As I write, Predrag or Peđa and Smilja Ristić are on their way to Motovun. They live in Switzerland. I have not seen them for too many years to remember, and I will have hard time recognizing them when they arrive this evening. Peđa’s parents, Milorad or Beli and Gordana, were my parents’ closest friends in Belgrade for some forty years. As I wait, memories of my childhood and early youth are flooding my mind. In many ways, Beli was one of my closest friends. I could talk with him about anything I wished, and at any length I fancied. But I am flabbergasted by the near absence of the Ristić family from my Residua. They pop up here and there, all right, but much less often than they deserve. Which only goes to show that my magnum opus is hardly a mirror of my life I would wish it to be. It is like a spider’s web, where many a fly ends up purely by chance. And there are zillions of flies still buzzing around, as witnessed by Peđa and Smilja’s unexpected visit.