The Way of Muri by Ilya Boyashov Page A

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 tolower 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