Bright and early Thursday morning Jaffer went out to breakfast. He was
always an early riser, and coffee would be cheaper at the Green Wreath
than at the Moskwa. He took his new phrase-book along, and into the
pocket of his new suit he thrust Yukitch’s manuscript.
At seven-thirty he entered the café. At that hour the place was almost
deserted, and he chose a table for himself, in a corner—for man is a
goniotropic animal. He took out his phrase-book and amused himself by
trying to pronounce the stuff.
At a quarter to eight, when the deliberate waiter was pouring coffee for
him, Jaffer noticed three young men come in, each carrying a handbag.
Although there were plenty of tables empty, the boys mechanically made
their way toward his; it was evidently their customary haunt. The waiter
glanced round, embarrassed. Jaffer, however, arose politely with the
phrase-book in his hand and read aloud with elaborate care. “_Veseli me,
da ste tako tačan_—I am glad that you are so punctual.”
Two of the young men turned away. The third, a tall, handsome, awkward
boy of nineteen, laughed, carefully deposited his bag, and stood at
Jaffer’s right, looking over his shoulder at the book. Immediately
Jaffer drew from his pocket Dr. Yukitch’s manuscript, and handed it to
the youth. “_Smijem li vas za jednu uslugu zamoliti_—may I ask a great
favour? _Ja moram učite čim prije moguce_—I must take some lessons as
soon as possible. _Mozete li mi preporučiti dobroga učitelja_—can you
recommend a good teacher?”
The boy laughed rather nervously, and began to translate the manuscript
into excellent German, to the following effect: “The terrible filaria
or reshta worm is unknown to my countrymen who at Fotcha drink the
crystalline waters of the Drina, or who at B.S. drink the sweet mountain
spring of the Moschanitza.” The youth stopped, glanced at the author’s
name, looked sharply at Jaffer, who was now seating himself again, and
turned to his companions with a gesture of summons. They came, and one of
them took the manuscript. “Yukitch!” he exclaimed, and seated himself at
Jaffer’s left. The translator thereupon took the seat at the right.
“Dr. Yukitch,” said Jaffer, “spoke to me of Zeleni Vienaz as a place
where I might find a friend.”
Silence greeted this remark, but the third man now seated himself, at
the end of the table, opposite Jaffer. He was a slight, swart, unsmiling
fellow. His mass of hair was dark, his head longer than that of most
Slavs, his nose straight and prominent. His eyes were grey, deep-set, and
expressive.
The waiter brought more coffee and rolls, and all began to eat. While
still eating, the boys began to smoke. But Jaffer did not light up. He
proceeded to break the unfriendly silence.
“My name is Dr. Jaffer. It is not the name on my passport. You are at
liberty to report me.”
The big translator thawed at once. “We don’t do any reporting, Dr.
Jaffer. You may call me Ned. The man at your right is Trifko. The other
man is—”
“Silence!”
Jaffer offered his hand to the boy at his left and the boy at his right,
and ignored the boy opposite. He turned again to Ned.
“I am so ignorant of Bosnia that I do not understand even the first
sentence that you translated. What town does Yukitch mean by B.S.?”
“Bosna Serai. That’s the old name of Serajevo, the capital.”
Still another cam clicked in Jaffer’s brain. _Serajevo, June 28._ Saadi
and Mohammed Beg would probably meet at that time and place.
“Thank you, Ned. If you will give me lessons in Servian, you may name
your own price. I have been a student, and know what a little extra money
sometimes means to a fellow.”
“I can’t do it, Dr. Jaffer. We are going away for a little trip, up the
Danube. In fact, we are on the way to the boat now. But there is plenty
of time, and I’ll send some one to your hotel. The Obergymnasium is full
of fellows who need money.”
Jaffer nodded. “Thank you. Here in Belgrad you are not so lucky as I was
in America. A professor gave me room rent free for two years.”
The youth at the end of the table spoke slowly and bitterly. “I have been
in Belgrad as long as that, and once Professor Markovitch invited me to
dinner. The rest of the time I have fed here—with swine.”
“Meaning me?” flashed big Ned.
“As you please,” growled the dark, thin youth. “You are a chronic
faultfinder, but there’s nobody who’s had so much help. It’s not every
poor devil who gets employed in a government printing office. What do you
know about life, anyhow? You brag that you’re proletariat, but you never
climbed around, herding goats, holding your primer in your hand. You
never knew what it meant to have no coat when the bora blew week in week
out.”
The third youth—Trifko—interrupted with sullen dignity. “Both of you had
better keep still and let Dr. Jaffer talk.”
“I infer,” said Jaffer, “that you fellows know Yukitch.”
“We don’t know him,” said Trifko, “but we know all about him.”
“In that case you may know Saadi of Starigrad.”
“I have met him when I was a little boy. Ned and Gavro don’t know him. He
lives in Vienna. He’s dropped out.” Trifko uttered his short sentences
with smooth monotonous force.
Jaffer meditated. Finally he turned to the lowering youth at the end of
the table. “Your friend has mentioned your name. Am I permitted to use
it?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then, Gavro, I should like to say two things to you. First, if I were
your doctor, I’d order you into the open air for six months. It is none
of my business, but if you don’t let up a bit and get out a good deal,
you are going to die of tuberculosis. Secondly, I’m going to write to
Yukitch to-night. What shall I tell him about Bosnia?”
“Ask Trifko. He seems to know everything.”
Trifko was much the calmest of the three men, but he leaned forward like
a panther ready to spring. “Tell Yukitch that since he ran away things
have been happening just the same. Tell him that the farmer doesn’t have
to get down off his horse to let a Turk pass—he doesn’t have to because
now he has no horse. Two years ago they changed the constitution so
that the commanding-general has civil power. Potiorek does what he damn
pleases—things worse than Vareshanin ever thought of doing. Tell him
that last year every literary and athletic society was disbanded. Tell
him that the constitution has been suspended for a year now, and we’re
declared to be in a state of siege. Tell him that every student from
Trebinje to Tuzla is on strike. And then just add a postscript and tell
him that the Pope’s son in Pale called him a damned kukavitcha. That
means coward.”
Jaffer took out his note-book and entered the notes. He handed the book
to Trifko, and Trifko viciously spelled out “kukavitcha” in Cyrillic
letters.
“Where do you live when you’re at home, Dr. Jaffer?” It was Ned who
spoke, in his humorous, lively fashion.
“At Peshawar. I don’t like the English any more than you like the
Austrians.”
“Did you have to get out?”
“No. I haven’t been mixed up in anything.”
Trifko spoke. “What would your family say if you were?”
“It would be hard on my father, for he holds a government job. My
mother—well, you know what mothers are. They will do what they can to
keep you from hanging—and afterwards come and gather up your bones.”
Gavro’s slender nervous hand clutched the edge of the table. He was
wondering whether his mother would be able to prove, against the parish
record, that he was born in June and not in July.
Jaffer resumed. “By the way, Trifko, I’m looking for Saadi. But you say
he’s in Vienna. Are you quite certain?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You can go to Starigrad and inquire, but it is not an
easy trip.”
“How should I go?”
Trifko meditated. “You could go by way of Serajevo, but I should not
advise it. The place is only fifty miles south of there, but it is the
wildest region in my country, and the roads are terrific. Go to Fotcha
and inquire of the Moslems—not the Commandant. They’ll drive you over.
The castle is on the headwaters of the Drina or the Narenta—I forget
which. The two rivers come pretty close together there.”
“How do I get to Fotcha?”
“Go south. Take the train to Stolaz—not the Stolaz in Herzegovina, where
Saadi’s dearest friend lives—but to Stolaz above Nish. Drive by way of
Uzice to Vardiste on the border. Take the train to Ustipraca. From there
by postwagon to Gorazda. From there to Fotcha by carriage.”
Jaffer took out his note-book and jotted it all down.
Ned looked over the notes and corrected the spelling, as a proofreader
might. “You won’t need much Servian, doctor. There’ll be a damned Schwab
at every corner to watch you.”
Gavro was regarding Jaffer narrowly. Suddenly he burst out in a harsh
voice: “The only Servian _you_ need to learn is two words—_Oteto,
prokleto_.”
“Ah, it rhymes,” said Jaffer. “Potato, clay toe. Something about the
soil.”
“Yes, something about the soil! _Oteto, prokleto—what is taken by force
is cursed._ And you knew the words as well as I knew them.”
Jaffer shook his head. “You’re mistaken, Gavro.”
Gavro continued his penetrating gaze. “When do you expect to be in
Vienna?”
“June twenty-eighth,” said Jaffer, easily.
“You’re lying, you damned spy.”
“Take it back, Gavro!” cried Ned, rising like a great Newfoundland dog.
But Gavro sat with narrow shoulders contracted, and nervous fingers
slowly crushing his cigarette.
Jaffer concluded that it was time to smoke. He felt for his own
cigarettes, found only the Stepanies, and lighted one. “It is quite true,
Gavro, that I would be in Serajevo on Vidov Dan, if I could count on
Mohammed Beg, who, as Trifko has so truthfully remarked, lives in Stolaz.”
Gavro’s eyes blazed. “Dr. Jaffer of Stamboul doesn’t know Servian! Oh,
no, he needs lessons!” Gavro swallowed hard, and seemed to gag. That
peculiar irritability did not escape Jaffer’s clinical eye.
“Let us not get excited,” said Jaffer. “For the sake of argument, let us
suppose that I do know Servian. Have a cigarette, Gavro, unless it will
make you sick at the stomach.” He stretched across the table, and placed
the packet in the sinewy hand.
Gavro looked at the brand. “Who gave you this?”
“The Major,” said Jaffer.
Gavro sprang to his feet and threw the cigarettes at Jaffer’s head with
a sure aim. “You tell the Major that we don’t need any Turks. There are
several others that we don’t need. It was my idea, anyhow.”
“I’m not so sure of that!” cried Ned, towering.
“Sit down, you fools,” commanded Trifko in his monotonous voice, and Ned
obeyed.
Gavro remained standing. “I’m going. Maybe you will find me at the boat
and maybe you won’t. Here’s the money for my breakfast.” He picked up his
battered stiff hat from the floor and departed.
Jaffer rubbed the cheek where the packet had hit him. “I’m sorry,
boys. I don’t really know the Major. I was crossing on the ferry, and
he accidentally knocked my Medidjehs into the brook, and gave me the
Stepanies by way of apology. They aren’t very good, but I should have
smoked them if they had not reminded me of Saadi’s little sister. Do you
know about her?”
Trifko nodded.
“I never saw the Major before,” continued Jaffer. “I don’t know his name.”
“I believe you,” said Ned, awkwardly and nervously.
“I don’t know what to think,” said Trifko, slowly. “But I can state the
situation. If you are one of Enver Bey’s men, or one of Berchtold’s
either, you won’t get out of Belgrad alive. If you are one of us, you are
only half instructed. In either case, you had better take the oriental
to-night for Vienna. I like you, and I am giving you good advice.”
Jaffer reached over and took Trifko by the hand. “I assure you, on my
honour, that I don’t at all know what’s up.”
Trifko withdrew his hand. “Your honour is not enough. Assure us by your
mother’s honour that you won’t go to the Austrian or the German or the
Turkish legation.”
“What happens to me if I don’t promise?”
“You won’t find Saadi.” Trifko spoke very quietly, and was evidently
understating the case.
Jaffer was silent for some time. His first impulse had been to seek
out his diplomatic acquaintance and tell him that, in the opinion of a
stranger from Kabul, Governor Potiorek’s life was in danger. But as he
reviewed the whole conversation, he saw that he had very likely been
jumping to conclusions.
“You have my promise, on my mother’s honour. And it includes letters,
telegrams—everything you wish to specify. But I assure you that I am
going to find Saadi. I shall stay in Belgrad three weeks and study
Servian. Then I’m going to Starigrad by the route Trifko has indicated.
I won’t come to the Green Wreath again, if you advise staying at the
Moskwa.”
“We certainly do advise it, Dr. Jaffer. Stay indoors.”
“Very good. If I don’t find news of Saadi at Starigrad, I shall be at
Serajevo on Vidov Dan. Ned, do I get my teacher?”
“I’ll telephone him now,” said Ned, and went off to do it.
Trifko and Jaffer sat in silence till he returned. Then the boys shook
hands with their puzzling acquaintance and departed without a word.
Jaffer ordered another coffee, but did not drink it. He sat there
wondering whether he ought to write to Dr. Trench. He guessed not.
Whoever “Elsie” was, it would not especially comfort her to know that
her husband was a Bosnian. Much less would it comfort her to know of his
acquaintance with men who were up to some political mischief. Ned was not
really dangerous, and Trifko seemed well balanced. But the third man was
too bitterly in earnest about something or other.
At all events he, Jaffer of Peshawar, had met another acquaintance of
Saadi of Starigrad. And he would never have run across Trifko if he had
reached Belgrad a day later, or the Green Wreath an hour later. Curious
thing, kismet!