The Way of Muri

by Ilya Boyashov

  ‘Those fools rush about between their nest and the sea,’ continued the swordfish, keeping pace with the sperm whale’s steady rhythm: a dive, a breach, a glimpse of his white back, a fountain, a slap of his tail, another dive. ‘Back and forth, back and forth! Terns flap about relentlessly, but at least they get the chance to rest. We never even slow down! Speed, speed, endless speed – that’s what makes fish and whales happy, isn’t it?’

  The white-backed sperm whale continued to dive and surface. A rainbow hung in the spray above him.

  ‘I admire you, mate!’ cried the marlin, before he disappeared. ‘When I see travellers like you and those crazy pilot whales, it makes me want to push myself a little harder! We both know there’s always more fuel to add to the fire… Farewell! Your journey will never end!’

  With a flash of his sword, the marlin’s engine sprang into action. In a blaze of scales he was gone, leaving only stray silver bubbles in his wake. Without even knowing it this aquatic athlete had just sung a glorious hymn to Lin Peng.

  Meanwhile Dick’s blowhole whistled rhythmically as he continued to dive and surface, releasing his spray and then diving again.

  After making brief appearances in Friedrichshafen and Kempten, Muri passed through Munich and began heading for Berlin.

  The Bosnian cat met another kindred spirit on the way – a tiny spirit who had also been made homeless by fire when the oak tree he had been living in, near Ljubljana, had been struck by lightning. Instead of quietly bemoaning his fate and languishing on the roadside grass, the spirit had swiftly taken the decision to find a new home elsewhere. He couldn’t even contemplate his life without a dry and spacious hollow, without the bitter brandy smell of oak bark, without leaves playing in the sun and the wind, without being able to doze on a bed of moss. His mission was virtually impossible because oak trees, particularly those of a certain age, are usually inhabited. Nevertheless, the spirit was convinced that he would find an unoccupied tree somewhere between the Danube and the Siberian taiga. He spent quite a long time with the cat, flitting about either in front of him or behind, but this time Muri wasn’t at all irritated by his feverish twitching.

  ‘My new home must be in a glade or on a hillock,’ declared the spirit, darting ahead and then fluttering back and waiting for his fellow traveller to catch up. ‘I’m not just going to settle for any old tree, you know! No, my oak has to meet certain criteria. Its roots must be moist, and its leaves mustn’t burn or wilt in the summer sun. Its heart must be healthy and resonant, and its bark must be dry even in autumn, without even the slightest suggestion of damp… I will take up residence only on these conditions! Do you hear what I’m saying, my friend?’

  Muri nodded. He had been trotting along the highway to Poznań for several days now, getting soaked by the autumn rain. The incessant flow of Polish and German cars droned past just a few feet away, almost knocking him down with their spray. He couldn’t use the road; he had to make his way along the roadside ditches, jumping over plastic canisters and other debris and carefully avoiding the lethal fragments of broken glass. This didn’t affect his pace, and he continued to devour mile after mile. His whiskers stood out proudly, and his eyes shone like emeralds.

  It turned out that the Serb was right. There were hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of different creatures out on the road – running, striding, scurrying and crawling nearby. The commotion was particularly noticeable on the Polish motorways, but even the country roads, lanes and tracks were far from deserted. The low, rainy sky above the cat and the spirit constantly rustled with wings. Migratory birds were easily identifiable by their extreme rarity, whistling through the air as they hurried overhead, screeching and quacking.

  Eventually the time came for the spirit to take his leave. ‘Farewell!’ he squeaked, turning east.

  ‘Goodbye!’ replied Muri, continuing his path northwards.

  In a field near Warsaw he met a philosopher.

  The dog’s name was Adolf, and he turned out to be quite an intellectual. The scruffy, shaggy dog demonstrated his Socratic good nature by not chasing the weakened Muri out of the rusty shelter where the hay was stored.

  ‘Imagine my situation, if you will,’ said Adolf, settling down and courteously shielding the shivering cat from the wind with his weather-beaten hide. ‘Over there, behind that little wood, is the village where I first came into this world! I’ve got a home and a caring family waiting for me there, including a little girl who thinks the world of me. I know that they would gladly provide me with a warm kennel, plenty of food and everything else I could ever need. All I have to do is get up and walk across the field, through the wood and over two low fences… and my fate will be decided.’

  ‘So what’s the problem?’ asked Muri, who had calmed down and stopped arching his back. ‘What are you still doing here?’

  ‘I’m very clever, you know,’ continued the dog, as though he hadn’t heard the question. ‘It’s in my genes. My father’s a pedigree German shepherd. True, my mother’s blood is not particularly clean – she’s half collie, half mongrel – but she’s very clever and still working as a sheepdog, despite her age. It was only a matter of time before my talent was spotted by the professionals. A travelling circus stopped at a little town nearby, about three miles away. It doesn’t matter if you don’t know what a travelling circus is… The point is that yesterday I was apprehended by a stout old gentleman with an extremely serious look about him, who performs in the ring as both a magician and a clown. He called me to his caravan, looked at me for a long time and then invited me in. Naturally I declined, in spite of the tasty sausage he was offering, but I already knew that he was interested in me – I had run past their camp a couple of days previously, and the same gentleman had treated me to the leftovers of a very tasty goulash. Yesterday he said that he was in urgent need of a dog to perform in his show, one that was sharp and quick-witted – a mongrel would do perfectly! He inspected me all over, behind my ears, along my back… I even let him look at my teeth, but I wouldn’t jump into his caravan, which seemed to deeply disappoint him. He kept saying the same things over again – that I was exactly what he’d been looking for, that circus life would suit me down to the ground. If I go back there I know they’ll take me in straight away, and it’ll be great! Of course I’ll have to work like a dog, as it were, but I can tell he’s not a bad person. I’ll get to see the world and perform in the ring. I might even become a celebrity! And I expect they’ll take care of me when I grow old…’

  ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ said Muri.

  ‘There’s someone else, too – an old woman. She’s coming apart a bit at the seams, but she’s got at least another ten years in her,’ said Adolf thoughtfully. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s plied me with food and tried to persuade me to stay. She’s desperate for company. She’d even let me live in the house! I could lie by the fire for days, just scratching my sides…’

  ‘Seriously, what are you still doing here?’ asked the cat. ‘Do you actually have a brain?’

  Adolf grinned, baring his canines, which dripped with inoffensive saliva.

  ‘Ah, now I understand!’ he exclaimed. ‘You’re one of those cats who set out on some kind of mission, and now you’re hurrying blindly towards your goal. You simply cannot conceive of an alternative and won’t let anything distract you. Most creatures are like you, always rushing about at breakneck speed, whereas I am at a permanent crossroads. I could join the circus – that’s one option. Or I could throw my lot in with the old woman, and then my fate would turn out completely differently! I’m paralysed by the possibility of choice, and that’s why I’m staying right here. You have only one wretched goal, but I have too many to count. It’s impossible for me to follow all these paths and choose a thousand different fates simultaneously without fragmenting into a million versions of myself. So that is why I have opted for complete inertia.’

  ‘You’re insane!’ exclaimed Muri, with conviction. ‘I
don’t even want to try and understand you. I couldn’t care less about your infinite paths and choices! All I need is one house and one blanket.’

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand!’ retorted the dog. ‘You should consider yourself lucky it doesn’t concern you. Simultaneously seeing all paths, all possible fates, is not the privilege of vainglorious itinerants such as you, for whom the entire world is reduced to a single and invariably pointless quest!’

  ‘My journey is worth more than that!’ retorted the cat.

  ‘Is that so?’ answered the philosopher. ‘Just think about it… If you were in my place, would you take even one small step? Being the central point from which all paths lead, being master of your own destiny, being drunk on the possibility of choosing at any moment to take either one road or another… The only solution is to carry on lying here under this shelter, and that’s that.’

  ‘I would rather be doing something,’ answered Muri.

  ‘You don’t think I’m doing something by acknowledging all the possibilities that are open to me?’

  ‘Look!’ the cat interrupted the discussion. ‘As I understand it, your path begins and ends here. Not that there’s anything wrong with that! Everyone’s path is different, but it’s time for me to leave. The rain has stopped and I’ve been idle long enough, so farewell!’

  Muri made it to Warsaw. At the same time, 200 miles from Mexico, under the constellations of the Tropic of Cancer, the sperm whale began his fiftieth journey around the world.

  On his way north, the whale got lost in the greatest desert on Earth. A month later, not far from San Francisco, the crew and passengers of the liner Australia were treated to the incredible sight of Dick’s enormous body appearing out of the abundant foam, right alongside the ship. He was surrounded by smaller whales that had joined him along the way. Snorting and showing their tails, the group made some impressive waves off the port side of the Australia. To please his passengers, the captain gave the order to reduce their speed. The spectators stayed on deck until it was completely dark and the stewards began handing out the ship’s own brand of grog, known as ‘Fiery Jigger’. The speakers blared out a popular song from that year, which contained the following words:

  Shelter me in your belly,

  Like your cousin sheltered Jonah,

  My tender Moby.

  Undeterred, Dick continued his semicentennial run.

  As the sperm whale reached Queen Charlotte Sound, he ran into snowstorms that were heading south after decorating Alaska with the world’s most perfect whitewash. The porpoises had long since left for warmer waters. The Aleutian Islands loomed in the distance, melancholy in their extreme desolation. The fur seals were making their own journey along the coast together with their young. The little ones were testing their strength, venturing cautiously into open water, and they perished in their thousands. Their silvery carcasses, plastered with seaweed and sand, were relentlessly thrown ashore by the surf. But they were also following their calling! The experienced whale continued heading north, even though hordes of storm petrels were already leaving these barren regions. A trail of silt, raised from the depths, stretched behind the whale like a mantle. He was not in any particular hurry, although staying in the murky northern waters was not without danger – the first ice floes were already visible here and there.

  After skirting the Kuril Islands and leaving in his wake a dozen antiquated Chinese junks, Dick greeted 1995 in blissful solitude in the Yellow Sea, which was otherwise teeming with life. His magnificent head emerged from the water, commanding the instant respect of the local seals and sea lions, and he raised his half-blind eyes to the clouds above the Korean shores. Dick was constantly running into his kin in these waters – stripy, dark blue whales, narwhals and other distant relatives, united by ancestors as ancient as the junks. His fellow cetaceans did not go out of their way to be sociable, but this didn’t bother Dick. He himself was naturally taciturn, which was a source of considerable irritation to the communicative and inquisitive dolphins. The sperm whale responded to their relentless questioning with an inhalation and an exhalation and swam off into yet another sunset, not thinking about anything, which would surely have delighted the long-forgotten Yui!

  A month later, Dick was spotted by some fishermen near Java. After travelling several thousand miles in an enormous arc from Mexico to Indonesia, the whale began heading due south. The ocean was alive with all kinds of travellers. Some crawled along the ocean floor, manoeuvring between underwater cliffs, navigating craters and plateaus. Foragers, scavengers and other hunters roamed above them, hoping to feast on their remains; meanwhile the inhabitants of the upper layers of the ocean, with the possible exception of the sperm whales, were oblivious to their existence. Higher still, diverse hordes of fish hovered above the ridges and drop-offs, from tiny ones just an inch long to ten-foot giants, who parted respectfully for the squid and octopuses that moved stealthily among them.

  Among all these creatures, salmon deserve a special mention for exceptional commitment to their goal. Every year they rise from the depths to the surface in a silvery river, uninterrupted even by the most voracious plunderers, who are amply rewarded for merely facing the flow with their mouths open. Salmon are governed by a strange nostalgia. After spending approximately four years at sea, they return to their birthplace to spawn and die. In the shallows where fresh water meets salt water, a welcoming committee greets the tenacious fish with cries of exultation. Seagulls and storm petrels gorge themselves to excess. Bears come down from the mountains, smacking their lips – they barely have to move a paw to catch their next meal. Growing lazy, they simply bite out the spine of one victim before clutching at another. Seals, renowned for their gluttony, suffer the agonies of indigestion. But the salmon know what they are doing: against all odds they fight the current to follow their path upstream, leaping through rapids and over sandbars for hundreds of miles, until they finally reach their secret place. After fulfilling their reproductive duties, they sweep aside their roe and lay down their lives.

  Plump and easy-going, tuna have their own migration route, their own important and mysterious goals to pursue in this shimmering underwater world. These long-distance swimmers, the favourite delicacy of sperm whales, cross the Pacific Ocean from Java to Hawaii, losing tens, even hundreds of thousands of compatriots along the way. After resting in the seaweed forests off the shores of North America, they turn around and head back to where they started. Cod are characterized by their purposefulness. Great shoals of these arrogant, greedy marauders set out for Newfoundland, where fishing nets already lie in wait, and onwards, to the North Sea – they obviously have their reasons. Multitudinous hordes of Pacific saury, mackerel, herring and plaice hasten towards their destination. Capelin congregate in the Kronotsky Gulf, near the Kamchatka Peninsula, before setting out on their journey. Remoras participate in this mass mobilization too, choosing the strongest hosts: sharks and dolphins, not to mention whales. There are also seahorses, crabs, turtles, sea stars, sea urchins, porpoises and the aforementioned spiny lobsters. The assembled armies are interspersed with clouds of krill, plankton and microscopic organisms at the very bottom of the food chain. But they are moving too! The ocean is full of travellers, among whom the place of honour is still occupied by grey whales – the undisputed masters of global circumnavigation. Every year in December squadrons of them swim past San Diego as they set out on the longest journey made by any living creature. Tens of thousands of these wanderers cover a hundred miles a day. The pilgrims appear off the coast of Norway and near Iceland, round the Cape of Good Hope and pass the straits of the Aleutian Ridge. They can sometimes be found near Perkins Island, where entire pods become stranded on the coastal sandbars.

  In the spring of 1995, after startling the team of a BBC Malaysia escort vessel with his unusual colouring, Dick headed to Tasmania.

  ‘Is there any point in measuring the height of summits that have already been conquered?’ Stout was holding court that spring
at a conference in Pondicherry. ‘Everyone should determine for himself why he sets out on his own journey and what he hopes to achieve from it. It doesn’t matter whether this journey will take him across continents or just a few feet from home! Cortés, Funegos, Marco Polo, Columbus and Amundsen… They were all motivated by a Goal! They knew exactly what they were aiming for! Of course, personal ambition also had something to do with it… But why shouldn’t we nurture our ambition? It is what stimulates our dreams.’

  ‘Dedicating yourself to bringing your own vain and insignificant ideas to fruition is like being the miser who spends his whole life searching for a pitiful pot of gold,’ Belanger wrote the same spring in the foreword to his book. ‘I am categorically opposed to such idiotism! It is particularly senseless to spend your life roaming around the world in pursuit of some selfish goal or, even worse, for personal glory… Pauca verba!20 Our happiness is to be found only on the great march from one open space to another, from galaxy to galaxy!’

  Juliette Lorraine, a twenty-one-year-old oarswoman from Le Havre, hadn’t read Belanger’s book. She hadn’t even heard of Stout. She had come up with the idea of sailing the Atlantic in a rowing boat just sixteen feet long and five feet wide and stubbornly set about putting her plan into action. The only technological accessory Juliette chose to take was a two-way radio, which in the event proved extremely unreliable. Was she motivated by ambition? Maybe. As soon as they caught wind of the venture the Parisian press lambasted her bewildered father, director of one of the local yacht clubs, but he was speechless with shock over his daughter’s foolish decision. Her family were categorically opposed to the endeavour, but the papers did their job and Juliette became famous even before she took up her oars. She cast off from her home town into the unknown, planning to end her self-inflicted suffering in Trinidad. Initially she kept steadfastly to her course, only rarely making radio contact, but 1,500 miles from her destination, to the appalled horror of those following her journey, Juliette ran into a virtually perfect storm. She had to strap herself tightly to her craft. The storm drowned two fishing seiners and seriously damaged a 100,000-ton tanker but the tiny rowing boat, lurching from crest to hollow, escaped unharmed. Juliette Lorraine survived the ordeal on a combination of aspirin and fruit drops, praying that her water purification system would not fail.