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

Indian, intrigued.
    “So you couldn’t hang yourself with it,” Officer Simpson replied curtly. “We also systematically remove shoelaces, but you didn’t have any. Could you tell me why you don’t have any shoes, by the way?”
    The fakir looked at his feet. His sports socks were no longer very white.
    “Because I left them in the Ikea store last night, when I had to hide in the wardrobe so that the employees wouldn’t see me …”
    Having spent the last nine years uncovering illegal aliens in the most improbable hiding places and listening to their bullshit all day and all night, Officer Simpson did not believe a word of the story told by this Ajatashatru “Oh gosh” Rathod (though he doubted that was his real name), just as he had not believed a word spoken by the leader of the Sudanese illegals when he interviewed him earlier.
    “All right, seeing as you’re not even trying, I’m going to cut this short. We searched your boyfriends, the Jackson Five, and guess what?”
    Ajatashatru guessed that Officer Simpson had failed math, because there had in fact been six Sudanese men in the truck with him. But he thought it better not to say this.
    “We found several pieces of evidence on them,” Officer Simpson continued, “that suggested you had all stayed in Barcelona. Given what the weather’s like down there, I have to wonder why you come and give us grief in England. You know it rains all the time here, don’t you? Monsoon season has nothing on this.”
    “Listen, I know you are trying to discourage me, and I thank you for all this useful information you’ve given me about the weather in your delightful country. And one day, I would love to come back here, as a tourist, in less unfortunate circumstances. But I can assure you that I never intended to come to England and that I do not know those Sudanese fellows.”
    “Sudanese? Ha, there you go!” exclaimed the policeman, proud of having caught the criminal red-handed in a lie. “So you know more than I do. Your boyfriends didn’t tell me anything. They even refused to divulge their nationality. Anyway, we’re used to it. Most illegal aliens destroy or hide their passports so we can’t identify their nationality and send them back where they came from.”
    “But I told you where I come from. That proves I am not an illegal alien.”
    “Your visa is valid only in the Schengen Area, and let me remind you that England is not, and never will be, in the Schengen Area. So, by definition, you are an illegal alien. Dress it up all you want.”
    Annoyed by this, the Indian explained once again the reasons why he had come to France, and his idea (not quite so brilliant as it had first seemed, clearly) of sleeping in Ikea so that he could be there the next morning to buy his bed of nails: the Hertsyörbåk special fakir model made in real Swedish pine, puma red in color, with stainless-steel nails of adjustable length. He pointed out that he had put his order in yesterday, and that there was surely some record of that on the store’s computers, and that it would be a good idea to check with Ikea Paris.
    As he said this, he pointed to the transparent packet on the desk, but realized as soon as he did so that the Ikea order form given to him by Elton John was actually in the pocket of his jacket, which had remained in the store.
    Officer Simpson sighed. “All right, I’ve heard enough. I’m going to take you back to the cell, and the removal team will take you to the airport early tomorrow morning.”
    “The airport? Where are you sending me?” Ajatashatru demanded, his eyes full of fear.
    “We’re sending you back where you came from,” said the policeman, as though this were obvious. “You and your boyfriends are going back to Barcelona.”

In the pockets of the Sudanese men, the British authorities had found receipts from Corte Inglés, a large department store in Barcelona. The immigrants had bought six cans of beer there, plus a packet of