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?”