The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe Read Online Free
Author: Romain Puértolas
Ajatashatru read that the store closed at 8 p.m. on Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays. So, at around 7:45 p.m.—he read the time on a plastic Swatch worn by a voluptuous blond woman—he thought it a good idea to gravitate once more to the bedroom section.
After glancing around discreetly, he slid underneath a luridly colored bed. Just then, a woman’s robotic voice boomed from the loudspeakers. Despite the fact that he was lying down, the Indian jumped, smashing his head against the wooden slats that supported the mattress. He would never have believed it possible to jump from a horizontal position.
All his senses alert, the fakir imagined the store security guards, already in position on top of the wardrobes, pointing their sniper rifles at the Birkeland under which he was hiding, while a Franco-Swedish commando team moved stealthily and quickly to surround thebed. Inside his chest, his heart was beating to the rhythm of a Bollywood sound track. He undid the safety pin that held his tie in place and unbuttoned his shirt in order to breathe more easily. He feared the end of his adventure was drawing near.
After a few minutes spent holding his breath, however, no one had come to remove him from under the bed, and he deduced that the voice on the loudspeaker had merely been announcing that the store was closing.
He breathed out and waited.
A few hours earlier, just after his conversation with the sales assistant, Ajatashatru had felt hungry and headed toward the restaurant.
He did not know what time it was. And, indoors, it was impossible to calculate it from the sun’s position in the sky. His cousin Pakmaan (pronounced
Pacman
) had once told him that there were no clocks in Las Vegas casinos. That way, the customers did not notice time passing and spent much more money than they had intended to spend. Ikea must have copied this technique because, although there were clocks on the walls for sale, none of them had batteries. However, whether he knew the time or not, spending more money was a luxury that Ajatashatru could not permit himself.
The Indian looked at other customers’ wrists, and finally saw the time on a sporty black watch that apparently belonged to someone called Patek Philippe.
It was 2:35 p.m.
With no other money in his pocket than the €100 note that his cousin Parthasarathy had printed for him, on one side only, and which, when added to €15.89 in change, would enable him to buy his new bed of nails, Ajatashatru walked into the restaurant. His nostrils were teased by the scents of cooked meat and fish with lemon.
He went to the back of the line, behind a woman in her forties, slim and tanned with long blond hair, dressed in a rather bourgeois style. The perfect victim, thought Ajatashatru, as he moved closer to her. She smelled of expensive perfume. Her hands, with their burgundy-painted fingernails, picked up a plate and some cutlery.
This was the moment chosen by the Indian to take a pair of fake Police sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He moved a little closer to the woman, and took his turn picking up a plate, a knife that did not seem likely to cut anything, and a fork with blunt prongs just like those that he used to stick in his tongue. He leaned into the woman’s back and counted in his head. Three, two, one. At that very moment, feeling discomfited by the closeness of the person behind her, the Frenchwoman turned around, banging her shoulder into Ajatashatru’ssunglasses and sending them flying through the air to the ground, where they smashed into several pieces. Bingo!
“MY GOSH!” the fakir cried out, staring distraught at the sunglasses before putting his plate down and kneeling to retrieve the broken pieces.
He did not wish to overdo the melodrama.
“Oh,
je suis
embarrassed!” the lady said, bending down to help him.
Ajatashatru looked sadly at the six pieces of smoky blue glass that he held in the palm of his hand as the woman handed him the gold-colored
After glancing around discreetly, he slid underneath a luridly colored bed. Just then, a woman’s robotic voice boomed from the loudspeakers. Despite the fact that he was lying down, the Indian jumped, smashing his head against the wooden slats that supported the mattress. He would never have believed it possible to jump from a horizontal position.
All his senses alert, the fakir imagined the store security guards, already in position on top of the wardrobes, pointing their sniper rifles at the Birkeland under which he was hiding, while a Franco-Swedish commando team moved stealthily and quickly to surround thebed. Inside his chest, his heart was beating to the rhythm of a Bollywood sound track. He undid the safety pin that held his tie in place and unbuttoned his shirt in order to breathe more easily. He feared the end of his adventure was drawing near.
After a few minutes spent holding his breath, however, no one had come to remove him from under the bed, and he deduced that the voice on the loudspeaker had merely been announcing that the store was closing.
He breathed out and waited.
A few hours earlier, just after his conversation with the sales assistant, Ajatashatru had felt hungry and headed toward the restaurant.
He did not know what time it was. And, indoors, it was impossible to calculate it from the sun’s position in the sky. His cousin Pakmaan (pronounced
Pacman
) had once told him that there were no clocks in Las Vegas casinos. That way, the customers did not notice time passing and spent much more money than they had intended to spend. Ikea must have copied this technique because, although there were clocks on the walls for sale, none of them had batteries. However, whether he knew the time or not, spending more money was a luxury that Ajatashatru could not permit himself.
The Indian looked at other customers’ wrists, and finally saw the time on a sporty black watch that apparently belonged to someone called Patek Philippe.
It was 2:35 p.m.
With no other money in his pocket than the €100 note that his cousin Parthasarathy had printed for him, on one side only, and which, when added to €15.89 in change, would enable him to buy his new bed of nails, Ajatashatru walked into the restaurant. His nostrils were teased by the scents of cooked meat and fish with lemon.
He went to the back of the line, behind a woman in her forties, slim and tanned with long blond hair, dressed in a rather bourgeois style. The perfect victim, thought Ajatashatru, as he moved closer to her. She smelled of expensive perfume. Her hands, with their burgundy-painted fingernails, picked up a plate and some cutlery.
This was the moment chosen by the Indian to take a pair of fake Police sunglasses from his pocket and put them on. He moved a little closer to the woman, and took his turn picking up a plate, a knife that did not seem likely to cut anything, and a fork with blunt prongs just like those that he used to stick in his tongue. He leaned into the woman’s back and counted in his head. Three, two, one. At that very moment, feeling discomfited by the closeness of the person behind her, the Frenchwoman turned around, banging her shoulder into Ajatashatru’ssunglasses and sending them flying through the air to the ground, where they smashed into several pieces. Bingo!
“MY GOSH!” the fakir cried out, staring distraught at the sunglasses before putting his plate down and kneeling to retrieve the broken pieces.
He did not wish to overdo the melodrama.
“Oh,
je suis
embarrassed!” the lady said, bending down to help him.
Ajatashatru looked sadly at the six pieces of smoky blue glass that he held in the palm of his hand as the woman handed him the gold-colored
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