Something awful—actually, disgusting—had happened in Motovun many years ago, but not a trace of it could be found in my writings. I just searched for it, and in earnest, but without any success. It involved one local and one newcomer. The local was only half Istrian and otherwise Croatian of possibly Hungarian origin, but he played an important rôle in the Istrian Democratic Assembly at the time. And the newcomer was entirely Serbian. His wife’s parents were Montenegrin and English, and her father had a lot to do with Motovun’s rejuvenation half a century ago or so, but most locals remembered them all as Serbs because they came from Belgrade, the capital of former Yugoslavia.

The local and the newcomer sat at the counter of the same café one evening. They were not far apart. My No. 1 son, who had visited me from the States at the time, was with me at one end of the counter when a brawl took place. Several locals managed to keep the local and the newcomer from a bloody fight. When the turmoil ended, and when both the local and the newcomer were gone, I inquired about the whole thing. Apparently, the local had kept complaining about some horrible stench. “Something stinks here,” he would repeat time and again. In the end, someone asked him what sort of stench it was that had bothered him so much. “It stinks of Serbs,” he declared at some point. The newcomer jumped to his feet and went for him at once, and it had taken a few sturdy locals a while to separate the two. Luckily, they were successful and nobody got hurt in the end.

The local I know very well. Years ago, he had dubbed me a Serb, as well, because I grew up in Belgrade. A nationalist to boot, he belonged to the Istrian Democratic Assembly from head to toe. And the newcomer I also knew very well. Together with his wife and her family, he was very dear to me. Clever and capable, he had many ideas about engaging the youngsters in the hilltown in information technology at its peak. This was his realm, and he was amazingly successful in it in one of the leading countries in the period. After the café incident, though, he and his wife decided to leave Motovun for good. They have returned never again. In the event, the local had won to the detriment not only of the newcomer, but also of everyone else in these parts.

Why have I failed to put any of this into words so far? To begin with, there was much misery at the time, most of which had to do with fake golf supported by the Istrian Democratic Assembly. And in earnest. The prime minister of Croatia at the time was behind the nation-wide real estate scam, as well. Next, I was doing my best not to worsen my relationship with the remaining inhabitants of my last hometown. Although the local in question quickly lost all of his support in Motovun, writing about his shenanigans struck me as unwise back then. Perhaps most important, I did my best to avoid more court cases for liable and insult, which had plagued me for quite a few years. To the best of my knowledge, the well-connected local was very close to the leading politicians on the peninsula back then.

One way or another, something stinks here still. Petty nationalism is not likely to go away any time soon. Even though this story is already forgotten by most, little has changed in the meanwhile. It is only a question of time before stories like this one will come forth once again. And I cannot but shrink in disgust way ahead of that time. For all its wonders, Istria is only Istria. Alas, nowhere is nowhere forever! Whence my wish to put this experience of mine into words at long last. Nothing will change because of it, to be sure, but I will feel more comfortable with my writing project on this count. No bullshit from start to finish! And its finish is within sight by now. For my sins, I am looking forward to it with an ever-greater zeal.