I knew that Ivan Iveković, whom I know since the age of fifteen or sixteen, would be appearing at a panel discussion in central Zagreb. The elder brother of a schoolmate and a close friend, he was only a few years older than us. At the time, the age difference mattered. The last time we met was five or six years ago in Motovun, when my beloved met him, too. I did not wish to stay at the discussion, but I dragged her to the place where it was to be held just to see him again. “Will I recognize him?” I asked her a bit anxiously. “Not to worry,” she said, “I certainly will!” And we waited for him until he appeared at the door. “That’s him,” she said and started walking toward him. I followed her. “Are you Ivan Iveković?” she asked a short, gray, and wrinkled man of about seventy. “Yes,” he smiled awkwardly, “but what’s the trick?” She explained, we hugged and exchanged a few words, but he had to leave us soon. “They’re waiting for me!” he said hurriedly. My beloved and I took our leave from him with a quick handshake. “You look as though you’ve just come out of a time machine,” she giggled when she saw my blank face. “Yeah,” I sighed, “the fucking time machine.” Without her help, I would never have recognized my childhood friend’s brother, either.