We were collecting our coats when the door opened again and the old woman again emerged, but this time followed by an older man. He, too, wore a chenille robe and matching slippers, and sleep had not yet released his face. When I noticed that he did not look around the room for someone or something strange but began greeting the guests closest to him, I knew the old woman was playing a joke on him. He hobbled from one person to another, and the old woman stayed close to his side. Suddenly he saw me and almost leaped out of his 90-year-old antiquity. He screamed and turned as quickly as he could to escape, but the old woman caught his sleeve and, with words I couldn't understand, began to berate him for his ignorance and chide him for being rude. She guided him to the sofa and made him sit on one side of me while she sat on the other. "Go bring food and drink."
Again I went through the ritual. When the old man saw I could both eat and drink, and even speak some Croatian, he not only decided I was human, he declared me a Yugoslav. Just a very dark one.
"What is your name?"
"Maya."
"A good name."
"Who is your father?"
"Bailey Johnson."
"That is a strange name for a Croatian. But I am sure I know him. Who is his father?"
"William Johnson."
"Vilyon? Vilyon? What does he do? I know everybody. I am ninety-three years old. Now tell me, was that the Vilyon from Split or the one from Dubrovnik? Tell me." No one could convince the man that I belonged to a different race and country. As we headed for the door he said, "Tell Vilyon you have met me. Tell him to come after Christmas. We will talk of the old times."
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