The Way of Muri

by Ilya Boyashov

  ‘Hey, I think this little fellow’s listening to us!’ remarked his Willy. ‘Look at the way his ears are up.’

  This made Muri smile. Maintaining his aristocratic demeanour, he finished lapping up the milk then graciously sniffed and swallowed a few pieces of fine blood sausage and some equally excellent cheese. As soon as he’d finished his breakfast Muri turned his back on his benefactors and headed straight for the little town that was visible in the valley, giving the distinct impression that he was doing this new country a favour by deigning to do so. From a distance the place looked like a miniature replica rather than a real town. Everything was immaculate – the houses, the signs, the cars, the narrow streets and even the trees. Wood smoke drifted into the sky above some of the brick roofs.

  ‘They’re ungrateful little sods, cats are!’ said Willy, tipping the remains of the milk from his flask onto the pristine Austrian snow. ‘They act as though our only purpose in life is to serve them, to cater to their every need and to scratch them behind the ears. I wonder where he’s going…’

  ‘Where do you think?’ laughed his colleague. ‘It’s the Sonnenberg festival today! The Festival of the First Sausage! Little blighter probably caught a whiff of the Sonnenburg sausages – they’ve got quite a reputation, after all!’

  ‘Cheeky little sod!’ declared Willy, reaffirming his opinion of cats. ‘So he’ll be putting some weight back on today. I heard that cats sometimes carry on eating until they collapse… He may well gorge himself to death!’

  The police officer wasn’t joking – there really was a festival taking place in the immaculate little town that day. Tables had been set out on the square near the town hall, and the famous Sonnenberg sausages were sizzling merrily away on blackened griddles nearby. In spite of the frost, so many people had turned out that all the benches seemed to be occupied.

  The local cats couldn’t be bothered to pay any attention to the new arrival. The dogs were three times the size of the Slivovca sheepdogs and they lay about yawning lazily, their distended bellies proof of their gluttony. The humans were too busy to even look at Muri. The square was a hive of activity – new barrels were being rolled out and set up, their taps were being turned and the beer was flowing, as was the good cheer. There was an enormous sausage-shaped advertising balloon floating above the little town, and this was the subject of numerous ribald remarks.

  Like the humans, the elementals were in a celebratory mood. The local house spirits sprawled on the roofs, merrily endorsing the festivities. Spirits of all shapes and sizes fluttered above the town hall like butterflies. The beer continued to flow, spilling and melting the snow, but it still wasn’t enough: the men banged their fists and their mugs on the trestle tables with increasing fervour, testing the durability of the carpenters’ handiwork. Their drunken eyes no longer looked in the direction of their fat wives, who clung to other suitors. These local women, like fortresses long since surrendered, were ready to lower their drawbridges at the slightest encouragement. They put up no resistance to the nimble fingers that strayed beneath their fur coats, the dexterity of which would have been the envy of any pickpocket.

  After careful consideration Muri positioned himself right next to the mayor of Sonnenberg, Martin Peitsmeyer, and this decision began to pay off immediately. First he devoured an abandoned chicken wing, virtually untouched, then a whole string of sausages. At this point Martin Peitsmeyer noticed the newcomer and tipped the gravy from his own plate out onto the snow for the cat to finish. Muri lapped it up and gladly accepted further donations of brisket, bread, garlic sauce, specially prepared croutons and the remains of another local speciality – a hearty soup prepared according to an age-old recipe and seasoned with sweet ketchup. Certain members of the town council – namely Hans Wolf, who definitely had it in for him, and that bastard Markus Schultz – clearly disapproved of the way he was fraternising with the general public, but Martin Peitsmeyer ignored them and joined in a spirited rendition of the folk song Cabbage and Turnips Don’t Agree with Me, even swaying from side to side. Meanwhile the sausages swam in boiling fat on the griddles, spitting angrily in objection to their impending annihilation. The people’s appetite for them showed no sign of abating.

  Some lacked the stamina required to complete the marathon and lay slumped over the tables, snoring sweetly, but the mayor was still surrounded by a crowd of animated revellers. Straightening his heraldic scarf from time to time and wiping the foam from his moustache, he swigged from his third mug of beer. Muri was still eating, too. He paid no attention to the local spirits, who were laughing at his gaunt figure and the way his shoulder blades protruded like knives as he ate. He wouldn’t have expected anything else from such carefree simpletons. Only the spirit of the town hall, occupying his usual position on top of the weathervane, looked down sadly on the mortals gathered below. The custodian of the Sonnenberg emblem never indulged in teasing or mockery. He was the first to notice Else Miller.

  A thin woman had appeared on the square, her face shrouded in a dark scarf. Indifferent to the festivities, she walked quickly past the tables and benches. The snow didn’t even squeak beneath her boots. The woman’s calm and measured movement immediately drew the attention of the people surrounding the mayor. Everyone here knew old Else. Silence fell as she walked past the satiated cats, the well-groomed dogs and the festive crowds of people.

  When Else disappeared behind the town hall one of the revellers, not known for his manners, called out, ‘There goes Else, scurrying off to the old people’s home again, and then on to the church… She won’t associate with us sinners, even when there’s something to celebrate!’

  An aggrieved voice added, ‘She’s been putting on the same old show for twenty years now, deliberately ignoring her neighbours…’

  Others began to chime in.

  ‘She won’t even drink a thimbleful of beer, for fear of losing face!’

  ‘She thinks she’s such a saint…’

  ‘She won’t even look at us. That’s how virtuous she is!’

  ‘And all because she couldn’t find herself a husband when she was young,’ said a fat man, tearing himself away from the serious business of drinking beer. He smacked his lips compassionately, but then couldn’t resist elaborating. ‘I mean, why else do women come over all pious? It’s the same every time! If they haven’t been blessed in the looks department they turn to the church, tie a scarf round their heads and start baking pies for the homeless. Look, there she goes again!’

  Just then Martin Peitsmeyer, archetypal bureaucrat, experienced a minor epiphany. Something stirred in his soul, turning the cynical opportunist – albeit briefly – into a preacher. The mayor of Sonnenberg abruptly got to his feet, pulled in his stomach and turned to the jeering crowd.

  ‘Twenty years ago Else Miller took a vow to visit lonely old people every day and to pray for all of humanity, without exception. Since then I have seen her out in the street every single day! Come rain or shine, she follows the same path to the old people’s home and onwards to the church. I can personally testify to this. Not one of us could even interrupt her routine, let alone challenge her conviction. Of course, you might say this proves that she is mad. There are plenty of crazy people walking round our town doing the same crazy things over and over again, whether it’s directing the traffic or trying to escort pedestrians home against their will… But if we dismiss her desire to feed those in need and to pray for everyone who is gathered here today as mental instability, then what does that say about us?’

  After this impromptu speech, which was all the more impressive for its spontaneity, Martin Peitsmeyer paused and looked around at his audience. His eyes were full of enigmatic sorrow and despair at the state of the world, and no one dared to contradict him.

  ‘Is it our place to criticize someone,’ continued the mayor, ‘just because they do things differently? Surely we should envy her, gliding past us and walking through time for the last twenty years… Just look at her face! Whenever I c
atch a glimpse of her face, it makes me want to cry. There is enough nonsense in this world. How can we not envy someone who knows their purpose in life? We ought to lower our eyes and hold our tongues. At the very least, we should let her pass without verbal abuse.’

  Everyone had listened to the mayor’s speech without interrupting, including those who lacked an opinion on the matter. Someone even gave a sob, as though they’d been forced to confront the futility of their own existence. But it wasn’t long before the hustle and bustle resumed – plates of sauerkraut were brought out to the tables, sausages sizzled, mugs were banged on the tables, the waiters rushed about and everything was back to normal.

  Eventually the arrival of the evening was announced by the strings of electric lights illuminating the trees and the sides of the houses. Fireworks fell to the snow, burying themselves with a damp hiss. The advertising balloon burst, to the horror and delight of the children, and the festival came to a happy end. So full he could barely move, Muri headed for the first porch he came to, which smelt of old bricks. Obeying his infallible sense of smell, he settled on the first step. A tiny spirit immediately flashed before his eyes, smug and self-satisfied, like all the elementals in this town.

  ‘Look what we have here!’ squeaked the impudent little spark. ‘Where have you come from, and what are you doing here?’

  Thanks to the abundant warmth in his belly, Muri was in a lenient mood.

  ‘I’m from Bosnia. My former domain is the village of Mesič,’ the cat answered loftily. ‘Concerning my presence on these steps, I’m after a nice warm bed for the night. The owners must have left the porch light on for a reason – I don’t think they’ll keep us waiting long.’

  ‘I thought as much!’ exclaimed the little spark. ‘One of your compatriots already managed to get his foot in the door, and now they can’t even get rid of him with a stick! Incidentally he escaped from a burning house, just like you. Who in their right mind would choose to leave this place? Most stray cats are rounded up and sent to rescue centres, but even the ones that live on the rubbish tips have plenty to eat all year round. So much food gets thrown away that they don’t even bother fighting over it. You should see the size of their bellies!’

  ‘Relax,’ Muri answered calmly. ‘I don’t care if there are piles of sausages on every street corner and the bins are full of dumplings and gravy!’

  The little spark was quick to mock Muri’s moral stance.

  ‘Ooh, you liar! Don’t you try and pretend that you’ll turn your nose up at it. I know your sort – you’d sell your soul for a good meal! In any case, you won’t be short of offers tonight. Haven’t you heard? It’s a local custom. Anyone who finds a cat or dog on their doorstep during the Festival of the First Sausage is obliged to take them in. It’s supposed to bring good luck. They’ll be falling over themselves to give refuge to a sorry specimen like you, though they might regret it later… You should see the porkers they make out of all the waifs and strays round here!’

  ‘I’m not interested,’ replied Muri, trying in vain to hide his irritation. ‘As long as I get a place to stay, that’s all I care about.’

  The little spark kept needling him. ‘You do have a high opinion of yourself, don’t you?’ he continued. ‘I can tell it’s not the first time you’ve taken advantage of human hospitality!’

  ‘What else are humans for?’ exclaimed the exasperated cat. ‘I just want a warm bed for the night.’

  The bully burst out laughing. ‘Oh, don’t worry, you’ll get one – they’ll bring you food, make you comfortable by the fireplace, and what’s going to happen to all your high and mighty principles then? Who in their right mind would turn their back on a warm bed and a ready supply of food? You’ll see, a second night by the fire, a third, you’ll soon get used to it! I’ve seen it happen so many times.’

  The spirit’s words finally had the desired effect. Muri could no longer contain himself and, in spite of the weight of his belly, prepared to pounce. But just at that moment the front door swung open and the mistress of the house appeared on the doorstep. Plump and rosy-cheeked, the young woman looked like a well-fed pig ready for market.

  ‘Estebain!’ she squealed. ‘Come here, brother. You won’t believe your eyes!’

  Her equally corpulent brother Estebain stuck his head around the front door. He was winding his scarf around his neck, obviously getting ready to leave.

  ‘You know what to do!’ pleaded his sister. ‘If a cat turns up on the Festival of the First Sausage, it must be lucky!’

  Before Muri realized what was going on, Estebain’s hefty winter boots were ringing against the steps. The portly Austrian grabbed the cat and pinned him under one arm.

  ‘Hold on to him!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Karolina, I won’t let him get away. This little chap will make an ideal present for my youngest!’

  Muri was carried away from the house and thrown onto the back seat of a car. Estebain slammed the car door shut and went back to hug his sister goodbye.

  This was too much for Muri. To be caught in such a stupid way! He threw himself at the windows in a frenzy, sliding down them again and again. The tiny spirit took great delight in mocking him.

  ‘There’s no point in fighting it – you’re a lucky cat, and there’s nothing you can do about it! I’m sure there are plenty of treats in store for you. Worst case scenario, they’ll relieve you of certain bits of your anatomy!’

  The house spirit drifted sleepily out onto the porch, belatedly deigning to see what all the fuss was about. Having missed the beginning of the performance, this pompous dullard now began to hold forth on the benefits of the local custom of taking stray cats in on that day.

  ‘Estebain owns a chain of restaurants in Mannheim,’ he informed the prisoner. ‘You’re a lucky cat in more ways than one! At least you’re not going to be ending your days on the rubbish tip.’

  ‘Shut up, you pampered old fool!’ Muri miaowed furiously. ‘You’ve got no idea where my path leads, you brainless idiot, so you can keep your advice to yourself and go to hell!’

  ‘Good luck!’ both creatures called in unison. The house spirit spoke with genuine sympathy, the little spark with exquisite sarcasm.

  Within half an hour the Austrian’s car reached a smart little town exactly like Sonnenberg. Estebain drove past the square, the Catholic church and the town hall, and pulled up in one of the outlying districts on the other side of town, full of large detached houses.

  Muri was totally confused by his involuntary participation in the local tradition. His throat was sore from having exhausted his entire repertoire of curses, so he bristled in silence.

  ‘You ought to be thanking your lucky stars, you scrawny little so-and-so,’ said Estebain. ‘We’ll have your fur shining like silk in no time. Anyone would welcome the chance to be a guest at my house! Little Kurt might be a bit rough with you every now and then, but that’s a small price to pay!’

  He tucked the lucky cat under his arm and headed towards his large single-storey house – an impenetrable stronghold in the snowy depths of the garden. A number of elementals rose up from the branches of the trees and rushed towards them, greeting the cat quite cordially. The house spirit, an efficient little creature with the courteous manner of a tour guide, was waiting for him on the porch.

  ‘You won’t be going anywhere now,’ he reassured Muri. ‘So your old habits will soon be a thing of the past. The only downside is that they’ll put a tag in your ear and chop something off.’

  Estebain’s wife and eldest son – one in a night-dress, the other in pyjamas – came to inspect the good fortune he had brought them. They were soon joined by the youngest son, who came hurtling down the stairs from the first floor. Kurt was seven years old and thoroughly spoilt by his mother and father. Without asking anybody’s permission, young Kurt snatched the gift from his father’s hands and dragged Muri upstairs to his bedroom. In the summer this room was where doomed beetles sat in matchboxes, obediently awaiting th
eir fate. This room was where spiders and flies had their legs ripped off, and innocent frogs suffered the insertion of straws into their rear ends. The latest victim – an innocent, elderly and asthmatic hamster – had been tortured to death a matter of days previously. Estebain and his wife, who was ample of bosom and buttock like most of the local women, affectionately watched their beloved son retreat to his room. They had no idea what kind of twisted activities he got up to in his spare time. But Muri was about to find out.

  Everything in Kurt’s room, with the exception of a battalion of toy soldiers arranged in neat rows on the floor, had been destroyed, ripped apart or overturned, as though someone had thrown a hand grenade into it. He never bothered tidying up himself, and every day he would sob and wail and refuse to let the maid touch any of his things, which drove her to a state of quiet hysteria. Throwing the cat onto his bed, Kurt ran over to his computer. He had spent hours designing the perfect missile, and now he finally launched it at a virtual world of houses, trees and grass. Game over. Then he announced the programme for the evening’s entertainment.

  ‘Right, I’m going to call you Stripy Socks! Do you like dancing? That show-off Ernst from school has got a cat that can waltz. Ernst taught him. So I’m going to try it too… First, you need to wear a tie!’

  A piece of string was produced and swiftly tied around the prisoner’s neck. Then the boy pulled the unfortunate cat onto the floor, and without further ado the intensive training programme began. The proud Bosnian had no alternative but to parade across the ‘dance floor’ on his hind legs, hissing with the humiliation of it all. His front legs were held in a vice-like grip by his torturer. From time to time the boy remembered the ‘tie’ and yanked on it with such ferocity that dark spots swam in front of Muri’s eyes. The house spirit, who had slipped into the child’s room while the nightmare was unfolding, had the audacity to sing the praises of life in the house.