A week or so ago I stumbled on the World Wide Web upon a photograph of Nicolae and Elena Ceaușescu standing in front of a table laden with food and toasting each other with glasses filled with some orange liquid. Most likely it is some dreadful Romanian wine. In the background there glitters a coarse drapery that must have passed for contemporary art in 1973, when the photo was taken. They are smiling at each other sweetly, as though they are taking their vows to love and cherish each other for all eternity. He is wearing a dark, pinstriped suit, and she a glistening light-blue dress with unseemly frills. Her hair is painted bright red, while he is decorously gray in places. Now, the dreadful photo reminds me of a few characters from Motovun’s political elite, who shall remain nameless. The same provincial stiffness. Bloodthirsty sincerity. Hoarse humor. Congenital ugliness. Abysmal lack of taste. And ferocious peasant cunning. Which is why I cannot resist looking at the Ceaușescus every once in a while. And wondering about the fate of us all. Under historical circumstances only slightly less favorable, tiny Motovun would easily produce monsters that could surpass the couple I despise from the bottom of my heart. And how! It is only sheer luck that separates us from the Ceaușescus of this world. But they are everywhere around us. Ever ready. Eager as hell. And sweet beyond compare in front of the bloody cameras.