The Way of Muri (17 page)

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 your 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.

Life on the farmstead moved at its own pace. The local elementals relaxed in their own dwelling places or drifted lazily about their business, virtually falling asleep in mid-air. There was no sign of any bullying. On the contrary, the spirits were welcoming, if a little reserved, greeting the cat with typical provincial civility and ceremony. The mischievous young house spirit barely even glanced past the threshold – he was happy amusing himself by hiding in the old rubber boots Marta wore on her bare feet when it rained and rummaging through the rubbish in the loft. There was no point even trying to have a sensible conversation with him. So Muri was left to his own devices, which suited him just fine. He paced about the courtyard, exploring all the hidden corners and remembering to keep his distance from the dog’s kennel.

As far as the other animals were concerned, the gelding turned out to be slow-witted and rather dull and the multicoloured chickens spent all their time persecuting the weakest member of their flock, occasionally pausing to lay eggs. Apart from the Patriarch in the birch tree, the only other creature worth talking to was the complacent piglet, whose little red eyes glistened in the semi-darkness of his sty. The piglet’s life revolved around sleeping and eating, and he showed no interest
in anything that was happening elsewhere in the courtyard. He was extremely happy with the log walls of the pigsty and his own manure, which he produced in abundance. Nevertheless, he turned out to be a most hospitable creature and immediately invited Muri to his trough.

‘You’d better wise up,’ Muri said to him, touched by the sudden attention. ‘As soon as they start dishing out extra swill, as soon as they start fawning over you and feeling your sides, you need to get out of here as fast as you can. Trust me, freedom never boasts of satiety. So run, you little fool, as fast as your legs will carry you!’

Every evening the sun would wrap itself in a blanket of clouds and Marta, drunk on her own energy, would fold her arms under her apron and head for the bench near the gates.

‘Why’s she staring off into the distance like that?’ Muri asked the Patriarch.

‘She’s waiting for him to come back,’ answered the courtyard spirit.

‘If you mean her spurned suitor, he’s not coming back,’ the cat declared authoritatively. ‘If he really is strong, he won’t show any weakness.’

‘You don’t know humans,’ the spirit remarked gently. ‘Marta cast her net and caught her fish. Vitas Senciavicius can thrash and quiver all he likes, but she will drag him onto her shores, you can be sure of that. It’s not even worth arguing about. You don’t understand the human heart… Sometimes it works in peculiar ways.’

The spirit was right, as it turned out. It wasn’t long before another guest turned up at the farmstead. He appeared in the afternoon, when the summer sun was at its zenith, when every living creature in the vicinity was pining for the shade of a tree, a bush or the fence. Having chosen to return at such a brutal time of day, Vitas Senciavicius stood near the gates with his feet planted firmly apart, gnarled and sinewy, with a blade of grass
clamped between his teeth. His suit was sticking to him. Unable to find a handkerchief, he wiped his forehead with his tie.

Two spirits noticed his appearance – the imperturbable inhabitant of the birch tree and Muri, sprawled underneath it. Vergilius, the resident security guard, yelped and retreated into his kennel, cursing his inability to escape from his own fur.

‘That human is going to stand there wiping his brow for a good while yet!’ remarked Muri, immediately guessing who stood restlessly before them. ‘I saw the mistress heading out across the field, to gather new birch twigs for the broom!’

The Patriarch didn’t have time to respond because Marta, breathing heavily, was already at the gates.

‘I came to pick up my jacket,’ said Vitas Senciavicius.

‘Well, there it is!’ shrugged Marta. ‘It’s been hanging on that nail by the door for over a year now.’

The heat of the sun was unbearable. The cat beat his tail against one of the roots of the tree.

‘A year has passed,’ agreed Vitas Senciavicius, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and glancing around the courtyard. ‘Yet it’s still hanging there, just like new!’

‘What did you think would have happened to it?’ smiled Marta.

‘I’ve just dropped by to pick it up on my way to Vilnius,’ continued Vitas. ‘I’m visiting family there. I’ve had enough of Murmansk. It’s a foreign country now, anyway.’

‘It is indeed,’ the young woman calmly agreed.

‘I’m hoping to find work in Klaipėda. These hands know a thing or two,’ said the man, finally putting his bag down. He showed her his marine mechanic’s hands.

‘You’ll find work in Klaipėda,’ replied the young woman, having finally got her breath back.