Padre Marjan spoke warmly of Perolli, whom he had so innocently betrayed; he said that he had once seen him at a distance in Scutari, and the village was honored to have him for a guest. While he said this he wrapped the precious letter in its silk and laid it carefully away in the desk. Then he went away, saying that he would send us a fire.
In a few minutes it came, a pile of hot coals in a large iron baking dish. Cheremi set it in the middle of the floor—where, indeed, it made little impression on the damp chill of the room—and went to fetch us cups of Turkish coffee. But we were too anxious to linger over it; we swallowed it hastily and dressed as quickly as possible, talking about what we could do to save Perolli. We thought that perhaps as American citizens we could overawe the Serbs, but none of us really had much hope of it; indeed, we had no right to attempt American protection for a secret-service agent of the Albanian government along the borders of the land held by invading Jugo-Slav armies. Still, we did not know that he was a secret-service agent; we had every right to suppose that he was merely our companion on a vacation trip. It was all very vague, but distressing.
Frances and Alex hurried out to find Perolli, but I sat helpless. No human effort would get my feet into the iron-hard shrunken shoes that had so long been water soaked. What on earth was I to do? Could I go barefooted over the mountains? More immediate question, could I go forth shoeless to inspire terror of America in the breasts of possible Serbs? Ignoble predicament!
While I sat struggling with the obdurate leather the door opened and in came the magnificent figure of Lulash, the chief. He had none of the marks of self-conscious importance that our statesmen have; he was as simple, as graceful, and as unself-conscious as a tiger in his own jungle, and at the moment he struck me with something of the same spellbound, half-admiring terror. He looked as capable of swift, unconcerned killing as the rifle on his back. Behind him came Perolli, betraying the tension of his excitement only by the ease with which he concealed it.
Lulash saluted me as I stared up at him, petrified, from the mattress. “Long may you live!” said he, and, swinging the rifle from his back, he set it against the padre’s desk. Then he sat down on the floor—there were, of course, no chairs in the room—close to the baking dish filled with warm coals. He did not lounge, but sat straight, his legs folded beneath him, and Perolli sat similarly on the other side of the baking dish. Lulash took a silver tobacco box from his sash and slowly rolled a cigarette; Perolli took from his pocket a box of the American variety; they exchanged cigarettes, lighted them by bending close to the red coals, and sat back again, watching each other in silence for some moments.
I put my shoes down stealthily, making not the slightest noise, tucked my feet beneath me, and sat perfectly still. Outside, the rain made a swishing sound; the soft roaring of a thousand waterfalls ran beneath it like an accompaniment. Thin streaks of snow-chilled, wet air came through the many cracks in the board walls and floor; they tore the cigarette smoke into dancing wisps. Wet spread slowly on the walls; the floor was spotted with damp where we had dropped our sodden clothes the night before. The coals in the baking dish were filming over with gray ash.
It was the first time I had ever been present at a diplomatic conference, and that one on which the fate of a nation depended. For if these mountain men did turn Perolli over to the Serbs, getting thereby the favor of the armies that held their cities and grazing lands, I had no doubt that it meant soldiers from Tirana coming up to Thethis, civil war with the northern tribes, and not at all improbably the murdering of the new-born government. Perhaps, indeed, another outbreak in the Balkans, the sore spot of Europe. And I could not understand Albanian!
Lulash spoke first, in short, decisive sentences. I caught the word “Serbs” and the word for “markets.” At the end of each sentence Perolli shook his head sidewise, in the quick gesture that means, “Yes.” Lulash was stating the case; Perolli was in his power; the Serbs wanted Perolli; the Serbs held Thethis’s markets and grazing lands; moreover—for I caught the word “kronen”—there was the probability of reward. To all this Perolli assented. He had not yet spoken.
There was another slight pause, but not for him to break. Lulash was thinking. Then he leaned a little forward, put his hand on his heart, and spoke again. There was not the faintest expression on Perolli’s face; I could not make out what was happening. When Lulash had ceased speaking Perolli smoked for a moment in silence. “You have done well,” he said, then, in Albanian; and to me, “Have you got your fountain pen?”
I got it out of my trousers pocket and gave it to him quickly—too quickly. He was very leisurely about taking it. Then he opened his notebook and wrote in it. Lulash watched the moving pen with a sort of awed fascination. Perolli read aloud the words he had written, closed the notebook, and put it in his pocket. He showed no pleasure of relief, but the very atmosphere of the room had lightened.