I was surprised this morning by a lengthy electronic-mail message from a woman with whom I studied architecture in Belgrade half a century ago. Having not been in touch for such a long time, she outlines the intervening years in Serbia and Montenegro, where she lives right now. Just like me, she is retired already. Her husband has passed away some years ago, but she is surrounded by her children and grandchildren. Knowing that I have spent much of my life abroad, she adds that she has never felt the pull to leave the land of her ancestors. She mentions many of our colleagues from the university, one of whom gave her my electronic-mail address a year or so ago. She is not sure why she is writing to me at this time, but she hopes that her message will find me in good spirits and excellent health.

To my astonishment, I do not remember her name. What is worse, I do not remember the name of a single colleague of ours she mentions in connection with our studies together. No matter how hard I squint at all these names, I am none the wiser. The only name that rings a bell, albeit rather faintly, is that of a professor who was her supervisor for her final project. I cannot remember how he looked or what he taught back then, but the name is still with me. All in all, I cannot shake a feeling that I am reading a message from one of my past lives. And there are many of them. Beside Belgrade, there are Cambridge, Massachusetts, Ljubljana, Reading, Berkshire, and London. A similar message from a colleague from any of these places would feel just the same. Outlandish, to say the least.

By way of response, I will have to send a few words to the woman sometime today or tomorrow. Not sure how to proceed, I will follow her own lead. I will say a few words about my wives and children, and I will briefly describe my return to Istria, the land of my ancestors. For good measure, I will mention Jasna and Rade Kronja, who studied architecture in Belgrade together with us, and who will be in Zagreb the next few days. As luck would have it, they are arriving tomorrow. That will round off my response quite well, I reckon. Of course, I will say not a word about not remembering her or anyone else from her message. That would be uncouth, to say the least. And that will be that, I can only hope. Past lives are better left where they are. Poking one’s fingers hither and thither cannot but lead to trouble.