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, Jube! He might just as well have whispered it, since Jube 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. Jube, this is Mr. Tone 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.
Jube 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 Jube 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. Jube’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 Jube, 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 Jube 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 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 was,
from
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, Jube! He might just as well have whispered it, since Jube 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. Jube, this is Mr. Tone 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.
Jube 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 Jube 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. Jube’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 Jube, 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 Jube 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 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 was,
from
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