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

middle of the night, watching a video ofan Indian, fresh off the plane, spending a good twenty minutes admiring the automatic doors that led to the entrance hall, before finally deciding to walk through them.
    “If he does this with each door, we’ll be here until tomorrow night,” said the security guard who was controlling the video recorder.
    “There aren’t any more doors after this,” the store manager, Julio Sympa, corrected him, wiping his round Harry Potteresque spectacles with a thick cloth handkerchief.
    “We could always watch the tape on fast-forward,” suggested Commander Fouliche, certain that such a proposal would not make her look like an idiot, in contrast to her name.
    “It’ll probably look like a
Benny Hill
episode,” exclaimed the taxi driver, whose cultural references were limited entirely to television.
    “Shut up and let us work!” Placide interrupted him angrily. The police officer always had a hard time remaining calm.
    Meanwhile, on-screen, the Indian wandered through the corridors. As soon as he moved out of shot of one camera, another picked him up. And he hadn’t spotted a single one! They watched him eat in the restaurant, accompanied by a beautiful blond woman who had bumped into him in the line and broken his sunglasses.
    “She’ll end up with her legs spread,” observed Gustave, who felt as if he were watching an episode of
Big Brother
in his trailer.
    They fast-forwarded through the meal, and through the man’s wanderings, alone now, along the corridors. It did indeed resemble an episode of
Benny Hill
. When the Indian unexpectedly hid under a bed, they played the video at its normal speed again.
    “Birkeland. Excellent choice. That’s our best bed,” said Julio Sympa. Four pairs of eyes gave him dirty looks.
    Next, the thief came out from his hiding place, made himself a nice snack in the kitchen and ate it while watching a blank plastic television screen in a showcase living room. After that, he read a newspaper, sprawled out on the sofa in his socks. He could hardly have looked any more comfortable had he been at home.
    “We’ve got him!” shouted the security guard, tapping the monitor with his index finger.
    Then he jumped up from his seat like a little jack-in-the-box, rushed toward the door and left, without anyone having the faintest idea what had got into him.
    The others continued to watch the recording. Around 10:15 p.m., the store manager appeared on the screen, accompanied by a smallfat man who looked like he had always wanted to be a woman, and a full technical team. Julio Sympa thought he looked very photogenic and regretted not having chosen a career in film.
    “But the role of Harry Potter was already taken.” He sighed resignedly, adjusting his spectacles.
    They watched the Indian hop into a blue metal wardrobe before the technical team appeared and covered it in bubble wrap, and put it inside a wooden crate. The team tied the whole thing up with long straps, then carried it on a huge electric trolley to the freight elevator.
    At that moment, the security guard, who was a big fan of American cop shows, entered the control room. He was carrying the Indian’s meal tray, which he’d found on the coffee table in the black-and-white lacquered living room. Piled on top of the tray were a gray jacket, a red tie and a pair of black shoes.
    “The plate and glass are riddled with fingerprints,” he declared proudly, “and you’ll undoubtedly find some of his hair on these clothes.”
    The police commander wrinkled her nose in disgust at the smelly shoes. Ignoring the security guard, she turned toward the store manager.
    “What did you do with that wardrobe?”
    “The wardrobe we saw on the video?” the man stammered.
    “Yes, exactly. The wardrobe we saw on the video.”
    “Dispatched …”
    “Dispatched?”
    “Yes, sent away. Transferred.”
    “I know perfectly well what the word ‘dispatched’ means,” snapped Fouliche, who sensed that she