The Way of Muri (8 page)

Muri shrugged off this compassion. As he left the hut Patić opened the door for no more than a few seconds, but it was long enough for Muri to fill his lungs with the icy air and to feel within it the coming thaw.

‘Like hell I will,’ he muttered.

He set off as soon as the thaw began, leaving a trail of footprints in the snow as he passed through Piešte, Matina, Khorvar and Rižicy.

Elsewhere Timosha the goose set a new record, successfully multiplying one hundred and forty-four by a thousand (it took ten and a half hours to verify the answer), and on the other side of the world Tong Rampa, a young Tibetan from Lhasa, left the modest shack he called home in order to embark upon his own personal odyssey.

It was a day like any other in the capital of Tibet. A few solo travellers gazed wearily at the Potala Palace, while the Chinese drivers who had obligingly delivered them to Heaven on Earth sat in their Russian jeeps counting their American dollars. They regarded the local poverty with scornful indifference. The short mountain-dweller went virtually unnoticed – only a Chinese policeman, exiled to this godforsaken land for some political indiscretion, glanced briefly in his direction. Tong Rampa
crossed the city, past the palace and all the modest stone houses, and then he was alone on the gigantic Tibetan Plateau. His shoulder bag contained the provisions he would need for his journey – yak fat and pieces of dried lamb. He put one foot mechanically in front of the other, screwing up his eyes and licking the road salt from the ends of his moustache.

Tong Rampa stopped at the Long Chu monastery to call upon his brother, the venerable Togai Lama. After receiving his brother’s blessing and sharing a meal with the young monks, he set out immediately for his ultimate destination – the sacred and mystical Mount Kailash. Tong’s holiday clothes grew shiny with righteous sweat, and every now and then lice fell from his hair, but the pilgrim’s attention was focused on higher things so he rarely stopped to scratch or shake them from the strip of cloth he wore around his head, where they crawled in defiance of gravity.

Tong Rampa came across a number of women walking alone and heading in the same direction. These women were short and stocky, like Mongolian horses, and wore peaked hats and an abundance of jewellery. Tong overtook them easily. The women jingled their necklaces, chasing away the local evil spirits, while Tong Rampa chased away the sheep that wandered onto the country roads. He preferred the more philosophically inclined yaks and would give them a friendly wave as he walked past, his bowed legs rhythmically tramping over the dry frost-covered soil. At night he slept on the bare earth, which was dotted with tufts of grass as tough as yeti fur, and calmly breathed the rarefied air. Even though his lungs were accustomed to it, this air still felt as sharp as knives. Spiritual air. His country, the ‘roof of the world’, came alive at night – stars of all sizes twinkled in the sky, and rays of light shone from the mythical kingdom of Shambhala, or so the Tibetans believed. Tong Rampa’s journey continued. During Tong’s visit, his brother had told him of secret passages through the valleys and hot springs. Tong had committed his brother’s verbal map to memory, and it may well have saved his life.

Occasionally he encountered human settlements. The shabby, smoke-blackened tents and the lice-ridden children running impudently after foreigners did not anger Tong Rampa, because he himself, and those who languished here, knew the true value of the great secret hidden in the local mountains.

‘Shambhala! Shambhala!’ called the American tourists, sticking their heads out of their off-road vehicles, all baseball caps and video cameras. The foreigners who came to Tibet were essentially all the same. They would never really find what they were looking for. These explorers were amused by Tong Rampa and his funny way of walking. He hurried on, pausing only occasionally to eat a pancake or chew a little dried meat.

At night Tong Rampa began to feel as though he could hear the sound of a mysterious and unsettling bell chiming over Tibet. At such moments he would whisper his secret mantra, the meaning of which had been lost by his forefathers long ago: ‘
Lakmuri Ton Chon Go
’. He came across salted lakes more frequently now, and even though he was used to it he became aware of the increase in altitude – his nose kept bleeding, and his blocked nostrils made it even harder to breathe. Continually clearing his nose, Tong Rampa crossed the Valley of Fear and the Plateau of Ten Deaths, where he stumbled across the bones of numerous unknown animals. In the salt-saturated Gompa Valley the wind whipped up the dust until it stung his skin, and he slept surrounded by human skulls.

Eventually Tong Rampa reached the Longma mountain range and the three secret valleys. After successfully navigating his way through them, he arrived at the village of Parayang in February 1993.

Soon the Tibetan was walking bravely between two lakes. The lake to his left was a frenzy of turbulent waves, with a ferocious wind blowing above it. This was Lake Rakshastal, the demon lake, home to none other than Simbu-Tso himself. By contrast, sacred waters calmly lapped the shores of Lake Manasarovar, the lake to his right. Tong Rampa was so unsettled
by the Lake of Death and 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 the
old 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 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…’