Jozo Brandić and I are sitting at Marko’s during the mass. Miffed with untold formalities, he left the church somewhat early. “It’s all about form rather than substance,” he frowns. A down-to-earth Christian, he does not like special occasions, like today. And then I see Maksimilijan Pergar known to all as Maks coming toward us. He points the index finger of his right hand toward Jozo and starts yelling: “Bang-bang-bang!” Jozo clutches his heart and leans backwards. “You got me,” he yells back with a big smile. “Hey,” he adds, “are you winning now?” “No,” Maks shakes his head in all seriousness, “it’s three-to-two for you.” Now I join them in laughter. Jozo is in his early sixties and Maks is not yet ten. They have been playing this game for a while now. The one who shoots first is the winner. Jozo does the same with several other boys Maks’ age in Motovun, but he does not keep the score. They do. And meticulously, too.