The Way of Muri

by Ilya Boyashov

  The lorry was making good progress along the deserted, well-lit road, the lights of the town were twinkling in the distance and the girl felt that everything was going to be all right.

  ‘Maybe,’ she answered, after a moment’s thought. ‘I do get a bit bored at my parents’ house after a while… I mean, I can’t sit on the porch admiring the sunset forever, can I? Two or three days,’ she added, ‘and I’m usually ready to go back.’

  ‘That just proves that you haven’t found your true home yet!’ exclaimed Bolislav. ‘When you do find it, you’ll never want to leave. That’s my point! Many dream of spending eternity in paradise, but my goal is to find a home that I will never, ever leave. And when I find it, dear Fräulein, my journey will be complete.’

  ‘So, once you find it, are you just going to sit there for the rest of your life?’ asked the girl.

  ‘I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life anywhere else, Fräulein,’ answered the Serb. ‘I intend to sit on the front porch until the end of time. Most houses, even villas and palaces, are no more than temporary shelters, because the people who live in them still yearn for something more, don’t they? If you ask me, each and every one of them is yearning for the road that will lead them to their true home. Despite the modern conveniences with which they surround themselves, those who languish in their lairs will always yearn for that road, and many of them eventually succeed in overcoming their cowardice.’

  ‘Oh, there is my town!’ the girl exclaimed suddenly. ‘You can drop me off here!’

  Right on cue, the square, the market and the ubiquitous town hall came into view. The lorry shuddered to a standstill. Bolislav jumped down from the step, walked around the front of the vibrating vehicle and opened the passenger door, but the girl didn’t seem to be in any hurry to climb out.

  ‘There’s a really strong smell in here,’ she said, wanting to prolong their conversation. ‘Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to let a bit of fresh air in… What is that smell, anyway?’

  ‘We all have to make a living somehow,’ the driver answered evasively. ‘But I’m also transporting donations of blankets and biscuits for the Saint Caroline orphanage. I’m going straight there after I’ve dropped you off, and then I shall be 400 Deutschmarks better off.’

  The girl was still sitting in the lorry, ignoring the driver’s outstretched hand. She stared straight at the intriguing Serb, whose eyes were wet with snow.

  ‘But won’t you get bored in this true home of yours, when you find it?’ she blurted out. ‘Maybe in a year or two you’ll realize that you made a mistake, and then you’ll start running again, driven by yearning and boredom and all the other things that eventually make people run?’

  ‘No!’ answered the driver, taking hold of the girl and lifting her carefully down onto the cobbles of the empty square. ‘It’s my sole objective in life. As soon as I reach it, my journey will be over forever. If you want my advice, you should get out of here as soon as you can – the stench of complacency is as offensive as the smell in my lorry.’

  ‘How do you know that I haven’t already found what I was looking for?’ she interrupted. ‘Maybe what I said about my parents’ house before wasn’t true. Actually right now, I feel like staying in my bedroom and by the fire forever.’

  ‘Then you should ask yourself that question, Fräulein!’ Bolislav looked at the shivering German girl and burst out laughing. ‘You can say what you like to me, but if you really want to stay in this sleepy little town for ever, to idle your life away, then go ahead – no one’s stopping you! It just means that your path was short, and everything’s over for you before it’s even begun. But so what? It’s not the end of the world. I suspect it’s a little more complicated, though, so you ought to give it some serious thought – it’s better to begin your journey early, while your legs are young and strong. I urge you to seek out your home, your true home, and may the Lord guide you! God loves travellers. Seriously, why stay in one place and let your life pass you by?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think any more,’ said the girl, her teeth chattering. ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ Bolislav replied gently. ‘There are plenty of others like me. You just haven’t been forced to begin your journey yet. Or maybe you’ve simply been sleeping your way through life. Most people are asleep, anyway, and that’s probably for the best. If everyone woke up at the same time and headed out onto the road, it would make for one almighty traffic jam!’

  The Serb burst out laughing. As he was about to climb back into his lorry, he turned back to the girl.

  ‘Please take the cat with you, Fräulein! Try and find a home for him. People here are crazy about animals, and I know he’ll be well looked after. Go on, do a good deed for a creature in need!’

  The girl came out of her trance only when the figure of a young police officer emerged from the snow. With the kind of enthusiasm shown only by those relatively new to the profession, he immediately tried to find out what a young woman could be doing out on the square at this time of night, and dressed so inappropriately for the weather. The girl launched into a rambling and detailed explanation, which culminated in an animated account of the conversation that had taken place in the lorry. The police officer – a sensible young man – was able to picture the situation without any difficulty and interrupted her.

  ‘I wish all these shirkers, vagrants and long-distance lorry drivers would go to hell! Trust me, ninety per cent of our problems are caused by people like that. They’re all dark, roaming individuals. You got off lightly! Your parents probably won’t be happy when they find out what you’ve been up to. Let me give you a piece of advice – try to avoid travelling at this time of night, but if you must, for whatever reason, then at least try to spend as little time as possible with the people you meet. This will help to preserve your honour, and your life.’

  The police officer was feeling so chivalrous that he took off his jacket and put it round the girl’s shoulders. He even called and woke up his sergeant in the patrol car, regardless of the fact that it was only a couple of minutes’ walk from the town hall to her family nest, as the frozen girl herself confirmed. The boy’s courtesy extended even further, in that he promised to find a home for the cat. Thus, just ten minutes later, Muri’s immediate fate was sealed.

  There was no possible means of escape from the cage in the police station. Even the least demanding spirits won’t settle in police stations – they’re frightened off by the smell of coarse skin, boot polish and weapon grease. In any case, the captive wasn’t in need of company. He didn’t make a fuss, or yowl or curse. Correctly anticipating further unpleasantness and humiliation, the cat spent the entire night scrutinizing the corner of the cage, having turned his back on a string of sausages and a saucer of milk, provided by the bored duty officers.

  The damned police officer was true to his word. Less than a day later, Muri found himself in one of the most blessed havens imaginable. The cat’s shelter in Meyenherm was a feline paradise occupying a small park. Homeless cats and kittens were brought here from all over Bavaria. Rivers of milk were poured into special troughs for them, and the local guesthouses considered it an honour to bring them the leftovers from their famous restaurants.

  Naturally, every single one of the cats here was neutered and spayed, and as soon as a new inhabitant arrived at the shelter an individually numbered tag was placed in his ear. The owner of this cat camp was Emma Siegfried, who was famous throughout Europe for presenting the TV show People and Animals – a zoologist, psychologist, vet and writer rolled into one. At her institution the cages were covered with fine nylon netting, so that no animal could injure itself, and in summer the flowerbeds were full of Argentinian roses, which filled the town with their heavenly aroma. The shelter had its own burial ground, where the deceased were laid to rest in neat rows reminiscent of a military cemetery and every grave was assiduously marked with the individual’s identification number and dates of arrival a
nd death. Curious visitors flocked to see this cemetery, which was tended with typical German zeal, and Emma Siegfried charged them a modest entrance fee for the privilege. However, anyone wishing to adopt a family pet here faced more of a challenge. The famous patron of local flora and fauna had established draconian rules including the disclosure of full information concerning the financial circumstances and mental health of potential clients. If her stringent conditions were not met, the request was categorically denied.

  Muri was passed from hand to hand. Frau Siegfried’s experienced helpers inspected him all over. He didn’t have fleas, which was a source of some surprise to the inspectors, but nevertheless was submerged in a special disinfecting solution. Confused and exhausted, he was allowed to dry off, and then finally he was imprisoned in Block A Cage 347, where he was to remain until the arrival of the vet. (Ernst Müller, a specialist in feline testicles, didn’t work at weekends, and he was the only one employed by Emma Siegfried to deal with such matters.) The cage where Muri had been taken was already occupied by a dozen abnormally obese eunuchs, who were busy lying around, wandering up and down and scratching. As Muri’s ears were free of tags and his masculinity was intact until Monday, he was quite alien to this smug little community. Angry and upset, he ignored his fellow inmates and began pacing up and down the cage, sniffing and inspecting every corner. During the course of this inspection he was gradually overcome by a cold fury. The short-winded occupants of the cage idly observed his reconnaissance mission. When Muri finally accepted the hopelessness of his situation, he was approached by a black Persian with a moustache and fur that hung down to the floor like a yak’s. The cat made an unexpected announcement on behalf of the whole group.

  ‘Hey, Stripes, if you’re looking for a way out of here it couldn’t be easier. There’s a loose patch of netting behind that box of food over there. Even a newborn kitten could lift it – it just needs a little nudge, and then it’s only a couple of leaps to the exit.’

  ‘That’s right, have a good laugh at my expense!’ exclaimed Muri.

  ‘Not at all! We don’t mean to offend you in the slightest!’ miaowed the good-natured Persian. ‘Look, there’s the box, and there’s the loose netting. If I remember correctly only one of us has ever used it, and he was absolutely crazy, always on the run.’

  Muri was incredulous.

  ‘If you know the netting is loose, why are you all still here?’

  The Persian was equally astonished. ‘Why would any of us want to run away? What about you, Shaggy? Or old Yummer? They had to resuscitate him on the way here and then stitch his guts back in! Or maybe One-Eye’s getting itchy feet again? I didn’t think so. They won’t escape for anything,’ concluded the Persian, turning his flat face towards Muri. ‘Trust me.’

  ‘It’s only because you’ve got no balls,’ Muri remarked.

  The Persian shook his head reproachfully.

  ‘You’re not very polite, are you? It’s understandable, really – vagrancy doesn’t breed good manners – but you’re wrong, many of us lived here for weeks before Ernst Müller did his duty. One-Eye was even grateful for it, weren’t you?’

  ‘It solved all my problems,’ agreed One-Eye. ‘I used to fend for myself, outside the town, and you can see the scars I’ve got to show for it. Thank goodness they picked me up! Of course I rushed about at first, sniffing all the corners, but when I thought about it I decided there was no point being obstinate – I’d already lost one eye, my life wasn’t that great and I’d probably end up dying on a rubbish tip like some mangy mongrel. I didn’t exactly have a lot to lose! Things are pretty good here, and if you ask the others they’ll say exactly the same. So there’s the food trough, and there’s the way out – it’s your choice. No one’s going to force you either way.’

  ‘We couldn’t believe the way you rushed about when you first got here,’ continued the Persian. ‘You were like a thing possessed! At first we had no idea what you were looking for.’

  ‘Not one of you in this cage had any idea?’ asked Muri.

  ‘No,’ they answered innocently.

  So Muri took it upon himself to enlighten them. ‘My domain is the village of Mesič in Bosnia,’ he began, slightly exaggerating his former territory. ‘But the village burned down and my servants disappeared… I’m on a mission to recover what is rightfully mine.’

  The other cats listened with rapt attention. One of them fell to the floor and began rolling about with laughter, the others began beating their tails against the warm floor of the cage – they found this feisty stranger most entertaining! Like the others, the Persian was unable to contain his mirth, and a smile spread over his immense face.

  ‘You’ll soon change your tune when they bring the roast turkey this evening! We get treats like that every day, more than we can eat. We’ve even started sharing with the rats! Stay for a little while, you’ll see what I mean… I promise you, after a few days even Ernst Müller will seem like an angel. They bring freshly cooked carcasses and buckets full of foie gras! Have you ever seen that amount of foie gras?’

  At this point Muri could no longer contain himself. He began ranting at the assembled eunuchs.

  ‘My life has been ripped to shreds, and it must be put back together again!’ he declared. ‘My servants must be found and made to serve their master once more. Meanwhile you lot are content to sit here stuffing your faces with goose liver. You’re just a bunch of spineless cowards, turning your backs on everything else life has to offer for the sake of a trough full of animal guts! Your paws no longer obey you, and you’ve forgotten what it’s like to feel the wind in your whiskers. How can you live with yourselves, just lying around in here waiting until it’s your turn to be lowered into a hole in the ground? The cemetery, with its neat rows of cat-sized graves – that’s all the future holds for you!’

  This impassioned rebuke was followed by a thoughtful silence. Eventually the Persian looked round at his friends before calmly replying.

  ‘What exactly are we guilty of? Gratefully accepting food and shelter? Wanting to be buried when we die, rather than being left to rot in a roadside ditch? Trust me, my friend, if you’d been abandoned and left to fend for yourself when you were a young kitten, you’d also be glad of a safe, quiet corner. If you’d had boiling water poured over you or been pelted with stones… Go on, there’s the way out! Just nudge the netting with your nose, and then you’ll be rid of us.’

  Muri didn’t need asking twice.

  The cat was oblivious to the passions that were seething all around him. John Lilly’s article ‘The Ocean and Us’ added fuel to the fire, turning the academic debate into a full-blown feud.

  ‘Yet more of these pitiful attempts to equate animals with humans!’ lamented Belanger (Technology and Reality, 1994). ‘Beata stultica!10 First it was the goose, now they’ve thrown in dolphins for good measure! In spite of his respectable scientific credentials, Mr Lilly has swallowed the bait that Stout and his cronies continue to throw out with such admirable constancy. Has anything changed? No, it’s just the same old hackneyed arguments, which are enough to try the patience of anyone in their right mind. John Lilly is currently attempting to decipher “conversations” between killer whales and claims that he’s about to establish full contact with a female dolphin named Toni. How marvellous! Whatever next? Maybe he’ll befriend a crocodile or, at the very least, an anaconda. However, I would advise Mr Lilly to exercise caution in establishing such “contacts”, as I fear the results will be entirely predictable. Meanwhile Stout is tireless in his endeavours – is there no limit to this gentleman’s fantasies? He is still organizing his sham conferences; perhaps more astonishingly, he is managing to find other eccentrics prepared to finance his projects, such as the construction of a gigantic oceanarium in Oklahoma. Dr Stout is also about to create an entire institute dedicated to, and I quote, “problems of translating the language of oceanic inhabitants into human language”. And this madness is taking place at the end of the twentieth centu
ry! Miserabile dictu!11’

  ‘I have always acknowledged and will continue to acknowledge the reasoning ability of those relegated by individuals such as Belanger to the very end of the evolutionary chain,’ retorted Stout in the journal Flora and Fauna. ‘There has never been any doubt in my mind that the intelligence of higher animals would be proven scientifically. The findings of Lilly and other dedicated enthusiasts bring us closer to universal recognition of the fact that killer whales possess complex cognitive abilities. We are but a short step away from establishing meaningful communication with them! I might also add,’ he continued, unable to resist goading his opponent, ‘if an animal is able to reason, then it must have a goal. But cujusvis hominis est errare; nullus, nisis insipientis in errore perseverare!12’

  Whilst we’re on the subject of whales, the time has come to introduce another of our wanderers.

  Sperm whales have a long memory. Dick could remember his mother pushing him away forty-five years previously.

  ‘No, that’s enough, little one! I’m afraid you’ll have to look after yourself from now on!’

  The mother whale was undulating on the surface the sea, like an enormous inflatable dinghy. At the time the pod, which consisted largely of his relatives – numerous aunts, sisters, brothers, cousins, his father too – was grazing about 200 miles from Pearl Harbour. The waters were rich in tuna and squid, and the sound of their voices could be heard all around. It contributed to the background noise the baby sperm whale had been hearing since the day he was born – the incessant screeching of the terns and cormorants; the clicking, gnashing, droning, breathing, bellowing, grunting and muttering of millions of other living creatures; the rustle of the water, and the keening of the wind.

  ‘No, no!’ repeated his mother, decisively removing the baby whale from her belly, which he was so accustomed to nuzzling. ‘Go and find yourself something to eat. Your appetite can no longer be satisfied with milk alone!’