Miro Kopčalić comes to Motovun ever more rarely. He seems to be happy in Tar, where he moved several years ago. On occasion I also miss him because I am in Zagreb when he comes over for a day or two. I already call him my former dad, and in public. This is how he treats me, too. I am his former son. Today we sat at Miško’s for a while. After several minutes of awkward silence, we started talking, albeit haltingly. As is often the case lately, we agreed on very little, if anything. Still, it was good to be talking to him after so much time. And then I ordered some wine for the two of us. When it came to cheers, he did not disappoint me one single bit: “Fuck you, son!”

Addendum I (June 8, 2016)

As it happens, this is the last piece in which an exchange with Miro Kopčalić is recorded in my writings. What the hell happened with this friendship that lasted nearly a decade? Two things. To begin with, Miro behaved very badly with a common friend of ours, a young person who rented one of his buildings for a while. After many sweet promises regarding a rather risky venture, he insisted on the contract the two of them had signed, and ended up by collecting the money from the person’s parents. As it turned out, the venture was too risky by half. There was much consternation about the extortion. I, too, was livid.

And then Miro unexpectedly announced that I was no friend of his any longer because he had heard from people he trusted that I was an enthusiastic supporter of what he erroneously called the third Yugoslavia. It would have actually been the fourth, for Serbia and Montenegro went under the name of Yugoslavia for several years after the breakup of the second reincarnation of the state under that name, but I have never even mentioned a new land of the South Slavs, let alone been an enthusiastic supporter of such an invention. To this day, I have no idea what this accusation of Miro’s was about.

At any rate, the timing of Miro’s announcement was rather fortunate, for our friendship was already broken on account of his untoward behavior toward our common friend. In a way, he saved me the trouble of telling him that I was appalled by his money-grabbing behavior. Whenever we happen to see each other ever since, both of us avoid any contact. Luckily for me, he rarely comes to the hilltown nowadays. The only reason he pops up every now and then is to collect rent from a couple of his properties. As far as I am concerned, my former dad is as good as dead by now. The first thing that crosses my mind whenever I see him is rather predictable: “Fuck you, dad!”

Addendum II (February 8, 2023)

Today I learned from a common friend that Miro Kopčalić had gone to meet his maker. He passed away late last month, and was buried early this month in Našice, Slavonia, where his parents used to live, and where one of his brothers remained in possession of parental property. I immediately shared the news with several common friends, and everyone I talked to was quite surprised. Born in 1944, he was only seventy-eight years of age. In other words, he was no more than two years my senior. Besides, he looked pretty good each and every time I spotted him in Motovun the last few years. But the greatest surprise in my case is the collapse of our friendship more than a decade ago. To this day, I remain puzzled by it. Friendship is a funny thing, though. Over the years, many of my close friends have disappeared from my life for reasons I cannot comprehend till this day. What? How? Why? And the best conclusion that comes to my mind is straightforward enough: “Fuck friendship!”