Klaudio Ivašić’s father died just before I came to Motovun. Klaudio’s sister got married this afternoon. There was drinking and dancing in his café, where I happened to have been just after the wedding in the church. Ljubica Handjal was with me. The place filled up in a jiffy. There was much merriment. Much shouting and whistling. The volume went up. Ljubica and I danced, as well. At some point she grew quiet. Her head sunk. Having noticed it, I elbowed her: “Hey, what’s wrong with you, old girl?” When she turned toward me, I saw tears in her eyes. “Klaudio’s father just came to me,” she said quietly. He was quite a guy, everyone tells me. I am sure many people around me shed a silent tear for him this evening. He was right there. Right among us, I am quite sure. For nothing like grief makes people merry. And I felt left out, at least a tiny bit, because I arrived only a few months, or at most a year, too late.