The Black Mountain

VIII

To build Rijeka all they had to do was knock off chunks of rock, roll them down to the edge of the valley, stack them in rectangles, and top the rectangles with thatched roofs; and that was all they had done, about the time Columbus started across the Atlantic to find India. Mud from the April rains was a foot deep in the one street, but there was a raised sidewalk of flat stones on either side. As we proceeded along it, single file, Wolfe in the lead, I got an impression that we were not welcome. I caught glimpses of human forms ahead, one or two on the sidewalk, a couple of children running along the top of a low stone wall, a woman in a yard with a broom; but they all disappeared before we reached them. There weren’t even any faces at windows as we went by. I asked Wolfe’s back, “What have we got, fleas?”

He stopped and turned. “No. They have. The sap has been sucked out of their spines. Pfui.”

He went on. A little beyond the center of the village he left the walk to turn right through a gap in a stone wall into a yard. The house was set back a little farther than most of them, and was a little wider and higher. The door was arched at the top, with fancy carvings up the sides. Wolfe raised a fist to knock, but before his knuckles touched, the door swung open and a man confronted us.

Wolfe asked him, “Are you George Bilic?”

“I am.” He was a low bass. “And you?”

“My name is unimportant, but you may have it. I am Toné Stara, and this is my son Alex. You own an automobile, and we wish to be driven to Podgorica. We will pay a proper amount.”

Bilic’s eyes narrowed. “I know of no place called Podgorica.”

“You call it Titograd. I am not yet satisfied with the change, though I may be. My son and I are preparing to commit our sympathy and our resources. Of you we require merely a service for pay. I am willing to call it Titograd as a special favor to you.”

“Where are you from and how did you get here?”

“That’s our affair. You need merely to know that we will pay two thousand dinars to be driven twenty-three kilometers — or six American dollars, if you prefer them.”

Bilic’s narrow eyes in his round puffy face got narrower. “I do not prefer American dollars and I don’t like such an ugly suggestion. How do you know I own an automobile?”

“That is known to everyone. Do you deny it?”

“No. But there’s something wrong with it. A thing on the engine is broken, and it won’t go.”

“My son Alex will make it go. He’s an expert.”

Bilic shook his head. “I couldn’t allow that. He might damage it permanently.”

“You’re quite right.” Wolfe was sympathetic. “We are strangers to you. But I also know that you have a telephone, and you have kept us standing too long outside your door. We will enter and go with you to the telephone, and you will make a call to Belgrade, for which we will pay. You will get the Ministry of the Interior. Room Nineteen, and you will ask if it is desirable for you to cooperate with a man who calls himself Toné Stara — describing me, of course. And you will do this at once, for I am beginning to get a little impatient.”

Wolfe’s bluff wasn’t as screwy as it sounds. From what Telesio had told him, he knew that Bilic would take no risk either of offending a stranger who might be connected with the secret police, or calling himself to the attention of headquarters in Belgrade by phoning to ask a dumb question. The bluff not only worked; it produced an effect which seemed to me entirely out of proportion when Wolfe told me later what he had said. Bilic suddenly went as pale as if all his blood had squirted out under his toenails. Simultaneously he tried to smile, and the combination wasn’t attractive. “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said in a different tone, backing up a step and bowing. “I’m sure you’ll understand that it is necessary to be careful. Come in and sit down, and we’ll have some wine.”

“We haven’t time.” Wolfe was curt. “You will telephone at once.”

“It would be ridiculous to telephone.” Bilic was doing his best to smile. “After all, you merely wish to be driven to Titograd, which is natural and proper. Won’t you come in?”

“No. We’re in a hurry.”

“Very well. I know what it is to be in a hurry, I assure you.” He turned and shouted, “Jubé!”

He might just as well have whisepered it, since Jubé had obviously been lurking not more than ten feet away. He came through a curtained arch — a tall and bony youth, maybe eighteen, in a blue shirt with open collar, and blue jeans he could have got from Sears Roebuck.

“My son is on vacation from the university,” Bilic informed us. “He returns tomorrow to learn how to do his part in perfecting the Socialist Alliance of the Working People of Yugoslavia under the leadership of our great and beloved President. Jubé, this is Mr. Toné Stara and his son Alex. They wish to be driven to Titograd, and you will—”

“I heard what was said. I think you should telephone the Ministry in Belgrade.”

Jubé was a complication that Telesio hadn’t mentioned. I didn’t like him. To get his contribution verbatim I would have to wait until Wolfe reported, but his tone was nasty, and I caught the Yugoslav sounds for “telephone” and “Belgrade,” so I had the idea. It seemed to me that Jubé could do with a little guidance from an elder, and luckily his father felt the same way about it.

“As I have told you, my son,” Bilic said sternly, “the day may have come for you to do your own thinking, but not mine. I think these gentlemen should be conveyed to Titograd in my automobile, and, since I have other things to do, I think you should drive them. If you regard yourself as sufficiently mature to ignore what I think, we can discuss the matter later in private, but I hereby instruct you to drive Mr. Stara and his son to Titograd. Do you intend to follow my instruction?”

They exchanged gazes. Bilic won. Jubé’s eyes fell, and he muttered, “Yes.”

“That is not a proper reply to your father.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Go and start the engine.”

The boy went. I shelled out some Yugoslav currency.

Bilic explained that the car would have to leave the village by way of the lane in the rear, on higher ground than the street, which the mud made impassable, and conducted us through the house and out the back door. If he had more family than Jubé, it kept out of sight. The grounds back of the house were neat, with thick grass and flowerbeds. A walk of flat stones took us to a stone building, and as we approached, a car backed out of it to the right, with Jubé at the wheel. I stared at it in astonishment. It was a 1953 Ford sedan. Then I remembered an item of the briefing Wolfe had given me 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 Jubé. On the smooth stretches Wolfe posted me some on Titograd — but, since Jubé might have got some English at the university, he was Toné 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 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 Jubé’s profile whether he knew more English than I did Serbo-Croat, 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 name 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. Jubé turned in the seat to face him and made a little speech. For me the words were just a 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 Jubé and Wolfe across to the entrance and into the stone edifice. Inside, Jubé 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 men greeted him by name, not with an visible enthusiasm.

“Here are two travelers,” Jubé 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 Toné 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!” Jubé 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,” Jubé 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 Jubé, 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 Jubé 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. The glass in the high narrow windows had apparently last been washed the day the name had been changed from Podgorica to Tito-grad, four years ago. Of the two big old desks, one was unoccupied, and behind the other sat a lantern-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 Jubé with no sign of cordiality.

“Where did you get these men?” he demanded.

Jubé 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 Toné Stara. My father thought it unnecessary to telephone, and commanded me to drive them to Titograd. 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.”

Jubé pulled a chair around and sat down. The husky 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 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 Jubé 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 Toné 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 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 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 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 of the Black Mountain. I suppose you have heard of it?”

Stritar smiled, not with amusement. “Oh yes, I’ve heard of it.”

“I understand it is usually called simply the Spirit. No one would tell me the names of its leaders, but from certain hints I gathered that one of them was to be found near Mount Lovchen, which would seem logical. So we came north through the mountains and managed to get over the border into Yugoslavia, and across the valley and the river as far as Rijeka, but then we felt it was useless to go on to Cetinje without better information. In my boyhood I had once been to Podgorica to visit a friend named Grubo Balar.” Wolfe turned abruptly in his chair to look at the flat-nosed young man with a slanting forehead, seated over toward the wall. “I noticed when I came in that you look like him, and thought you might be his son. May I ask, is your name Balar?”

“No, it isn’t,” Flat-nose replied in a low smooth voice that was barely audible. “My name is Peter Zov, if that concerns you.”

“Not at all, if it isn’t Balar.” Wolfe went back to Stritar. “So we decided to come to Podgorica — which I shall probably learn to call Titograd if we stay in this country — first to try to find my old friend, and second to see what it is like here. Someone had mentioned George Bilic of Rijeka, with his automobile and telephone, and we were footsore, so we sought him out and offered him two thousand dinars to drive us here. You will want to know why, when Bilic didn’t want to oblige us, I told him to telephone the Ministry of the Interior in Belgrade. It was merely a maneuver — not very subtle, I admit — which I used once or twice in Albania, to test the atmosphere. If he had telephoned, it would have broadened the test considerably.”

“If he had telephoned,” Stritar said, “you would now be in jail and someone would be on his way from Belgrade to deal with you.”

“All the better. That would tell me much.”

“Perhaps more than you want to know. You told Bilic to ask for Room Nineteen. Why?”

“To impress him.”

“Since you just arrived in Yugoslavia, how did you know about Room Nineteen?”

“It was mentioned to me several times in Albania.”

“In what way?”

“As the lair of the panther who heads the secret police, and therefore the center of power.” Wolfe flipped a hand. “Let me finish. I told Jubé Bilic to take us to the north corner of the square, but when he brought us here instead I thought it just as well. You would soon have learned of our presence, from someone else if not from him, and it would be better to see you and tell you about us.”

“It would be better still to tell me the truth.”

“I have told you the truth.”

“Bah. Why did you offer to pay Bilic in American dollars?”

“Because we have some.”

“How many?”

“Oh, more than a thousand.”

“Where did you get them?”

“In the United States. That is a wonderful country to make money, and my son and I have made our full share, but it does not know how to arrange for a proper concentration of power, and therefore there is too much loose talk. That’s why we came here to find out. Who can best concentrate the power of the Yugoslavs — the Russians, or Tito, or the Spirit of the Black Mountain?”

Stritar cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “This is all very interesting, and extremely silly. It occurs to me that of the many millions lent to Yugoslavia by the World Bank — that is to say, by the United States — only one little million is being spent in Montenegro, for a dam and power plant just above Titograd, not three kilometers from here. If the World Bank wanted to know if the money is being spent for the agreed purpose, might it not send some such man as you to look?”

“It might,” Wolfe conceded. “But not me. I am not technically qualified, and neither is my son.”

“You can’t possibly expect me,” Stritar asserted, “to believe your fantastic story. I admit that I have no idea what you do expect. You must know that, having no papers, you are subject to arrest and a thorough examination, which you would find uncomfortable. You may be Russian agents. You may, as I said, be agents of the World Bank. You may be foreign spies from God knows where. You may be American friends of the Spirit of the Black Mountain. You may even have been sent from Room Nineteen in Belgrade, to test the loyalty and vigilance of Montenegrins. But I ask myself, if you are any of those, why in the name of God are you not provided with papers? It’s ridiculous.”

“Exactly.” Wolfe nodded approvingly. “It is a pleasure to meet with an intelligent man, Mr. Stritar. You can account for our having no papers only by assuming that my fantastic story is true, as indeed it is. As for arresting us, I don’t pretend that we would be delighted to spend a year or two in jail, but it would certainly answer some of the questions we have been asking. As for what we expect, why not allow us a reasonable amount of time, say a month, to get the information we came for? I would know better than to make such a suggestion in Belgrade, but this is Montenegro, where the Turks clawed at the crags for centuries to no purpose, and it seems unlikely that my son and I will topple them. To show that I am being completely frank with you, I said that we have more than a thousand American dollars, but I carry very little of it and my son only a fraction. We have cached most of it, a considerable amount, in the mountains, and it is significant that the spot we chose is not in Albania but in Montenegro. That would seem to imply that we lean to Tito instead of the Russians — did you say something, Mr. Zov?”

Peter Zov, who had made a noise that could have been only a grunt, shook his head. “No, but I could.”

“Then say it,” Stritar told him.

“American dollars in the mountains must not go to the Spirit.”

“There is that risk,” Wolfe admitted, “but I doubt if they’ll be found, and what I have heard of that movement makes it even more doubtful that we will favor it. You’re a man of action, are you, Mr. Zov?”

“I can do things, yes.” The low, smooth voice was silky.

“Peter has earned a reputation,” Stritar said.

“A good thing to have.” Wolfe came back to Stritar. “But if he has in mind prying out of us where the dollars are, it doesn’t seem advisable. We are American citizens, and serious violence to us would be indiscreet; and besides, the bulk of our fortune is in the United States, beyond your reach unless you enlist our sympathy and support.”

“What place in the United States?”

“That’s unimportant.”

“Is Toné Stara your name there?”

“It may be, or maybe not. I can tell you, I understand the kind of power that is typified by Room Nineteen, and it attracts me, but I prefer not to call its attention to my friends and associates in America. It might be inconvenient in case I decide to return and stay.”

“You may not be permitted to return.”

“True. We take that risk.”

“You’re a pair of fools.”

“Then don’t waste your time on us. All a fool can do in Montenegro is fall off a mountain and break his neck, as you should know. If I came back here to fulfill my destiny, and brought my son along, why make a fuss about it?”

Stritar laughed. It seemed to me a plain, honest laugh, as if he were really amused, and I wondered what Wolfe had said, but I had to wait until later to find out. Peter Zov didn’t join in. When Stritar was through being amused he looked at his wristwatch, gave me a glance — the eighth or ninth he had shot at me — and then frowned at Wolfe. “You are aware,” he said, “that everywhere you go in Titograd, and everything you say and do, will get to me. This is not London or Washington, or even Belgrade. I don’t need to have you followed. If I want you in an hour, or five hours, or forty, I can get you — alive or dead. You say you understand the kind of power that is typified by Room Nineteen. If you don’t, you will. I am now permitting you to go, but if I change my mind you’ll know it.”

He sounded severe, so it came as a surprise to see Wolfe leave his chair, tell me to come, and head for the door. I picked up the knapsacks and followed. In the outer room only one of the clerks was left, and he merely gave us a brief look as we passed through. Not being posted on our status, I was half expecting a squad to stop us downstairs and collar us, but the corridor was empty. On the sidewalk we got a few curious glances from passers-by as we stood a moment. I noted that Bilic’s 1953 Ford was gone.

“This way,” Wolfe said, turning right.

The next incident gave me a lot of satisfaction, and God knows I needed it. In New York, where I belong and know my way around and can read the signs, I no longer get any great kick out of it when a hunch comes through for me, but there in Titograd it gave me a lift to find that my nervous system was on the job in spite of all the handicaps. We had covered perhaps a quarter of a mile on the narrow sidewalks, dodging foreigners of various shapes and sizes, turning several corners, when I got the feeling that we had a tail and made a quick stop and wheel.

After one sharp glance I turned and caught up with Wolfe and told him, “Jubé is coming along behind. Not accidentally, because when I turned he dived into a doorway. The sooner you bring me up to date, the better.”

“Not standing here in the street, being jostled. I wish you were a linguist.”

“I don’t. Do we shake Jubé?”

“No. Let him play. I want to sit down.”

He went on, and I tagged along. Every fifty paces or so I looked back, but got no further glimpses of our college-boy tail until we had reached a strip of park along the river bank. That time he sidestepped behind a tree that was too thin to hide him. He badly needed some kindergarten coaching. Wolfe led the way to a wooden bench at the edge of a graveled path, sat, and compressed his lips as he straightened his legs to let his feet rest on the heels. I sat beside him and did likewise.

“I would have supposed,” he said peevishly, “that yours would be hardier.”

“Yeah. Did you climb a precipice barefooted?”

He closed his eyes and sat and breathed. After a little his eyes opened, and he spoke. “The river is at its highest now. This is the Zeta; you see where it joins the Moracha. Over there is the old Turkish town. In my boyhood only Albanians lived there, and according to Telesio only a few of them have left since Tito broke with Moscow.”

“Thanks. When you finish telling me about the Albanians, tell me about us. I thought people without papers in Communist countries were given the full treatment. How did you horse him? From the beginning, please, straight through.”

He reported. It was a nice enough spot, with the trees sporting new green leaves, and fresh green grass that needed mowing, and patches of red and yellow and blue flowers; and with enough noise from the river for him to disregard the people passing by along the path.

When he had finished I looked it over a little and asked a few questions, and then remarked, “Okay. All I could do was watch to see if you reached in your pocket for the lullaby. Did Stritar sick Jubé on us?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he did he needs some new personnel.” I looked at my wrist. “It’s after six o’clock. What’s next — look for a good haystack while it’s daylight?”

“You know what we came to Podgorica for.”

I crossed my legs jauntily to show that I could. “I would like to make a suggestion. Extreme stubbornness is all very well when you’re safe at home with the chain-bolt on the door, and if and when we’re back there, call it Podgorica if you insist. But here it wouldn’t bust a vein for you to call it Titograd.”

“These vulgar barbarians have no right to degrade a history and deform a culture.”

“No, and they have no right to give two American citizens the works, but they can and probably will. You can snarl ‘Podgorica’ at them while they’re making you over. Are we waiting here for something?”

“No.”

“Shall I go tie Jubé to a tree?”

“No. Ignore him.”

“Then why don’t we go?”

“Confound it, my feet!”

“What they need,” I said sympathetically, “is exercise, to stimulate circulation. After a couple of weeks of steady walking and climbing you won’t even notice you have feet.”

“Shut up.”

“Yes, sir.”

He closed his eyes. In a minute he opened them again, slowly bent his left knee, and got his left foot flat on the ground, then his right.

“Very well,” he said grimly, and stood up.