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

rusty steel nails.
    Ajatashatru had never fasted while locked inside a wardrobe without having food secreted in a false bottom. Perhaps he could manage it if he had to. The doctor in Kishanyogoor had once told him that no human being, even a fakir, could survive more than fifty days without food, or more than seventy-two hours without water. Seventy-two hours: in other words, three days.
    Of course, only five hours had passed since the last time he had eaten and drunk, but the Indian did not know that. In the darkness of the wardrobe, he had lost all sense of time. And, as he felt thirsty right then, his hypochondriac nature (not especially compatible with his job as a fakir) led him to believe that he had already passed the fatal deadline of seventy-two hours locked inside this wardrobe and that his life was about to be extinguished like a candle flame.
    If the doctor was correct, the Indian hadto drink as soon as possible. It no longer mattered if the voices outside were those of friends or enemies: this was a matter of life and death. So, our fakir once again pushed at the door of the wardrobe, attempting to escape. Once again, however, his efforts were in vain. With his puny arms, he could not—unlike his Bollywood heroes—smash open wardrobe doors. Not even Ikea wardrobe doors.
    He must have made some noise, however, because the voices suddenly hushed.
    Once more, Ajatashatru held his breath and waited, eyes wide open in spite of the fact that everything around him was pitch black. But he was not onstage, in a glass box filled with water, with a lid that would be removed as soon as the curtain went down. So he only held his breath for a few seconds before inhaling again with a loud, horselike snort.
    He heard a few shocked cries from the other side of the wardrobe, and then signs of agitation: a tin of food falling onto a metal floor, people pushing and shoving.
    “Don’t go!” he shouted, putting on his best English accent.
    After a brief silence, a voice asked him, also in English, who he was. He had no doubt about the accent: the speaker was definitely African, andprobably black. Then again, when one is trapped in the dark interior of a wardrobe, everyone can appear black.
    The Indian knew he had to be careful. They could be animists, and believe that objects were alive, a bit like in
Alice in Wonderland
. If he did not tell them the truth, they might imagine they were dealing with a talking wardrobe and would run as fast as their legs would take them from that cursed place, taking with them his only chance of escaping from his Swedish prison. What he did not know was that these men were not animists but Muslims, and that, as they were inside a moving truck, they were not able to run for their lives, no matter how desperately they might want to.
    “Very well, then, as you ask me, my name is Ajatashatru Oghash Rathod,” the Indian began, using his poshest British accent (no wardrobe could possibly have such a refined accent). “I am from Rajasthan. You may not believe this, but I became trapped in this wardrobe while I was measuring its dimensions in a large French—or, rather, Swedish—furniture store. I do not have any food or water. Could you please tell me where we are?”
    “We’re in a cargo truck,” said one of the voices.
    “A cargo truck? Well, fancy that! And is it moving?”
    “Yes,” said another voice.
    “Strange, I can’t feel anything, but I’ll take your word for it. Not that I have much choice. And would you mind telling me where we are going, if that’s not too indiscreet?”
    “England.”
    “Well, I hope so anyway,” said yet another voice.
    “You hope so? And could I possibly ask you what you are doing in a cargo truck whose destination is not entirely certain to you?”
    The voices conferred for a moment in their native language. After a few seconds, a deeper, more powerful voice—probably the voice of their leader—took over the conversation and replied.

The man said