I am talking with Đino Brajković about all the digging I have been doing in my garden. “Weeds, stones, roots, roof-tile shards…,” I enumerate the many miseries I encounter in my garden. “I know,” he nods with a big smile, “I know.” He is a builder, and a much appreciated one in our town, but he grew up in a village to the south of Motovun. “The earth is never dug enough just as a woman is never fucked enough,” he adds sententiously. “You know,” he suddenly turns almost embarrassed and points south, “that’s how they say it in my village…”

Addendum (August 17, 2023)

Alas, Đino is no more! He died yesterday morning, and he was buried earlier today. Judging from everything I learned from Zlata, his wife, it was a heart attack. He was preparing for another truffle hunt in the woods in the Mirna valley when he suddenly shrieked and fell to the floor. I was there around noon yesterday when his body was taken away by a funerary company. But his funeral was amazing to behold. Nearly everyone in Motovun was there, and it was stunning to see them all at once. Đino was dear to nearly everyone in the municipality and beyond. He fixed all sorts of things on many a house, and everyone appreciated his skill and his honesty. Sadly, there is no-one in these parts who will be able to replace Đino the builder. His knowledge of the old ways of building is gone for good. As I would exchange a few words in praise of his ways with people I knew well, I would occasionally choke at the funeral. Losing a friend like Đino is difficult to put in words. Yes, I am choking once again. When I tossed a handful of earth into his grave, as everyone else did, his proverb came to me out of the blue.