I am finishing my beer at Klaudio’s. It is past midnight. Quite by chance, everyone else assembled around the bar counter is from the film crew that has worked in town for the last two days. There are six or seven of them. Their job finished, they are in a jolly mood, too. As I am leafing through the local newspapers, I hear that Leila Ivašić, Klaudio’s wife, is talking about Mariano Maurović. I look up. “He was the town critic,” she says. “Whenever he got annoyed by anything,” she laughs, “he would put it into newspapers.” He died last year, though. “Brain tumor,” she explains. “But now we have Ranko Bon,” she points at me with a little bow, and I dutifully grin at everyone. Although I am not sure I really wish to be the town critic, I feel quite honored by the connection with Mariano. “Good night, folks,” I exclaim, put my empty bottle at the counter, and head for the café door.