As Muri crossed the bridge over the Vistula, the oarswoman was only 600 miles from her destination. However, fate struck a cruel blow – the first storm was followed immediately by another, which mercilessly threw the boat 300 miles back into the most deserted part of the ocean. Juliette wept, and blood stained her last pair of spare oars, but despite her swollen hands she rowed and rowed. Her skin dried out under the tropical sun, turning to parchment. One night there was a deafening splash right next to the boat. It was followed by the roar of a mysterious animal, which sounded as thought it had swum up from the very depths of the ocean. Juliette admitted afterwards to the tenacious American reporters that it was the worst moment of her life. Never before had she had heard such a deep and mournful cry, so full of suffering, so prolonged and inescapable. It was the sound of something terrible bewailing its agony. After this traumatic incident Juliette was hardly able to sleep a wink for the remainder of her journey. Several times she thought she might be losing her mind, but her body was on autopilot and her muscles kept working. The storm meant she had to change course and head for Florida, not that this made her journey any easier. The heat was unbearable. The tropical sun sparkled in the water, dazzling her eyes, and even her tiniest scratches were corroded by salt. She was chased by barracuda, and her provisions ran out. At the end of May 1995, the waves unceremoniously threw Juliette’s boat onto Florida’s marshy shores. Naturally, the coast-guards had been following Juliette’s progress; she had been spotted by a patrol aeroplane two days previously, but the place where she ended her epic journey and climbed out of her boat, staggering and swaying on the unsteady land, was inaccessible to all but a few.
Juliette Lorraine was hailed by the UN as the first woman to row solo across the Atlantic. She rather enjoyed the ensuing interviews and photo shoots. During the course of her epic journey Juliette had lost two stone; her cheeks were sunken hollows, and she was suffering from chronic sleep deprivation and insomnia. She was taken to a US naval hospital for thorough observation, but apart from gum disease she appeared to suffer no lasting ill effects. Everyone wanted to know what had compelled such a young girl to row from Le Havre to America, to leave the safety of her home shores for weeks of torment at sea. But this question was never truly answered.
‘Bravo, Juliette!’ rejoiced Stout, who was at a particularly high-level astrological symposium in Casablanca when he heard the news. ‘Macte! Macte!21 Viva22 the valiant girl! Will anyone ever attempt a more risky venture? Magna est veritas, et praevalebit!23’
‘This farcical stunt is exactly the kind of nonsense advocated by the small-minded individuals who insist that every journey must come to an end,’ spat Belanger. ‘Such journeys are not giant leaps, merely a few paltry steps! Is this not casus belli24 against the garrulous fools who believe that shuffling a few feet is enough to bring them to the end of their Path? I cannot deny that it is entertaining to watch these clowns indulging their egos and putting on their shows, but their circus antics are wearing a little thin. All they seem to care about is dressing up in their finery and blowing their own trumpets. Pitiful posers! Who cares whether their journeys end in triumph or tears? We will continue our never-ending march!’
Pei Yu Ling – a Chinese man who, like Juliette, had not read the philosopher’s work – stretched a thin cable across one of the gorges of the Yangtze River, 160 feet above the swiftly rushing water. Without waiting for an audience, the tightrope walker began his perilous journey. It was 650 steps from one side to the other. He paused frequently, tensing over the roaring water. It was seven o’clock in the morning so there weren’t many spectators; those who were present watched in silence, anxious not to distract him with their cries of encouragement. One of the spectators happened to be a reporter, who happened to have his camera with him, and he caught the entire episode on film – right up to the moment when the man with the pole stumbled and fell like a stone, disappearing into the yellow waters of the great river. The onlookers didn’t even have time to gasp.
The tightrope walker was fished out of the river two miles downstream. Unperturbed by onlookers, the police dragged Pei Yu Ling from the water, held him upright and thrashed him with their truncheons. This was a legitimate response, in a way – the mission had not been sanctioned by the local authorities and had been undertaken by the stuntman entirely at his own risk.
As Muri discovered, an equally radical method of dealing with travellers was employed in a small town close to the Lithuanian border. Stray cats and dogs were rounded up from all over the town to be slaughtered by sullen orderlies. Muri had been caught too, following a momentary lapse of judgement, and was rushing frantically about the cage with all the other doomed strays. A cacophony of yelps, barks, yowls and dying wheezes filled the air. To block out the desperate howling so that they could concentrate on their work, the orderlies stuffed their ears with cotton wool. They also drank throughout their shift, but their hands were so used to grabbing that their performance was in no way impaired and the metal-handled clubs continued to serve them well. The team had been hit by influenza – only three of the usual six men were on duty, and they were clearly tired. Nevertheless they continued to raise their clubs, bringing them down with their usual wheezing and grunting, and every blow met its target. Piles of dead mongrels lay at their feet. It was fortunate for Muri that the workers had applied themselves so enthusiastically to the task of dispatching the dogs. They had already removed their hats and quilted jackets and left them outside the enclosure, foolishly omitting to shut the door behind them on their way back in. Now, steaming and sweating, they advanced on their last remaining victims. One of the alcoholic louts raised his club over Muri, who looked into his eyes and instantly decided that the situation called for his tried-and-tested self-defence strategy. The cat made the greatest leap of his life and sank his claws deep into the human’s face. The executioner dropped his weapon and stepped backwards, stricken with unbearable agony. Muri immediately detached himself and sprinted towards the doors. In a matter of seconds he was free again!
Then summer came. In the middle of July 1995, the sperm whale inadvertently swam into a trawl net and promptly ripped it to shreds, seriously damaging the windlass of the associated fishing schooner in the process. If the captain (who was also the owner) and the crew had had any sense, they would have written it off as an unfortunate inconvenience – after all, anything can happen during a fishing season. But the thought of their money drifting away with the torn net was enough to make the fishermen forget about reason, and so the whale was forced to swim away from three avengers who had set out in pursuit of him in a motorised longboat. Soon the desire for vengeance was compounded by the thrill of the chase, the feeling that sooner or later will be the undoing of all humanity. Twelve-calibre bullets tore craters in the whale’s back, which erupted with fountains of blood. Despite his increased speed Dick was unable to outdistance the two first-class engines, so he was obliged to turn and face his enemies. His pursuers had lost all sense of perspective. These self-assured scions of the twentieth century, wearing brand new waterproof overalls with walkie-talkies in their pockets, greeted the sperm whale’s turn with exultation. They fired yet another volley from all barrels simultaneously. They had every faith in the lethal firepower of their Bur-12 rifles, the latest model from the top weapons manufacturer, so they arrogantly allowed the whale to approach them at close range. The naive fools! Bleeding from his wounds, the sperm whale raised his tail flukes and brought them crashing down on the pitiful substitute for soil beneath the feet of these misguided fishermen. The engines were swept away as the vessel split in two; all three men were thrown overboard, and their rifles sank without trace. A second blow destroyed the longboat completely. Clinging to one another in the water, the hunters sensed the horror of their situation and began wailing at the top of their voices. Their trepidation turned to panic when the whale’s gigantic head suddenly rose up before them on the next wave, blocking out the sky and any hope of salvation. The subsequen
t tsunami engulfed all three would-be whalers.
The tragic demise of the longboat was witnessed from the deck of the schooner. ‘Full steam ahead!’ yelled the captain, to the great surprise of those on duty in the engine room, who had no way of knowing about the farce that was playing out above them. It was no longer a matter of nets and windlasses. It had been some time since the schooner had run at full throttle, and it almost disintegrated from the exertion – the crockery danced about gleefully in the galley, the deck vibrated and the superstructure shuddered. The crew took up boat-hooks, sticks and life-rings and leaned over the sides of the boat, shaking their useless weapons. Clenching his cigarette between his teeth, the captain savagely controlled the wheel. Pale with hatred, this self-appointed Ahab was heading directly towards the smirking giant – another mistake, for which he was to pay a high price. The lookout on the starboard side was the first to understand the disastrous consequences of the manoeuvre and gave a heartrending howl, but it was already too late. The whale, which had no intention of admitting defeat, had already dived beneath the boat. For an instant everything fell silent. The fishermen’s mouths fell open and suddenly they heard a scraping sound, followed by a crack that made an impression on even the most thick-skinned old salts. It was as though someone had run a gigantic iron bar down an enormous washing board. None of them would forget that sound for the rest of their lives! The boat tipped onto its side, scooped up a hull full of seawater and returned to an upright position, but the terrified fishermen already knew that their vessel was doomed.
The engine crew emerged from below – two speechless Malaysians and a quivering Indian. Now they knew exactly what was going on and were the first to leap into the sea, although the others weren’t far behind them. The last to face up to reality was the captain, who had to be dragged from his cabin. To his credit, even though one side of the deck had already caved in he still managed to light a final cigarette. Thus, in a cloud of aromatic smoke, the owner of the unfortunate boat ended up surrounded by his subordinates in the cool water of the Pacific Ocean, 230 miles from the nearest reefs and palm trees.
An enormous bubble rose to the surface and burst. Dick continued swimming in circles near the shipwrecked fishermen. His hump protruded from the water, his mouth opened and his jaw-bones clicked. This was just retribution for human greed – all that remained floating on the surface, apart from fifteen terror-stricken microorganisms in life jackets, who had once thought themselves capable of anything, were some wooden boards, a few saucepans and a radio transmitter, which was their only lifeline. However, none of them could take their eyes off the sperm whale. Every time he appeared in the gathering twilight, each smack of his tail provoked a surge of incomparable despair and, consequently, diarrhoea.
Finally the whale swam off and the nightmare was over. He needed to recover – his back had been lacerated by shards of metal, and as many as a dozen powerful bullets had pierced his blubber. These wounds remained swollen for days, making him feverish. For their part, the hapless fishermen later recalled how the sharks that began to dart about after the sperm whale disappeared had aroused a shared feeling of overwhelming relief.
On 15 July 1995 at 10.00 a.m. Sheikh Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim, worshipper of Allah, owner of wives, ports and tankers, climbed up into the aeroplane that he had named Hope. The wingspan of the sheikh’s modest Hope was 450 feet. This time eight engines carefully raised her aloft, carrying her over seas and oceans, over yachts and pleasure cruisers, over arable farms and wastelands, over Sioux Indian reservations and primitive tribes, before equally carefully guiding her back to earth in her native land. Abdullah Nadari Ak-Saïd ibn Khalim took off from the side of his aerodrome where the border of the landing strip is designated, to this day, by dusty palm trees. On 17 July at 6.00 p.m., thanks to the infinite benevolence of God, who had taught him a lesson in humility, his Hope landed on the opposite side. He had been suspended above the planet for just over two days. Naturally, after realizing his dream he went straight to the mosque, where he spent three days and three nights expressing his unreserved gratitude to Allah, the Almighty and Merciful.
Now let us leave the sheikh in peace.
In the middle of summer 1995, the cat came to a Lithuanian farmstead. The stone house and corresponding outbuildings were owned by a robust young peasant woman named Marta, in whose hands the rakes, buckets, axe, spade and watering can knew no peace. The floors in the house were constantly being scrubbed and mopped until they shone. The stables and cowshed were swept regularly, and manure was diligently spread at the bottom of the garden. The placid gelding, the dozy piglet, the cows, the dog and the chickens were grateful for their lot. The mistress of the house took care of all the household chores cheerfully and competently – she was forever bustling to and fro, shaking out the rugs and bedding, ironing, cleaning, mowing, baking and stewing. And every day in the vegetable garden, in the full blaze of the July sun, her skirt pulled taut across her muscular backside.
A 100-year-old birch tree protruded from the trampled earth in the centre of the courtyard. This tree was inhabited by an ancient spirit, and it wasn’t long before Muri made his acquaintance. First the cat evaluated the threat from the enormous dog, which had exploded in a paroxysm of rage on catching sight of the interloper. He concluded that the witless guard-dog was in no danger of gnawing through his chain, despite his desperate attempts to do so, and could therefore be safely ignored. Then he strolled languidly over to introduce himself to the spirit in the birch tree, who was evidently in charge.
‘My word, you’re a scrawny fellow!’ declared the Patriarch, hanging from a branch and scrutinizing the newcomer from the tips of his whiskers to the tiniest scratch on his scruffy face.
‘Indeed… I would be glad of somewhere to rest for a week or two,’ the cat replied calmly. Then he told the spirit about his journey across Europe.
After listening attentively to his tale, the spirit familiarized Muri with the house rules and assured him that the mistress of the house would wish him no harm.
‘Go ahead, make yourself at home in the hayloft! You’re so skinny, Marta wouldn’t dream of chasing you away.’
‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ agreed Muri. ‘My paws are worn raw, and my stomach has been empty for days. I certainly wouldn’t say no to a little milk and meat.’ He paused before continuing. ‘I’ve met a number of lonely old ladies on my travels, but I’m curious – why does such a young, strong woman live alone?’
‘A mechanic used to come courting,’ answered the Patriarch. ‘But when she realized that he was genuinely in love with her, as is so often the case with women, Marta stood firm and refused to yield. She was probably just trying to increase her own value! Neither of them would back down, and they ended up having a terrible argument. The man lost his temper and swore that he would never again set foot over the threshold of this farmstead. He was so angry that he left without his jacket. Look, it’s been hanging over there by the porch ever since! Vitas Senciavicius, that was his name – he was a strong man. But I’ve got a feeling he’ll be back, sooner or later.’
‘If he’s as strong as you think he is, you won’t be seeing him again,’ remarked Muri. ‘He won’t let a woman get the better of him.’
The spirit burst out laughing. He told Muri to approach the porch in the morning, when Marta began to shake out the door mats and air the rooms. Then, noticing the cat’s matted fur and suppurating wounds, he advised him to go behind the cowshed and find some hemp stalks to chew. The spirit also prescribed the trefoil, which grew in abundance on the far side of the potato field. A little further on, in the woods, he would find a well-known cure for exhaustion known as hare’s cabbage.
‘There’s just one more thing… Watch out for Vergilius,’ warned the spirit. ‘Don’t get too close to his kennel. That fool’s temper has replaced his brains. He definitely won’t be happy about you sticking around! Marta rarely lets him off the chain, but if she does, I would advise you to make yo
ur way up the nearest tree.’
The cat began strolling about near the porch early the following morning, trying to ignore the rumbling noises from his stomach. Vergilius immediately emerged from his kennel. Marta had been up for some time – she wasn’t one for lie-ins! A bucket of bran had already been prepared for the piglet, and the smell of fresh bread came from inside the house. Hitching her skirt up to her ample thighs and bending down so that her breasts almost spilled out of her unbuttoned cardigan, the beautiful Lithuanian woman set about washing the front steps, energetically slapping them with her cloth.
As soon as Marta caught sight of Muri, she went straight into the house and returned bearing an earthenware bowl full of fresh chicken guts. Vergilius had no choice but to gnaw his own chain, barking furiously, while Muri ate a leisurely breakfast. Then Marta tied an apron round her broad hips and went into the cowshed. Muri followed her. Now his hunger had been satisfied he was no longer in any hurry, and while she was milking the cow he philosophically contemplated her enormous breasts – each one alone could have nourished four infants.
The Way of Muri Page 14
