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

by Romain Puertolas

  AFTER TELLING HIM in detail about the latest events in his life, Ajatashatru downed the rest of his warm beer and gazed at Assefa with his Coca-Cola eyes. His friend did not speak, did not know what to think. The story had blown him away. What if the Indian’s apparent desire to redeem himself was just another trick, another lie?

  Ajatashatru looked at the briefcase, then at his Sudanese friend, and then at the briefcase again. He felt sure about this. Finally, he had found the right person to help. It was obvious. He thought again about the African’s long journey, which seemed as endless as his own.

  He also remembered the feeling of well-being he had experienced when he gave the €500 note to the young immigrant in the port, the radiant cloud that had spread through his body and enveloped him in an ethereal haze. His heart beat like a tambourine. He had discovered that there was a stronger, better feeling than the arrogant satisfaction of having taken something from someone through cunning and deception: that of giving something to someone who needed it. The young African in the port had been his trial run; now it was time to perform his masterstroke.

  Ajatashatru glanced furtively around him. They were sitting in an isolated corner of the bar. There were only two other customers anyway, in fact: two old sea dogs speaking in their own language, telling one another of their adventures. They clinked their glasses loudly together, perhaps to celebrate the fact that they were still alive after a whole lifetime spent defying the waves and the tides.

  The Indian opened his briefcase, picked out several wads of cash, counted them and placed them in front of his Sudanese friend.

  ‘That is for you, Assefa. It’s for your family. Forty thousand euros.’

  He closed the briefcase.

  ‘What’s left in this briefcase is for my family: everyone I’ve cheated, dishonoured, deceived. Forty-five thousand euros to redeem myself, so they have enough to eat, so that they can live like human beings.’

  Assefa’s jaw hung open. To begin with, he had not really believed the story about the French publisher in Rome, the novel written on a shirt, the manuscript, the advance, but he had to face facts. How else could the Rajasthani have got so much money?

  ‘With that much money,’ Assefa mumbled, ‘I wouldn’t even need to go to England. Do you understand, Aja? I could go home to Sudan, to my family, without any worries . . .’ He had said this with a glimmer of homesickness in his eyes. ‘But I can’t accept it.’

  Ajatashatru had thought the feeling of well-being produced by the act of giving would be proportional to the sum given. So he was expecting it to be eighty times more powerful than the feeling that had come over him when he dropped that €500 note next to the young African who had been so foully robbed. But it didn’t work like that. It was not the amount you gave that counted, but simply the gesture of giving. He had felt the same emotion as the previous time, with the same amount of power. His cloud had lifted him from the table and up towards the ceiling of the bar. But Assefa’s last sentence was a bombshell for Ajatashatru, and once again he came back down to Earth with a bump.

  ‘You have to accept! I am not leaving with that money. It’s yours, Assefa – take it!’

  ‘It’s your money. You earned it honestly – for once – by writing your book.’

  ‘Well, exactly. If it’s mine, I’m free to do whatever I like with it.’

  Ajatashatru would never have believed it could be so difficult for an illegal alien to accept €40,000 in large bills.

  ‘Do it for me, Assefa. No more ships’ holds, no more car boots, no more goods lorries. I want you to be a free man, not a hunted man living in constant fear. A man catapulted from country to country. Be a father again, Assefa. Your children are waiting for you.’

  Assefa hesitated for a long time – about two seconds – and then accepted.

  BANKNOTES, LIKE PIGS, sleep alternately: one pointing up, one pointing down, one pointing up, one pointing down. That was how Aja arranged the wads of purple notes that remained in his briefcase.

  The two men had gone their separate ways – one heading north, the other south – but they would never forget the times they had shared. Perhaps, one day, their paths would cross again? Mektoub. Perhaps it was written? The world was a real Indian silk handkerchief.

  The Indian writer sat in the back seat of a taxi, headed towards the airport. The last taxi he had taken had, in a sense, been the starting point for this extraordinary adventure. This one – the seats of which were far less comfortable but the driver of which was, at least, not trying to kill him – would mark the end.

  The decision had been made. The Indian would take the first plane for Paris, he would see Marie again, agree to have a drink with her or to go and buy lamps in Ikea, he would not withdraw his hand when she touched it, and he would spend his evenings watching her beautiful curled eyelashes batting in rhythm with his heart. He would show her all the magic tricks she wanted and he would rewrite the ending of his novel, with his beloved’s head leaning on his shoulder.

  He had nothing left to do in Libya. Well, in truth, he had never had anything to do in Libya; he had been like an oak that one day found itself replanted in the Sahara Desert. But most of all, he had nothing left to do in India. The new Ajatashatru Oghash Rathod did not belong there. Like the cobras that he had spent his career charming, he had shed his skin. He had left the skin of an old con man back in Kishanyogoor. He could not return and admit that his life up to this point had been one big charade. He could not give back the hope that he had stolen from his people. They would not understand. Even if he did return, he was no longer a fakir. He had never had any special powers. That had just been a way of separating you from your money, of cheating you out of your meagre savings. He could not change water into wine, he could not cure cancer, and he was too squeamish even to give blood, never mind stick a fork in his tongue! Oh, but you saw him do it? Yes, but that was a latex tongue!

  No, seriously, he could not go back. He had to begin a new life elsewhere, far from there. In a country where there was no risk of him ever bumping into anyone from his Tharthar village. He would call Parthasarathy and Adishree as soon as he arrived and explain the situation to them. They would be upset, of course, but they would understand. He would send them €35,000. For them and for the village, so that they would never be in need again. They would really understand then. He would keep €10,000 for himself – for himself and Marie, rather, because he would now have to start thinking for two. The money would be their flying carpet, allowing them to take off for a new life.

  An honest, innocent, normal life.

  And there would be love in it, too. He was sure of that.

  But when he arrived at Tripoli International Airport, the plans he had made collapsed like a house of (rigged) cards. The last plane for Roissy Charles de Gaulle had left the day before, and the next one was not due for two days, possibly more, depending on how long it took to remove the latest rebels who had taken over the runway.

  In the old days, Hindus had used their turbans to measure the depth of wells. For the first time in years, Ajatashatru took his off in order to measure the depth of his sorrow.

  IT TOOK LONGER than expected to liberate the two tarmac runways of Tripoli International Airport. He had to wait five days. Five seemingly endless days during which he remained holed up in his hotel room, only leaving occasionally in order to buy food. You have no appetite when you are in love. And even less appetite when you are in love in a war-torn country. He did not want anything more than packets of crisps, bars of chocolate and a few boiled sweets. Oh, and some nice hot baths.

  You’re probably thinking that, with all that money in his briefcase, he could have eaten in the best restaurants in the Libyan capital, so why stay for five days in an airport hotel? Well, quite simply, because the city’s chaotic atmosphere did not exactly encourage foreigners to walk through its streets, pockets stuffed with cash, in search of a five-star restaurant. There were hardly any tanks in the roads now, that was true, an
d the army no longer forced foreigners to board large fishing boats and sent them off to the Italian coast, as they had been doing a few months before, but still . . . it wasn’t Euro Disney either. And what Ajatashatru Oghash Rathod had seen in the port of Tripoli would remain engraved in his memory for a long time. The young African sliding down the wall to weep with rage after he had been robbed by the soldiers. Had he noticed the banknote? What had he done with it? Where was he now? Questions that would forever remain unanswered, but to which the Indian preferred to give optimistic responses.

  And so the vending machine in the airport a few floors below his hotel was emptied, day after day.

  Cut off from the rest of the world, as if he had washed up on a deserted island, the Indian had plenty of time to think over his recent experiences. The wacky race that had brought him here. The strange events that had made him a new man. The five electric shocks he had suffered during his journey. When you have spent your whole life living frugally and then you suddenly find yourself carrying a briefcase that contains €100,000, you quickly turn into a philosopher.

  When he had first received the money, he had been mistrustful because if there was one thing life had taught him it was that gifts did not simply fall from the sky like that, no strings attached. Not unless you gave a blow job or two, anyway. The world was full of con men, cheats and bastards, just like him. The world was a vast hunting ground. And he knew what he was talking about because he himself had been one of the predators.

  But when he had seen his hotel room in Rome, such luxury given without anything being asked in return, and then all those purple banknotes just for a few lines written on a shirt, he had realised just how good man can be. People had simply trusted him. Like Sophie Morceaux, actress and international star, who had given some of her time to look after him and help him. He had to thank her, and explain the reasons for his precipitous departure. He would write her a long letter as soon as he got to Paris.

  So, the world was not filled only with con men, cheats and bastards. And his recent encounters had taught him that there was something much more valuable than fraudulently taking money from people: giving away that money, and spreading goodness all around. Had he heard this from someone else, he would have found it fake and sugar-coated, sickeningly sentimental, ridiculously utopian. But it was so true. He remembered the look on Assefa’s face when he had given him the €40,000. It would be a while before he forgot those eyes. Or Marie’s.

  Marie.

  Soon.

  Each night, he fell asleep thinking of her, to the sound of machine-gun fire. As he slept, the briefcase that he held tightly in his arms was transformed into the Frenchwoman’s slender body, plunging him into the most wonderful of dreams.

  France

  THE DAY BEFORE his departure, Ajatashatru called Marie from a public telephone box and told her about his imminent arrival in Paris and his resolutions. To make her his. Never again to withdraw his hand when she touched it, never again to reject the offer of a drink with her or a romantic evening. He wanted to go with her to see his cousins, who sold Eiffel Towers and apartments on the Champ de Mars. He wanted to see everything with her.

  ‘You know, the funniest thing about all this is that you’ve been to England, to Paris, to Barcelona, to Rome, and you have never seen Big Ben or the Eiffel Tower or the Sagrada Familia or the Colosseum or anything like that. You’re a bit like my friend Adeline, who knows the most famous capitals in Europe only by their airports. She’s a flight attendant. But never mind, you and I will go together and I’ll show you the “good countries”.’

  She had used Assefa’s expression, and Ajatashatru could not help but wonder where his friend was at that moment. Not on his way to Europe, at least, sitting on the dusty floor of a truck. Would the money be enough to ensure that his children no longer looked like they were hiding a balloon under the skin of their bellies, that the flies would never again hover around their lips, that their country and their eyes would shine once again? Would it be enough to ensure that they could think of something other than hunger?

  ‘We’ve already lost enough time,’ said Marie, bringing him back from his thoughts.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied.

  His eyes sparkled, and so did his ears.

  Can you imagine how Marie felt when she hung up? She was over the moon, of course! She felt like she was twenty again. She put on her trainers and ran out to buy scented candles, duck breasts and four nice yellow apples.

  HAPPY ARE THOSE who, like Ajatashatru Oghash Rathod, have made an incredible journey in a wardrobe and then returned, older and wiser, to live with his beloved for the rest of his life . . .

  Whoah, hang on a minute! Don’t speak too soon, thought the Indian, sitting in the comfortable seat of the Airbus that was carrying him towards Paris. Given my luck so far, it’s not out of the question that this plane will be diverted. And then, before I know it, I’ll be back on the roller coaster again! I won’t be able to rest easy until I’ve landed in Paris and I am holding Marie in my arms. He took a quick look at the pretty bouquet of white daisies that he had placed on the empty seat next to him.

  Then, suddenly imagining a gang of terrorists, armed to the teeth, getting up and taking control of the aeroplane to redirect it towards Beirut or some other exotic destination, Ajatashatru glanced furtively around him, looking for bearded men in turbans wearing sticks of dynamite in their belts. But, very quickly, he realised that he was the only bearded man in a turban on this aircraft. A terrorist – that was, perhaps, what all the other passengers were thinking at that moment, after all.

  If only they knew. He was a lord now, a true maharaja, his turban spick and span so that his beloved would like it. Rich in his heart, and rich in his briefcase too. And he was entering France through the front door. In the seat of an aeroplane too – a rather original mode of transport for this man who had, in recent times, been more used to travelling in an Ikea wardrobe, a Vuitton trunk or a hot-air balloon. He was no longer, however unwittingly, an illegal alien. The curse had finally been lifted. When he thought about it, he had been lucky. He had made an extraordinary nine-day journey, a voyage within himself during which he had learned that, by discovering all the other things that existed elsewhere, he could become someone else.

  The day he had helped the young African and Assefa in the port of Tripoli, he had given more than he had ever given in his life. And not only financially, although €40,500 was undeniably a very large sum of money, a fortune. He remembered with delight the feeling of well-being that had filled him on those two occasions, the comfortable cloud that had lifted him higher than any of the mechanisms he had used for his magic tricks. Now he wondered who would be next on the list. Which person in need would he help next?

  The steward announced that the aeroplane was beginning its descent, and that everyone had to ensure their seat and table were in the upright position and that all electronic devices were switched off.

  Ajatashatru sat up and slid his feet into his shoes, along with – unknown to him – a very thin contact lens that had stuck to his socks while he was tenderly rubbing them on the sumptuous carpet.

  He felt as if he were going home.

  Marie was his home.

  He thought about the very nice welcoming committee that awaited him at the airport in Paris. His little Frenchwoman. Who could ask for more?

  AT THAT MOMENT, a beautiful Frenchwoman wearing a turquoise dress and silver-coloured sandals was excitedly getting into a small, dented red Mercedes with Gypsy Taxis painted on the front doors. From its stereo she could hear a lively tune played on the guitar by the Gipsy Kings.

  ‘Charles de Gaulle Airport, please. Arrivals lounge. I’m going to meet someone who is landing in half an hour, coming from Tripoli. That’s in Libya. The war-torn country. Well, the country that used to be war-torn, anyway.’

  The driver nodded impatiently to say that he had understood, that there was no need for so many explanations. He was a fat man with a tuft o
f salt-and-pepper chest hairs emerging from his open-necked black shirt. His pudgy fingers, decorated with gold rings, gripped the steering wheel as if he were ready to make a quick getaway at any moment.