Walid looked as though he had been turned into a stone statue.
Then, slowly, he bowed his head.
His world had collapsed.
He understood that his former cell mate had invented all those descriptions just to make him happy. A generous, selfless gesture. A gesture of love, fraternity, friendship.
(All right, so I’ve covered the front of the shirt with writing, and both sleeves, and now I have just finished the back. Unless I’m mistaken, there is no space left. And anyway, I don’t know what to write next. I need to revise it, but I think it’s pretty good for a first novel . . .)
The pride he felt at having put his ideas into words was the third electric shock that the fakir received to his heart during this adventure. He knew this was a good story, and that all he had to do was write it on paper and it would become a book. He promised himself he would do that as soon as he arrived at his destination, wherever that might be. After first telephoning Marie, of course. That couldn’t wait.
Italy
‘AND THAT IS how I ended up inside your trunk, madame,’ Ajatashatru concluded with a half-smile.
Disappearing inside a piece of luggage in Barcelona and reappearing in Rome was, by far, the best magic trick he had ever performed. Houdini could not have done better.
The beautiful young woman with green eyes and brown hair looked at him, her expression wavering between surprise, scepticism and the desire to scream. But this was better than the hysterics that had gripped her when she had first opened the trunk and discovered him. She lowered the bedside lamp she had picked up as a weapon. The story was far-fetched, admittedly, but there was something sincere and genuine in the man’s tone. And how could anyone come up with such a ridiculous lie?
‘I will now leave this room. I will not bother you any more, madame. I will vanish completely from your life. But before I do, I would like to ask you a question.’
‘All right, I’m listening,’ she managed to stammer in excellent English.
‘Where are we? This must be the fourth time I’ve wondered that in the last two days. You can’t imagine how annoying that is . . .’
‘In Rome,’ replied Sophie Morceaux. ‘At the Hotel Parco dei Principi.’
‘Ah. You mean Rome in Italy?’
‘Yes, yes. Rome in Italy,’ confirmed the Bond girl from Tomorrow Is Not Enough. ‘Do you know another one?’
‘No.’
The man seemed so harmless and the situation so comical that the actress could not help smiling. Having thought at first that he was some kind of maniacal fan, she now felt relieved.
She looked at this Indian, tall, thin and gnarled like a tree, with a large moustache. His white, crumpled shirt was covered with tiny writing. It looked like a shroud printed with pencilled hieroglyphics.
‘What is that?’ she asked, pointing to his shirt.
‘That? Pencil. An Ikea pencil, in fact. But, to be more precise, my latest novel . . . or rather, my first novel, written in the dark.’
‘Do you usually write your books on your shirts?’
‘Would you rather I’d written it on yours?’ joked Ajatashatru.
Sophie Morceaux giggled. Then she turned towards her open and hopelessly empty trunk.
‘Talking of my clothes, I presume they must have stayed in Barcelona. In fact, if I understand you correctly, I have nothing else to wear.’
Ajatashatru bowed his head like a guilty child. He did not have the courage to tell her that he had kept a pair of her knickers in his trouser pocket.
‘Me neither,’ he said.
Little remained of the beautiful suit, shirt and tie that he had rented from old Dilawar. The jacket and the tie were mouldering in France, and the shirt was covered with the opening pages of a novel.
‘Well, I didn’t like those dresses anyway,’ Sophie Morceaux lied. ‘This is Gucci and Versace country, after all,’ she added, happy at the idea of going on a shopping spree. ‘It shouldn’t be too difficult to find something, should it?’
‘I think . . .’ said Ajatashatru, who never knew how to reply to negative questions.
‘So, do you have any plans for the evening? What time does your next wardrobe leave?’
For the first time in his life, someone was trusting him, just like that, without him having to come up with a cheap trick or clever ploy, but simply by him telling the truth. The ‘good countries’ really were a box of chocolates full of surprises. And the welcoming committee was not always composed of policemen. His homesickness lifted for a few seconds.
This was the fourth electric shock that the fakir received to his heart during this adventure. He had been helped again. But when would he be able to help someone else?
MOVED BY THE Indian’s story, Sophie Morceaux had asked him to spend the evening with her. He was a mysterious, original and sincere character, and his presence allowed her to forget, for the time it took them to eat dinner, the watered-down, superficial personalities with whom she had been rubbing shoulders ever since she began starring in American blockbusters. Moreover, she did not entirely believe his story and preferred to imagine that Ajatashatru was a political writer, in hiding from the authorities in his country, who had been forced to travel illegally in order to reach Europe and seek asylum. Yes, that was much more exciting.
The hotel where the actress was staying for the next few days, in order to attend the Festival of Latin Cinema, was situated on a hillside in the Italian capital, just behind the beautiful Villa Borghese gardens, a breathing space in this frantic city.
As the Parco dei Principi Grand Hotel & Spa was much too expensive for A-jar-of-rat-stew, the correct pronunciation of his name, which she managed to say perfectly, she had invited him to sleep in the room next to hers, room 605, which her manager had reserved, along with a dozen other rooms on the same floor, so that the star would not be disturbed by her fans.
It really was worth travelling in a trunk if you were then given a night in a room in one of the most luxurious hotels in Rome, separated only by a dividing wall from the most beautiful woman in the world. The Indian did feel a little guilty, however. Assefa and his friends were probably not so well off at this very moment. He imagined them sitting in the back of a freight truck crossing the Franco-Spanish border, eating tinned food and chocolate biscuits while they waited for the police to arrest them again.
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 aeroplane, 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 onto.
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 fitted 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 charlat
an 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 re-emerged 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 colour chart. A note on headed paper, 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 fitted 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 recognise 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 towards 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 moustache, 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 aeroplane. 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 aeroplane landed, Ajatashatru had never actually seen the face – or, rather, the muzzle – of his travelling 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 aeroplane.
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 luxury clothes thrown on the floor, next to the baggage carousel, he realised 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 aeroplane heading to Italy.
The gypsy might have told the other gypsy, Tom Cruise-Jesús, to drive him to the aeroplane. 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 tree-like body of his sworn enemy.
But he didn’t do that. He had a much better idea.
Not all the holds were pressurised 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 pressurised, there was even less to worry about. The thief’s head would explode inside his turban soon after take-off.
Nevertheless, Gustave was a far-sighted 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 recognised 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 beer mat and wrote an address on it.
The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir who got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe Page 10
