had given me 141 on Yugoslavia: we had lent them, through the World Bank, a total of fifty-eight million bucks. How Bilic had managed to promote a Ford for himself out of it was to some extent my business, since I paid income tax, but I decided to table it. As we climbed in, Wolfe asked Bilic to inform his son that the trip had been fully paid for -- two thousand dinars -- and Bilic did so. The road was level most of the way to Titograd, across the valley and up the Moracha River, but it took us more than an hour to cover the twenty-three kilometers -- fourteen miles to you -- chiefly on account of mud. I started in the back seat with Wolfe, but after the springs had hit in a couple of chuckholes I moved up front with Jube. On the smooth stretches Wolfe posted me some on Titograd -- but, since Jube might have got some English at the university, he was Tone Stara telling his American-born son. As Podgorica, it had long been the commercial capital of Montenegro. Its name had been changed to Titograd in 1950. Its population was around twelve thousand. It had a fine old Turkish bridge across the Moracha. A tributary of the Moracha separated the old Turkish town, which had been inhabited by Albanians thirty years ago and probably still 142 was, from the new Montenegrin town, which had been built in the latter half of the nineteenth century. Twisted around in the front seat, I tried to deduce from Jube's profile whether he knew more English than I did SerboCroat, but there was no sign one way or the other. The commercial capital of Montenegro was a letdown. I hadn't expected a burg of twelve thousand to be one of the world's wonders, and Wolfe had told me that, under the Communists, Montenegro was still a backwater -- but hadn't they changed the name to Titograd, and wasn't Tito the Number One? So, as we jolted and bumped over holes in the pavement and I took in the old gray two-story buildings that didn't even have thatched roofs to give them a tone, I felt cheated. I decided that if and when I became a dictator I would damn well clean a town up and widen some of its streets and have a little painting done before I changed its named to Goodwingrad. I had just made that decision when the car rolled to the curb and stopped in front of a stone edifice a lot bigger and some dirtier than most of those we had been passing. Wolfe said something with an edge on his voice. Jube turned in the seat to face him and made a little speech. For me the words 143 were just noise, but I didn't like his tone or his expression, so I slipped my hand inside my jacket to scratch myself in the neighborhood of my left armpit, bringing my fingers in contact with the butt of the Marley. 'No trouble, Alex,' Wolfe assured me. 'As you know, I asked him to leave us at the north end of the square, but he is being thoughtful. He says it is required that on arriving at a place travelers must have their identification papers inspected, and he thought it would be more convenient for us if he brought us here, to the local headquarters of the national police. Will you bring the knapsacks?' He opened the door and was climbing out. Since the only papers we had with us were engraved dollars and dinars, I had a suspicion that his foot condition had affected his central nervous system and paralyzed his brain, but I was helpless. I couldn't even stop a passer-by and ask the way to the nearest hospital, and I had never felt so useless and so goddam silly as, with a knapsack under each arm, I followed Jube and Wolfe across to the entrance and into the stone edifice. Inside, Jube led us along a dim and dingy corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a room where two men were perched on stools behind a counter. The 144 men greeted him by name, not with any visible enthusiasm. 'Here are two travelers,' Jube said, 'who wish to show their papers. I just drove them from Rijeka. I can't tell you how they got to Rijeka. The big fat one says his name is Tone Stara, and the other is his son Alex.' 'In one respect,' Wolfe objected, 'that statement is not accurate. We do not wish to show papers, for an excellent reason. We have no papers to show.' 'Hah!' Jube cried in triumph. One of the men said reasonably, 'Merely the usual papers, nothing special. You can't live without papers.' 'We have none.' 'I don't believe it. Then where are they?' 'This is not a matter for clerks,' Jube declared. 'Tell Gospo Stritar, and I'll take them in to him.' Either they didn't like being called clerks, or they didn't like Jube, or both. They gave him dirty looks and exchanged mutterings, and one of them disappeared through an inner door, closing it behind him. Soon it opened again, and he stood holding it. I got the impression that Jube was not specifically included in the invitation to pass through, but he came along, bringing up the rear. This room was bigger but just as dingy. 145 The glass in the high narrow windows had apparently last been washed the day the name had been changed from Podgorica to Titograd, four years ago. Of the two big old desks, one was unoccupied, and behind the other sat a lantem-jawed husky with bulging shoulders, who needed a haircut. Evidently he had been in conference with an individual in a chair at the end of the desk -- one younger and a lot uglier, with a flat nose and a forehead that slanted back at a sharp angle from just above the eyebrows. The husky behind the desk, after a quick glance at Wolfe and me, focused on Jube with no sign of cordiality. 'Where did you get these men?' he demanded.
Jube told him. 'They appeared at my father's house, from nowhere, and asked to be driven to Podgorica. The big fat one said Podgorica. He said he would pay two thousand dinars or six American dollars. He knew we have an automobile and a telephone. When his request was refused he told my father to telephone the Ministry of the Interior in Belgrade, Room Nineteen, and ask if he should cooperate with a man calling himself Tone Stara. My father thought it unnecessary to telephone, and commanded me to drive them to Titograd. 146 On the way they talked together in a foreign tongue which I don't know but which I think was English. The big fat one told me to let them out at the north end of the square, but I brought them here instead, and now I am fully justified. They admit they have no papers. It will be interesting to hear them explain.' Jube pulled a chair around and sat down. The husky one eyed him. 'Did I tell you to be seated?' 'No, you didn't.' 'Then get up. I said get up! That's better, little man. You go to the university in Zagreb, that is true, and you have even spent three days in Belgrade, but I have not heard that you have been designated a hero of the people. You did right to bring these men here, and I congratulate you on behalf of our great People's Republic, but if you try to assert yourself beyond your years and your position you will undoubtedly get your throat cut. Now go back home and study to improve yourself, and give my regards to your worthy father.' 'You are being arbitrary, Gospo Stritar. It would be better for me to stay and hear ?' 'Get out!' I thought for a second the college boy was 147 going to balk, and he did too, but the final vote was no. He turned and marched out. When the door had closed behind him, the one seated at the end of the desk got up, evidently meaning to leave, but Stritar said something to him, and he went to another chair and sat. Wolfe went and took the one at the end of the desk, and I took the one that Jube had vacated. Stritar looked at Wolfe, at me, and back at Wolfe. He spoke. 'What's this talk about your having no papers?' 'Not talk,' Wolfe told him. 'A fact. We have none.' 'Where are they? What's your story? Who stole them?' 'Nobody. We had no papers. You will find our story somewhat unusual.' 'I already find it unusual. You had better talk.' 'I intend to, Mr. Stritar. My name is Tone Stara. I was born in Galichnik, and at the age of sixteen I began to follow the well-known custom of spending eleven months of the year elsewhere to earn a living. For seven years I returned to Galichnik each July, but the eighth year I did not return because I had got married in a foreign land. My wife bore a son and died, but still I did not return. I had abandoned my 148 father's craft and tried other activities, and I prospered. My son Alex grew up and joined in my activities, and we prospered more. I thought I had cut all bonds with my native land, shed all memories, but when Yugoslavia was expelled from the Cominform six years ago my interest was aroused, and so was my son's, and we followed developments more and more closely. Last July, when Yugoslavia resumed relations with Soviet Russia and Marshal Tito made his famous statement, my curiosity became intense. I became involved in arguments, not so much with others as with myself. I tried to get enough reliable information to make a final and just decision about the right and the wrong and the true interest and welfare of the people of my birthland.' He nodded sidewise at me. 'My son's curiosity was as great as mine, and we finally concluded that it was impossible to judge from so great a distance. We couldn't get satisfactory information, and we couldn't test what we did get. I determined to come and find out for myself. I thought it best for me to come alone, since my son couldn't speak the language, but he insisted on accompanying me, and in the end I consented. Naturally there was some difficulty, since we could not get passports for either Albania 149 or Yugoslavia, and we chose to go by ship to Naples and fly to Bari. Leaving our luggage -- and papers and certain other articles -- at Bari, we arranged, through an agent who had been recommended to me, for a boat to take us across to the Albanian coast. Landing at night near Drin, we made our way across Albania to Galichnik, but we discovered in a few hours that nothing was to be learned there and crossed the border back into Albania.' 'At what spot?' Stritar asked. Wolfe shook his head. 'I don't intend to cause trouble for anyone who has helped us. I had been somewhat inclined to think that Russian leadership offered the best hope for the people of my native land, but after a few days in Albania I was not so sure. People didn't want to talk with a stranger, but I heard enough to give me a suspicion that conditions might be better under Tito in Yugoslavia. Also I heard something of a feeling that the most promising future was with neither the Russians nor Marshal Tito, but with an underground movement that condemned both of them, so I was more confused than when I had left my adopted country in search of the truth. All the time, you understand, we were ourselves underground in a way, because we 150 had no papers. I had, of course, intended all along to visit Yugoslavia, and now I was resolved also to learn more of the movement which I was told was called the Spirit
