Authors: Ilya Boyashov
‘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 catch 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 their 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.
‘You’ll get fresh liver every morning,’ he promised, pacing up and down the ceiling. ‘And just wait until you try the local milk…
You’ll drink yourself stupid on it, not to mention the soured cream! You’ll only have to put up with this nonsense for a bit longer – he’ll soon grow tired of it!’
The house spirit was blatantly lying – Kurt’s enthusiasm showed no sign of abating. On the contrary, Muri’s unyielding obstinacy only served to increase his torturer’s determination.
‘I’m going to teach you to dance whether you like it or not, Stripy Socks,’ he cried. ‘And I’ll beat the living daylights out of you if you try to escape, so stop turning your head away like that!’
Alternately tightening and releasing the noose, he continued the drill. It was hardly surprising that Muri’s temper began to fray.
‘Don’t even think about it!’ cried the house spirit, who had noticed the cat’s eyes beginning to narrow with fury. ‘It’s against the rules to hurt children, no matter what they do to you! Just put up with it for a bit longer… Kurt will soon get fed up, you’ll see!’
Kurt wasn’t even close to being fed up. Oblivious to the impending retribution, the boy persisted in his attempts to make the cat waltz.
‘Don’t touch the child!’ groaned the house spirit, envisaging the future without any particular difficulty. ‘Just hang in there,’ he whispered.
‘Move your paws, you bastard!’ cried Kurt. He pulled the string again, offering Muri yet another glimpse of life after death. When the cat’s bulging eyes returned to their place, his torturer reaffirmed his intentions. ‘I’m going to force you to dance,’ he vowed, ‘just like Ernst forced that fat cat of his, even if I have to rip your tail off and cut your whiskers. Now, dance!’
That was it. Muri could take it no more. The cat’s impressive claws sank deep into the distorted face of his tormentor. Instantly forgetting the string and the scissors that he had picked up in order to deprive Muri of his magnificent whiskers, the boy stumbled blindly into each of the four walls, dislodging cushions and blankets, knocking his computer screen to the floor and scattering the indifferent soldiers.