‘Hasta luego.’
The women stood and Gustave picked up his ice 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 colour 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 grey 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 moustache. 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 soundtrack.
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 towards Sophie Morceaux.
‘Come on, Sophie, we’ll be late,’ he said in a language that the Rajasthani did not understand, but which he identified nonetheless as being French.
‘Hervé, let me introduce you to my friend Ajatashatru Oghash. Ajatashatru, this is Hervé, my manager.’
The Indian nodded and shook the man’s hand, which was big, fat, soft and clammy.
‘A-Japanese-ass-toot?’ repeated the plump Frenchman, wondering what kind of awful parents could have given such a name to their child. ‘Nice talking to you.’
Then he took his young protégée by the arm and led her towards the exit without paying any further attention to the Indian.
‘Ajatashatru is coming with us!’ protested the actress, when she realised that her manager had not included the Indian in his plans.
‘Sophie, this is an important dinner. We have to get you that role in the next Beccassini film.’
‘By we, what you actually mean is I,’ Sophie corrected him.
If her eyes had been lasers, the French manager’s pounds of fat would have melted away more quickly than they would on a Weight Watchers diet.
The Hindu, whose knowledge of French was limited to the few words he heard on Indian television at Christmas – namely, eau de toilette pour l’homme, eau de toilette pour la femme, and le nouveau parfum de Christian Dior – did not need a dictionary to understand that he was the centre of a quarrel between his protector and her manager. Embarrassed by this, he caught up with them and said in English:
‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll stay in the hotel this evening. Anyway, I do have an excuse. I’m exhausted after travelling in the trunk. And I didn’t sleep at all last night.’
Hervé, who spoke a little bit of the language of Shakespeare, did not know what the man meant by travelling in the trunk. He assumed it must be an English expression, but it didn’t bode well as far as he was concerned, particularly coming from a guy named A-Japanese-ass-toot. He took Sophie aside and asked her who this Indian was and where he had come from. To the first question, the actress replied that her friend was Rajasthani and that he was a brilliant writer who had been persecuted in his own country. To the second, that he had come from her Vuitton trunk, but that Hervé should just drop the subject because he wouldn’t understand.
So the manager had to resign himself to the fact that Sophie’s new friend was coming with them. It was either that or having her storm up to her hotel room and thus miss out on the irresistible contract that they were going to be offered. He knew from experience that there was no point arguing with temperamental stars once they got an idea in their head.
And so, around 8.30 p.m., the taxi dropped them off in front of an impressive stone building covered by a gigantic ivy plant and thousands of flowers. A white-and-red sign on the wall said Il Gondoliere. It was evidently an Italian restaurant, but that was hardly surprising as they were in Italy.
Hervé gave the name of Emilie Jolie to the maître d’, who nodded as if this were a secret code known only to initiates and led them to a very good table at the back of the restaurant, tucked away discreetly in a corner.
Five minutes later, two eccentric-looking men arrived at their table. Ajatashatru understood that one of them, the tallest, was the film director Mick Jagger-LeCoultre. He looked like some kind of rock star, and his wrists were covered with watches. The other, who seemed to be his manager, was a small fat man with soft, clammy hands whose name was Steve. The Indian looked from Hervé to Steve, wondering if all managers of stars were cast from the same mould.
‘Sophie, it’s an honour to meet you,’ said the tall rock star, taking the actress’s hand and gently kissing it.
His refined manners did not suit his appearance at all. Jeans with holes, piercings, dyed red hair, faded green jacket. He looked like a cross between a fakir and a clown.
When he turned towards the Indian, the Frenchwoman introduced him as her new friend.
‘Wonderful,’ said the extravagant film director. ‘And how did you two meet?’
‘Well, I just opened my trunk, and there he was!’
Everyone laughed.
‘I don’t suppose you were born in a trunk, though, Mr I-just-had-sex-too . . .’
‘I come from Rajasthan.’
A wind of admiration blew around the table.
‘Very interesting. And what do you do?’ asked Mick Jagger-LeCoultre’s manager.
Ajatashatru was tempted to say the word ‘fakir’, as he had always done, but this was no longer what he did.
‘I’m a writer.’
‘And Ajatashatru is not just any writer,’ added Sophie Morceaux. ‘He writes his novels on his shirts.’
‘Oh, really? How original!’ exclaimed the film director, who liked people as extravagant as himself. ‘And are your shirts published?’
The Indian smiled. ‘To be honest, I’m just getting started.’
‘But that’s wonderful! Let’s raise our glasses to the birth of a great career.’
Everyone lifted their glass of champagne, Ajatashatru his glass of water.
‘Do you have a publisher?’
‘Um . . . no.’
‘We might be able to arrange that. Don’t you think, Hervé?’ Sophie said, batting her eyelids at her manager.
Although initially reticent about the idea, the man thought for a moment, then agreed, as he always did, to grant his protégée’s wish.
‘All right, all right, I know someone at Éditions d’Havoc.’ He turned to the Indian and said, ‘Give me your manuscript tomorrow morning and I’ll get it to him.’
‘Fantastic!’ cried Sophie, jumping from her chai
r like a little girl who has been given exactly what she wants.
The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, apart from the signing of the major contract. Chocolate profiteroles for some, tiramisu for others, more champagne, more water for the brand-new author.
So that, to cut a long story short, was how Ajatashatru Oghash Rathod, commonly known as ‘Oh gosh!’, fakir turned writer, dipped his toe into the inviting waters of his new celebrity life and witnessed the signing of one of the biggest movie contracts in history. And as no one ever changes completely, and as it is difficult to erase in a few seconds a whole life spent performing magic tricks, our Indian gave in to temptation, between dessert and coffee, bending a spoon just by looking at it and then stabbing a toothpick into his eye, to the amusement and horror of the other diners.
NESTLED IN HIS sumptuous linen sheets, Ajatashatru was now crying like a baby. Here it was at last, the depression he had been dreading. Well, it had to hit him at some point. He had become entangled in an uncertain journey, with no end in sight, far from his home and loved ones, and – as if that were not enough – a vindictive killer was following him around, reappearing every time the situation started to improve.
It was too much pressure for one poor fakir to bear.
He looked up to the ceiling. A ray of light was shining in above the curtains, illuminating the opposite wall, on which hung a gold-framed painting by Jesus Capilla. The picture showed a countryside landscape. Two peasants, wearing nineteenth-century clothing, were standing, apparently in silent contemplation, in front of a hay bale.
The Indian envied the two old men their tranquillity. He found their company soothing. Despite the anachronism, he would have liked to stand next to them, motionless and silent. To spend his whole life looking at that hay bale and to never know this pain that gets you in the stomach. He knew that the gypsy would never come to look for him there, in that field. And if by any chance he did turn up, his peasant friends would defend him with their big pitchforks.
Ajatashatru wiped his eyes with the bed sheet. A few minutes later, soothed by the painting, his sobbing and his tiredness, he fell gently into the arms of Shiva.
THE NEXT MORNING, around 9.30 a.m., Ajatashatru woke with a start, covered in sweat after a nightmare in which his cousin Parthasarathy, transformed into a cherry tomato, was being roasted on a skewer over a fire. Around him, happy gypsies played guitar and danced. Parthasarathy cried out in pain and nobody cared. Only Ajatashatru seemed to understand the sufferings of his cousin, but as he too was impaled on the same skewer, in the form of pieces of chopped (holy) cow, he was not in a position to do much about it.
The Indian rubbed his eyes. He praised Buddha that he was in a luxurious hotel room in Italy and not on a sharp metal rod about to be crammed down the throats of starving gypsies. He also remembered that he was supposed to have arrived in New Delhi the previous day, and that he had not even told Parthasarathy about the change in plans. His cousin might still be waiting for him at the airport, angry or worried. He had a feeling that, when he did finally go back to India, he would end up smeared with olive oil and garlic on that skewer he had seen in his dream, but that his fellow countrymen would be the ones dancing around the fire. This idea did not enchant the writer, despite his self-torturing past as a fakir.
So Ajatashatru called down to reception and asked them to ring Adishree’s home number, the only telephone number he knew, apart from Marie’s. His cousin had changed mobile phones so often that Ajatashatru had never felt the need to learn all the different numbers by heart.
The telephone rang a few times, and then an old lady’s voice echoed in the receiver. She burst into sobs when she realised it was her little Aja calling. She had been so worried. What had happened to him?
‘Yesterday, your . . . cousin was waiting . . . for you all night,’ she stammered through her tears. ‘He moved heaven . . . and Earth to find out . . . what had happened to you. At the airport, they consulted the passenger list for your flight . . . they told him you didn’t catch the aeroplane. Why did you . . . stay in Paris, my boy? Are you all right?’
She had always talked to him as if he were a little boy, her little boy. It was her way of dealing with the fact that she had never been able to have children of her own.
‘I’m not in Paris any more, dear Adishree. I’m in Rome.’
‘Rome?’ the old lady shouted, her tears suddenly stopping.
‘It’s a long story. Tell Parthasarathy that I’m fine. Tell him I’ve become an honest man, a writer. I’ll come back soon.’
The old lady was disconcerted by these words. An honest man, a writer? What was he talking about? Ajatashatru had always been an honest boy, as far as she knew. Not only that, but ever since childhood he had been blessed with special powers that made him even more extraordinary. For a moment, she thought that he had lost his gift; that would explain this sudden and incongruous change of occupation. Writer? Why not dance the foxtrot or become a jockey?
‘Don’t worry,’ Ajatashatru repeated, unaware that those words just made the old lady worry even more.
After a few more consoling words, he hung up. Without letting go of the handset, he called the hotel reception again and asked them to try once more with the French number he had vainly attempted to call the previous evening. After a few rings, Marie’s marvellous voice echoed in the receiver.
‘Marie?’
‘Ajatashatru? Is that really you?’
She spoke to him as if he were a close friend.
‘Yes, it’s me.’
There was silence on the line for a few seconds. So, she remembered him.
‘Are you still in Paris?’
‘No. I’m in Rome.’
This reply seemed to take Marie by surprise. In her mind, there had been only two places where the Rajasthani was likely to be at that moment – Paris or Quiche-and-yogurt, his village in India.
‘In Rome?’
‘Professional necessities,’ said Ajatashatru, as if he had been using this phrase all his life. ‘I was calling you to say that . . .’
He hesitated, like a teenager making his first phone call to a girl. The rhythm of his heartbeat went from hip hop to techno, finally ending up on Vivaldi.
‘I would like to go back to Paris to see you again.’
Cupid’s arrow flew straight into Marie’s heart. The man had pronounced each word with a tenderness that made her eyes shine. She blushed, and felt relieved that her face was not visible on the telephone. She felt suddenly younger. ‘To see me again,’ she repeated. Perhaps this was silly, but it seemed to her that no one had said anything so sweet, so nice to her in years. The youngsters she found on her nights out never wanted to see her again. And they were not as sweet or nice as Ajatashatru either. They were unbridled beasts who wanted her only to calm their juvenile, testosterone-fuelled urges.
‘I loved our conversation, our laughter, your eyes,’ he continued, his voice still tender. ‘I have to finish up a few things in Rome, and then I’m coming. See you soon,’ he concluded, feeling embarrassed.
If Marie had learned one thing, it was that you could fall in love at forty years old with a stranger you met in an Ikea cafeteria. It was perhaps not very sensible, but God, it felt good! It just went to show that nothing was ever lost. An Ajatashatru pill was better than all the antidepressants in the world. She replaced the receiver, her heart devoured by the flames of a wildfire.
AJATASHATRU HUNG UP. He realised that, when he had called down to reception a few minutes earlier to ask them to put him in contact with France, he had not had the faintest idea what he was going to say to Marie. That he was fine, that he was thinking about her. What else? He would just be keeping the promise he had made to himself in the aeroplane’s hold. To call her if he survived. That was all. He was not accustomed to having telephone conversations, least of all with ladies.
But his heart had spoken for him. ‘I have to finish up a few things in Rome, and then I’m coming,’ he had heard him
self say. Where? To Paris? When? And, most pressingly, how? He had no idea. More empty words! More lies!
How could he get to Paris? He was so full of crap. ‘I have to finish up a few things in Rome, and then I’m coming,’ he had said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though he had enough money to pay for that kind of luxury. His head was full of a rich man’s plans, but the truth was he did not even have one Indian rupee in his pocket. All he had was a beautiful, beige designer suit.
He imagined himself sitting at the back of a truck full of potatoes, in his posh suit, feeling that fear in his gut each time the truck slowed down. There had to be another way.
Oh, never mind, I’ll think about it later.
He swept these thoughts from his mind, lay down on the bed and put on the sports channel.
IN PARIS, AS we have already said, Marie replaced the receiver, her heart devoured by the flames of a wildfire – a sentence that does not really mean much, but which does, Ajatashatru thought, possess a certain literary flair.
For a few moments, she stared at the wall in silence.
‘Everything all right, Marie?’
The woman turned towards the handsome, twenty-five-year-old Adonis whom she had found a few hours earlier in the yogurt aisle of the local supermarket. He was lying on her bed, a cigarette in his mouth, frowning in concentration as he did his version of a post-coital James Dean.
‘Go home, Franck.’
‘It’s Benjamin,’ the young man corrected her.
‘Go home, Benjamin.’
He must have been used to being kicked out of bed by his female conquests because he got up and dressed without batting an eyelid, the cigarette still in his mouth, still frowning in concentration.
When she was finally alone, Marie tore the sheets from the bed and threw them in the laundry basket. She disgusted herself sometimes. How could she have fallen back into her old routine? Out of solitude, undoubtedly, and the desire to be considered attractive. But those youngsters she snacked on from time to time were mere insects next to Aja. He was a man, a real man. A savage with pierced lips and ears. A moustachioed god with olive skin and Coca-Cola eyes. When I’m with him, I feel like a little girl. Never in my life have I felt as protected as I did in the Ikea restaurant. Maybe I’m holding onto a dead branch. Maybe all of this is just an illusion, a chimera. But why shouldn’t I believe, if that’s what I want to do? He is different. Perhaps the two of us have more in common than appearances would suggest?
The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir who got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe Page 11
