No sooner than I sat down at Charlie’s, one of my favorite cafés in the center of Zagreb, Slobodan Lang approached my table. We hugged, and he sat down. No sooner than he sat down, Zvonimir Milanović approached our table. We hugged, he sat down, and I introduced my friends to each other. I have not seen either of them for quite a few months, if not even a year. As it happened, I had two copies of my new book in my knapsack, and I gave them to Slobodan and Zvonimir. Both of them asked me to write a few words for them, which I did at once. “In friendship,” I wrote under their names and above my signature. And then I told them what I had written. Neither their names nor the dedication were legible, let alone my signature. Only the date on top was easy to decipher. My handwriting is history, to be sure. I, too, will soon be unable to figure out what I have written even a few hours later. To wit, my handwriting will hold only as long as my memory. In friendship, my ass.

Addendum I (February 23, 2016)

Slobodan Lang died today. A year my senior, he was only seventy. I cringed when I heard the news. He was a weirdo, all right, but I loved him a lot. We hit it off the very first time we met more than a decade ago, and it was always a joy to meet him again. Each and every time, we talked and talked like there was no tomorrow. And the very last time we met was at Charlie’s a bit more than a year ago. In friendship, indeed. Not surprisingly, my thoughts immediately turned to Zvonimir Milanović. I hope he is alive and well. About fifteen years my junior, he should be. The next time we bump into each other, we will have plenty to talk about. As far as my book about climate change is concerned, it can always wait…

Addendum II (June 22, 2019

Having had my drink at the hotel terrace this afternoon, I was on my way home for a little bit of rest. When I came out of the archway connecting the two main squares of Motovun, I noticed a notice on the wall of the loggia on top of Borgo. When I approached it, I saw that it was about the death of a certain Zvonimir Milanović. I read it several times over before I looked at the picture in the left top corner of the notice. It was Zvonko, my friend from Divjaki within sight of my house! I could not believe my eyes. It did not take me long to learn that he had died from lung cancer. And he was only fifty-nine, for crying out loud. A professor of Latin from the University of Pula, he was close to my heart. Over the years, I consulted him on the language of my ancestors quite a few times. Alas, the world of my friends is shrinking at a clip!