“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.”