I dreamt that I was walking through an alley squeezed between concrete apartment buildings. It was partly covered. The design of everything around me suggested New Belgrade or Zagreb in the Sixties or Seventies. It was dark. The place was poorly lit. As I walked into a completely dark section of the alley, I heard scuttling behind me. When I turned around, I saw a man slink toward a narrow window high off the pavement, toss something into it, and dash away. “A hand-grenade!” it flashed through my mind. “That’s Zlatko Ujčić’s place!” it flashed through my mind again. Expecting a strong explosion within seconds, I darted behind the first corner. Not a sound, though. Relieved a bit, I hurried up to the place where I was going further down the alley. My key already in hand, I walked up to a steel door. Greenish neon light came out of a desolate glass-clad lobby behind it. As I was fumbling with the key, I saw a fleeting shadow reflected in the musty glass. Struck by utter panic, I woke up. Still electrified by fear, I thought of Zlatko again. Together with his wife and two daughters, le lives some way down Borgo in Motovun.