I am sitting at Klaudio’s with Ivan Hrvatin and Zoran Radojčić. As usual, we are talking about all sorts of things. At some point we broach the subject of demented parents. Zoran says a few words about his mother, who is still alive, and I follow with a few words about my father, who died a while ago. Or vice versa. And then Ivan tells us a story about someone he used to know who had spent a few years taking care of an old man from Trieste. One day he delivered a tremendous fart, which woke him up from his slumber. “God almighty,” he screamed, “I killed my father!” Ivan’s acquaintance tried to explain what had happened, but to no avail. “No, no,” the old man kept repeating at the top of his voice, “I killed my father!” Surprised and delighted, Zoran and I are laughing our heads off. One way or another, Ivan’s story sooths our wounds in just the right way.