb and then, with both hands, held the fabric close to her face like a professional dressmaker examining her latest work. Yes, it was the right size. And after her husband had explained to her where he had found these fabulous clothes, she gave him a confident, satisfied look and announced that there was a very good chance that the clothes really did belong to the film star. In fact, she was so confident of this fact
that she swore to it on the life of her daughter, who was at that moment flirting with the young baggage handler.

“These clothes belong to Sophie Morceaux. I would swear it on the life of my daughter WHO IS FLIRTING WITH THE BAGGAGE HANDLER! Ssshhh!”

While making shooing noises, the woman waved her hand in the air as if to scare away flies, or possibly young people flirting in front of their mother.

“Very good, very good,” said Gustave, stroking his gold-bedecked fingers. “Now, Tom Cruise-Jesús, it’s up to you.”

“Sorry?” said the young Spaniard distractedly, upon hearing his name.

Since he worked in the airport, it would not be too difficult for the young man to check whether the French actress was on the passenger list for the Rome-Fiumicino flight. And if she was, it would not be too difficult to discover which taxi company her manager had booked for her arrival. Then, he could find out where the star was staying during her time in Rome, and his mission would be complete.

“Do you understand?” asked Gustave, removing the hand of the handsome
hidalgo
from that of his daughter. “If you bring me all this information, you will have a reward,” he added, nodding to Miranda-Jessica.

“It shouldn’t be a problem,” said the happy, highly motivated young man.

“Very good, very good. When you know a bit more, you should come and eat dinner with us. We have a little seaside apartment in Barceloneta.”

With these words, the gypsy picked up his wife’s drink coaster and wrote an address on it.

“Hasta luego.”

The women stood and Gustave picked up his cooler.

“Can I keep all these, Gus?” asked Mercedes-Shayana, pointing at the pile of clothes.

“They’re yours, my love,” replied the taxi driver, already imagining his wife in Sophie Morceaux’s fine lingerie.

“You’re a doll, Gus. You’ll see how good your little wife looks …”

She put on one of the dresses, a sort of pink Roman toga, over her flowery dressing gown. It matched the color of her leggings and sandals, after all. Classy! she thought.

Mercedes-Shayana could already see herself on the beach, strutting barefoot in the sand, wearing her new clothes.
As for her daughter, Miranda-Jessica was already working out how she could steal the sexy outfits from her mother in order to seduce the young Spanish baggage handler. She had forgotten all about Kevin-Jésus.

Meanwhile, Gustave was imagining piercing the Indian like a pie crust that you don’t want to puff up.

And Tom Cruise-Jesús was thinking that he had better live up to his first first name in this Mission Impossible if he wanted to win the pretty blonde.

Sophie Morceaux had not had any trouble finding a new evening dress. So she appeared in the hotel lobby for her date wearing a gray bustier dress, her brown hair decorated by a discreet diamond-encrusted diadem.

Ajatashatru, who had already become used to the luxury of the palatial hotel and who was at that moment busy decoding an Italian newspaper, lifted his Coca-Cola eyes to the young woman. They sparkled like the drink does when it is poured into a glass.

“You look radiant!”

“Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself like that. You look younger without your mustache. You ought to wash your turban, though—it’s a little dirty.”

“I never take off my turban,” said the Indian, sounding faintly offended.

But he did think that perhaps he should wash it before he saw Marie again. You never knew: perhaps all Frenchwomen thought the same
way? And he did not want to make a bad impression on the woman who made his heart pound like a Bollywood sound track.

At that moment, a somewhat portly European man, dressed in loose white linen clothes that gave him an improbable look—something between the guru of a sect and an ambulance driver—entered the lobby and moved toward Sophie Morceaux.