Ljubica Handjal called me from Motovun this morning. “Milan Babić is dead,” she told me. I was stunned, for he was in perfect shape when I last saw him. “Actually,” she continued, “he fell down the stairs at home and died on the spot.” That explained it, but I was still stunned. In my mind, Milan goes with the hilltown, as does his wife, Stanka. In his early eighties, he could often be seen close to his house on top of Borgo, which abuts the loggia on the lower square. “Please hug Stanka for me,” I told Ljubica. “How’s Motovun?” I asked. “Well,” she mumbled after a pause, “it’s dead!” In her mid-eighties, she knows the hilltown well. “This place is as good as dead,” she repeated in a low voice. I wished her all the best and told her that I would be back by the end of March. I will miss Milan, though. Motovun I know is dying. And it is dying faster and faster. Each and every time I go away for a while, I learn about another death. And births are so few and far between that I rarely hear about them.