It is about an hour past the sunset. Wearing my glasses, I am reading at my dining-room table. It is quiet all around me. Even the dogs have fallen silent after their evening meal. When I hear someone walking down Borgo and singing, I raise my head and perk my ears. It is a man, but I cannot recognize his soft voice. Who could it be? The song is on the merry side, but I cannot recognize it, either. By the time he walks past my door, I realize it is Mehmedalija Šljivić, known as Meho. Originally from Bosnia, but a resident of Motovun for some thirty years now, he barely makes his ends meet by selling lavender oil and woolen socks to tourists. A moment later I am miffed with myself. Who else but Meho would be walking down dark and deserted Borgo and singing to himself? How could I ever fail to recognize his merry voice?