The Extraordinary Journey of the Fakir Who Got Trapped in an Ikea Wardrobe Read Online Free Page A

frames.
    “I am sorry. I’m so clumsy.”
    Wincing, the con man shrugged, as if to say it was not important. “Never mind. It’s OK.”
    “Oh, but
oui
, it minds. It minds
beaucoup
! I am going to compensate you.”
    Ajatashatru clumsily attempted to put the bits of glass back in their frame. But as soon as he managed to secure one, another would immediately fall out into his hand.
    As this was happening, the woman was rummaging through her handbag in search of her wallet. She took out a €20 note and apologized for not being able to give him more.
    The Indian politely refused. But the bourgeois lady insisted, so finally he took the note and shoved it in his pocket.
    “Thank you. It is very kind of you.”
    “It is normal, it is normal. And also, the meal is on me.”
    Ajatashatru put the broken sunglasses in his trouser pocket and picked up his plate.
    How easy life was for thieves. In a few seconds, he had just earned the €15.89 he needed to buy the Hertsyörbåk bed, plus €4.11 in pocket money. He also got a free meal (tomatoes with paprika, a salmon wrap with fries, a banana and a glass of flat Coca-Cola) and some charming company for his lunch that day. As she too was on her own, Marie Rivière (that was her name) had suggested that they eat their meal together, as well as insisting she pay for his food in return for breaking his sunglasses.
    So there they were: the victim and the con man, the antelope and the lion, sitting at the same table, she shrieking with laughter at the stories told by this unusual person in a suit and turban. If someone from Kishanyogoor were to witness this scene, they would probably not believe their eyes. Ajatashatru, who had sworn a vow of chastity and chosen a balanced diet oforganic nails and bolts, sitting at a table with a charming European lady while stuffing himself with smoked salmon and fries! In his village, a photograph of such an event would mean the immediate loss of his fakir’s license, perhaps even the shaving of his mustache. Probably a quick death sentence too, while they were at it.
    “For some things, to be unfortunate is good,” the lady said, blushing. “If I do not break your glasses, we do not meet. And then, I never see your beautiful eyes.” *
    Perhaps it was not a woman’s place to say that, Marie thought. Perhaps it was not for her to make the first move. But she really did think that the Indian had beautiful, Coca-Cola–colored eyes, with sparkles in the irises reminiscent of the bubbles in the famous American soda—the very bubbles cruelly absent from the glass of Coke that Ajatashatru was currently drinking. Beautiful bubbles … or perhaps they were stars? Anyway, she was now at an age where, if she wanted something, she reached out and took it. Life was passing so quickly these days. Here was the proof that a minor accident in a line at Ikeacould sometimes provide better results than a three-year subscription to Match.com.
    The man smiled, embarrassed. His mustache pointed up at the ends like Hercule Poirot’s, dragging with it all the rings that hung from his pierced lips. Marie thought those rings made him seem wild, virile, naughty … basically, everything she found attractive in a man. And yet his shirt was quite sophisticated. It was an appealing mix. He looked exactly like the kind of man she often fantasized about.
    “Are you staying in Paris at the moment?” she asked, trying to restrain her urges.
    “You could put it like that,” replied the Rajasthani, not making it clear that he was going to spend the night in Ikea. “But I’m leaving tomorrow. I just came here to buy something.”
    “Something worth a round trip of four thousand miles …” she observed sagely.
    So the fakir explained that he had come to France with the intention of buying the latest bed of nails to come on the market. A nail mattress was a bit like a spring mattress: after a certain time, it became worn out. The tips of the nails grew blunt, and