The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir who got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe

by Romain Puertolas

  (Like this dog who is listening to this story right now, and whose glistening eyes are my only landmarks in this blackness? God Takes a Taxi will recount the tribulations of a young, blind suicide bomber, an Afghan terrorist by the name of Walid Nadjib, a few minutes before boarding an aeroplane to England. Why blind? Perhaps because I am in darkness at the moment. You only write what you know, after all. The scene will take place in Colombo Airport, in Sri Lanka. But, anyway, back to the story . . .)

  The man felt increasingly nervous, repeatedly postponing his passage through the metal detector that separated him from the secure area by locking himself in the toilets. Hidden in the empty tube of his white cane were enough explosives to blow up the aeroplane on which he was about to travel. Nobody suspected blind people.

  His plan was foolproof, but the man was now assailed by an unconquerable fear. It was not fear of death, because he was so convinced of the righteousness of his cause that it would be an honour to die in its defence. What worried him was the thought of being arrested before he was able to carry out his plan.

  But he had thought of everything. He had spent six months fine-tuning every detail of his last journey. He had managed to get hold of a high-quality fake Sri Lankan passport and a real fake short-stay British business visa. He was wearing a grey, tailor-made suit and carrying a briefcase in which he kept the documents relating to his fictitious company, a car-paint firm that he was going to present to the car manufacturer Vauxhall. He was also carrying samples of the latest colours offered by his company, including puma red and tortoise blue. A myriad of colour tones . . . carried by a blind man! But he had learned his role by heart, so he would be able to answer any question they asked him. He had done everything in his power. The rest was up to the will of Allah.

  Without removing his black glasses, the man splashed a little water on his face. Had he not been blind, he would have seen in the bathroom mirror an elegant, clean-shaven old man. Nothing about him suggested he was about blow up an aeroplane somewhere over the Arabian Sea, just after take-off.

  After feeling around on the wall, Walid Nadjib pulled a few paper towels from a large metal box and used them to dry his hands. Then, walking without hesitation, he made his way to security. He knew the route by heart. His cane had swept through every square inch. He had walked this way dozens of times, accompanied at first and then alone. Finally, he reached one of the two queues that led to the metal detectors, bumping into the person waiting in line in front of him, and then apologising. He removed his belt. An airport employee came to his aid and helped him with the rest: his suit jacket and his briefcase.

  A few seconds later, it was his turn to pass through the metal detector.

  (All right, so I’ve made a start. Now to keep going. The dog barks three times to let me know that’s what he’s waiting for.)

  CHAPTER TWO

  The story now moved to a small Sri Lankan prison. Our blind terrorist had been arrested, and this was where he had ended up, without any kind of trial. He had not been sentenced to death, but a prison sentence in this hellhole amounted to the same thing.

  Walid Nadjib had been provided with a bhikkhu that must once have been red but, after being washed so many times, had now faded to a Guantánamo orange.

  The Afghan learned that it was the gown worn by monks in this country, and that it was given to prisoners in the hope that it would purify their souls. Anyway, it didn’t matter to him if the gown was a washed-out red because he would never see it.

  In his welcome package, there was also a rough bath towel, a packet of ten little bars of soap (it was not advisable to attempt to pick up the soap if you ever dropped it in the shower) and a plastic comb.

  So, that day, the man found himself in a twenty-square-foot cell. As he was old and blind, he was put with just one other prisoner. The other tenants slept four or even five to a room. There was not enough space for everyone here.

  His cell mate was called Devanampiya.

  ‘Like Devanampiya Tissa, the Sinhalese king, founder of Anuradhapura. Pleased to meet you, foreigner.’

  The Sri Lankan held out his hand to the new arrival in a friendly fashion, but the man did not react. Then, noticing the man’s dark glasses, Devanampiya realised that he was blind.

  The Afghan spoke a bit of Sinhala, that language in which the tongue strikes hard on the palate and emits little snapping and clicking noises. This helped with the first conversations. Afterwards, Devanampiya decided to teach the blind man his language. They had time. And soon, they were able to have deep discussions about the world, God and the need to make God’s voice heard in the world.

  The Sri Lankan, even if he was not in agreement with his companion’s more radical thinkings, did agree that people should be guided by faith and religion, and that the lack of spirituality in the West could only cause damage to the overall balance of things on Earth. There was no religion on other planets, and the results of that could be easily seen: no life beyond this planet. It just went to show.

  One morning, as they were coming out of the showers, the blind man asked Devanampiya if there was a window in their cell. The Sri Lankan thought his cell mate was going to share an escape plan with him.

  ‘I often hear sounds from the town – car engines and bicycle bells – and I smell the scent of sweet peppers on the market. You, who are lucky enough to have eyes and to see the world as it truly is, could you describe to me what you see through that window? That would be so soothing for me.’

  Each morning, from that day on, Devanampiya would tell the blind man what was happening outside. He explained that the window had three thick bars, but that there was enough space between them to see the marketplace in front of the prison. In the middle of the square, there were stalls, covered by tarpaulin on rainy days or hot and sunny days. The merchants spread out their brightly coloured food on large wooden trays. These stalls were constantly surrounded by a swarm of customers, and the atmosphere was so effervescent that it was easy to forget that, a few yards away, behind thick stone walls, life had simply stopped for a hundred or so prisoners.

  On the left-hand side of the square there was a large house, probably belonging to some rich man. If you stood on tiptoes, you could see the edge of a swimming pool, where sometimes a lady of European origin, her skin dazzlingly white, would swim, wearing very little. But she would disappear almost immediately behind tall trees that had undoubtedly been planted there in order to preserve the inhabitants’ privacy and tease the prisoners’ imagination.

  On the right-hand side, there was a train station, from where you could often hear the metallic screech of the trains’ brakes on the rails.

  Between the prison and the market, there was a wide street, where all kinds of vehicles circulated. Carts pulled by cattle, modern cars, rickshaws, lorries filled with merchandise, and buses packed with people – hanging from windows, lying on roofs, piled up on running boards. There were bicycles – lots of bicycles, with two or even three people on them – and very old mopeds from England. And, everywhere you looked, people, people, yet more people, as far as the eye could see.

  With a vocabulary that was impressively diverse for someone in his position, the Sri Lankan would describe, square inch by square inch, what he saw between the bars. When Walid asked him to explain a word, he would stop his story for a few minutes to become a teacher.

  The Afghan remembered everything.

  Each day, he would ask for news of the European lady.

  ‘Isn’t she swimming today?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen her for several days.’

  ‘And the third merchant from the right, the fat man whose ears are so big you can see them from here, has he sold out of pancakes?’

  ‘Yes. His wife, who has long plaited hair, is cooking more in a frying pan on a camping stove. She needs to be careful she doesn’t set fire to her hair!’

  ‘I can smell it from here (the odour of pancakes, not of burning hair). Mmm . . . that makes me want to take a
bite.’

  Then the blind man would take a deep breath of the foul potato gruel that he had been served, imagining that it was the long-haired lady’s sweet pepper pancakes.

  That was how the two men spent their days. Walid became fluent in Sinhala, and Devanampiya was happy to reveal the view, and the life outside, to the blind eyes of his cell mate.

  In this way, a great friendship was born between the two men.

  Devanampiya’s precise, sparkling descriptions punctuated the lonely hours of life in prison. And on days when it rained, and the market was covered with coloured tarpaulins, obstructing the view, or on Tuesdays, when there was no market, the blind man still encouraged his cell mate to describe the scene for him in as much detail as possible.

  One day the Sri Lankan, raising himself up on tiptoes by holding tightly to the bars of the window, told Walid about a strange event that had just occurred outside.

  ‘A man in his forties, with a moustache, wearing a white shirt and beige trousers, and walking on crutches, was crossing the street (which was crazy, considering how much traffic there is!) when an old-fashioned yellow car – a sort of New York taxi – sped towards him. Seeing that the car was not going to be able to stop, the young cripple threw away his crutches and ran to the pavement on the other side, where the prison was, without being hit by the car. It was unbelievable!’

  ‘God takes a taxi!’ exclaimed Walid, who had been forbidden to call out the name of Allah. ‘It’s a miracle! So tell me what’s happening now . . .’

  ‘I can see a crowd of people, but because it’s on our side of the street, it’s difficult to see much. My view is blocked by the guard tower. Anyway, there’s a huge commotion going on down there. Even the guards have come out into the street.’

  ‘Good, good,’ the blind man whispered.

  Nothing else of interest happened that day.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The concept of hygiene in the prison was almost non-existent. Even the water that came out of the shower head was rather dark and muddy. There were cockroaches in the cells, and the prisoners coughed all day and all night. A pestilential stench pervaded the corridors and common areas. The toilets were constantly blocked, and on the rare occasions they became unblocked, gallons of yellowish water overflowed the bowls and flooded onto the broken tiles. When that happened, the prisoners had to paddle in their own excrement, either barefoot or in sandals, like caged animals.

  One day, when the two men came back from the patio, where they were allowed to stretch their legs for a few hours each day, Devanampiya – who had been coughing constantly for several weeks – collapsed into the arms of the shocked Walid.

  The doctor was called immediately. When he arrived, he examined the young Sri Lankan’s body where it lay on the floor. Then he lifted up his stethoscope, shook his head sadly, and two big men dragged the corpse away through the yellowish water in the corridor.

  Walid was worried. He asked a passing prisoner what was happening, and learned that his friend was dead.

  (I wonder if blind people weep. I’ll have to check. If they do, then Walid will cry. He will cry a lot. The dog barked three times as I was thinking this, impatient for me to resume my story.)

  So Walid wept. (To be checked.)

  He cried his eyes out that night. He was heartbroken. His sobs could be heard as far away as his home, in Afghanistan. He had lost a friend, his only friend, and with Devanampiya, he had also lost his ability to see. Under these circumstances, prison would soon become a hell again.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Walid Nadjib did not have time to get used to being alone in his cell. A few days later, there was a knock, and the thick wooden door creaked on its hinges.

  ‘We would have left you alone,’ said the guard, ‘but there’s no more space. I hope this will be all right.’

  He had spoken the last sentence as if he knew something about the new arrival that the blind man didn’t; something that did not bode well.

  The door banged shut again, and a deathly silence rose to fill the room. The Afghan spoke first, as if to exorcise an evil spell. He introduced himself, not forgetting to tell his new cell mate that he was blind and that he would appreciate it if the new arrival would speak to him.

  But the new arrival did not say a thing.

  The straw in one of the beds crunched like salad leaves being slowly chewed. The new arrival must have lain down. Soon he was asleep and breathing so loudly, like a snoring bear, that Walid’s ears hurt. The blind man thought his new companion must be very tired, so he didn’t disturb him.

  A few hours later, at mealtime, the man woke up and ate his gruel. Walid could hear him chewing and belching; it was as if he were inside the man’s stomach. As the man was awake, Walid spoke to him.

  ‘I apologise if I said something to offend you earlier. I am blind and I cannot see the expression on your face. If you don’t speak to me, I am afraid I will never know with whom I am sharing these sad walls. The time will pass much more quickly if we trust each other. Well, that’s what I think, anyway . . .’

  The other man did not reply.

  Walid continued to hear the man munching his gruel. It sounded like boots stomping through mud. Intrigued, he stood up and groped his way forward until his hands touched his cell mate’s clammy skin. The man stopped chewing.

  ‘Stop feeling me up, you old perv!’ shouted the man in a version of Sinhala seriously mangled by elocution problems. ‘I’ve killed men for less than that!’

  Walid removed his hand instantly, as if he’d touched fire.

  ‘No, no, don’t get me wrong! I’m blind. I just wanted to get your attention because you hadn’t spoken a word to me since your arri—’

  ‘There’s no point wasting your breath,’ the Sri Lankan interrupted in a stammer. ‘I’m deaf as a post.’

  The news fell like the blade of a guillotine.

  The new arrival was an imposing man, six-foot-six tall with big muscles and a fat belly. A thin black moustache covered his top lip, as if to say ‘not one word will escape this mouth’. But Targuyn, thanks to laborious articulation exercises, had managed to learn speech, in spite of the pessimistic predictions of all the doctors who had examined him. So Targuyn was no longer mute, only deaf, a handicap he could do nothing to alter.

  As soon as he had entered the cell, he had been struck by the strangeness of this man in sunglasses. What was the point of wearing something like that in a place where the sunlight barely penetrated?

  With his dark glasses and his wandering hands, the prisoner definitely seemed like a pervert. He had probably been locked in this miserable place, deprived of any sexual outlet, for several years – long enough, anyway, to warp his judgement, so that when he looked at a moustachioed giant weighing twenty-eight stone, he saw a desirable twenty-year-old virgin.

  And then suddenly it all became clear. The dark glasses, the way the man moved through the cell groping with his hands, the white cane leaning against the walls. All these clues finally indicated to Targuyn, who was a bit slow on the uptake, that his cell mate was blind.

  One of us deaf and the other blind, he thought. What a joke!

  As night was falling, Targuyn got up from his bed and approached the blind man, who was sitting with his face to the ceiling, his lips quivering. He looked like he was either going crazy or praying.

  ‘My name is Targuyn,’ he said simply.

  So Walid discovered that the giant was not a bad man, after all.

  (What can happen next? Quick, I need an idea! The dog is barking.)

  The two men soon became friends, because each of them had something that differentiated him from everyone else. The first could not see, and the second could not hear. In some ways, they completed one another. What one could not see, the other could describe for him. What one could not hear, the other could write for him.

  Targuyn had never seen a blind man write before. With one hand, Walid touched the edge of the paper, so he wouldn’t go beyond it, and
with the other he wrote in letters that were as tiny as possible. The lines he wrote went off in every direction, forming pretty pile-ups of words.

  Walid, who missed Devanampiya a little more every day and thought of him nostalgically, one day repeated to Targuyn the strange request he had once made to his former cell mate.

  He wrote: ‘Deskryb for me wot you sea threw that windoe.’

  So many questions had been buzzing around Walid’s head since his friend’s death. What Targuyn had taken for prayers, quivering on Walid’s lips as he sat in a delirium, had actually been a recital of Devanampiya’s descriptions, remembered by the blind man and repeated to himself as a way of restoring the blessed illusion of sight that had marked the first months of his incarceration.

  And so, on the first day of spring, the giant read the words Walid had scratched with a pen on a scrap of paper. While it was true that he spoke Sinhala fluently, the Afghan struggled badly with his spellings.

  ‘You write better than some native speakers, Walid. There are a few mistakes, but I can still get the gist. On the other hand, I don’t really understand what you want. Tell me, and I will grant your wish.’

  Targuyn sometimes spoke like the genies who come out of lamps in fairy tales. But the blind man’s only response was to tap the piece of paper with his finger, insisting upon what he had written.

  ‘The window looks out on a wall,’ said the giant. ‘A brick wall. There’s nothing to see.’

  For a moment, the blind man did not react.

  ‘What?’