The Way of Muri by Ilya Boyashov

the Lake of Life that he looked up to the placid sky and cried, ‘
Lakmuri Ton Chon Go!
’ The demonic wind of Lake Rakshastal and the clouds above Lake Manasarovar picked up this cry and carried it around the world.
    The Tibetan’s clothes were threadbare and his eyes were raw and swollen, but the following day Tong Rampa sat with the monks of the Chu Gompa monastery, drinking hot butter tea and trembling with emotion.
    Finally he caught sight of the village of Darchen, and the river began to foam at his feet. In anticipation of meeting the great mountain, Tong Rampa cried with joy, ‘
Lakmuri Ton Chon Go!
’

    Oblivious to the Tibetan’s cry of joy, Muri was approaching the Austrian border. He paused to rest near the police checkpoint and wasn’t at all surprised when two police officers emerged from the booth, smart and shiny like brand-new toys and reeking of eau de cologne.
    ‘I’ve never seen one this bad before, Willy!’ remarked one of the officers. ‘Look at him, he’s just skin and bone.’
    Willy went back to the booth to fetch his flask. The flask was tall and thin and reminded Muri of the women of the Croatian border village Slivovca. Muri remembered Slivovca because he had been ambushed there by a pack of vicious sheepdogs, which had evidently made it a rule to tear to pieces every cat that crossed their path. They were bloodthirsty butchers, not the kind of dogs that would give up even once you were out of reach. Choking with humiliation, Muri had scrambled up a convenient pine tree to escape their gnashing fangs, but his tenacious persecutors had remained at the base of the tree until after midnight. This was probably their only source of entertainment, and they were evidently reluctant to go back to work. Eventually their barking became too much for the shepherds, who dispersed the dogs with their sticks.
    ‘My wife puts milk in my flask every day,’ remarked Willy, unscrewing the cap. ‘I’d rather have brandy, of course, but theold girl keeps filling it up with milk, and not only that but she checks it every evening to see whether I’ve replaced it with anything stronger!’
    He looked around for something to pour the milk into and ended up going back to the booth again for a saucer. The Austrian really was going out of his way for Muri. He reeked of the idle complacency of prosperity, as well as eau de cologne.
    ‘See, we’ve even got cats immigrating now,’ continued his colleague. ‘A load of gypsies turned up yesterday, too. Where on earth did they come from?’
    ‘We’re lucky it’s winter! As soon as the snow melts from the passes we’ll be overrun with refugees. It’s a pity we can’t just smoke them out like flies. I’ve seen all sorts in my time – Croats, Serbs, Albanians, even Turks! The dregs of society. They’re all freeloaders, and they’ll do whatever it takes to stay. They’ve got no pride, no shame!’
    ‘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