Frane T.

Frane T. has a large stuffed owl on his living room wall. Its wings are
outspread a good couple of feet and its face is ferocious. Frane was a
hunter in his youth, although he is a little vague about where he
hunted. "We got on boats," he said, ". . . other islands . . ." Nor can
I quite tell what it was, besides owls, that he hunted. Wild pigs, at a
guess, which we still have on Brac, so he says.

To the left of the owl, which occupies pride of place as you enter the
room, are 4 medium sized paintings, hung on line. The first, which
darkly depicts a Mozart-like figure seated at a piano, is 400 years old,
he tells me. I prefer the third in line, some whimsical figures painted
more recently by a relative.

Frane is proud to show off his home. He even takes me into the bedroom,
opens a closet, and shows me blankets draped over two rather large
objects stacked together. 'Harmonica,' by which he means accordion, and
'clavier,' or piano. For besides being a hunter, Frane has also been a
musician, travelling from town to town in Europe, a fisherman, and – his
real occupation and that of his father before him – the town butcher.

Now he is 71 years old and retired. Each year, he rents a building on
the waterfront to the Albanian family that makes ice cream and also
rents them accommodation for the season. He rents the butcher shop too.

He is a large man - tall, broad-shouldered, barrel chested - with white hair who walks with a slow dignity,
ponderously, with his arms held stiffly, slightly bent at the elbow,
away from his body, shoulders forward. Almir pokes fun at him,
insinuating that he looks like a great seabird holding its wings up to
dry. And he does. But the gait, like much about Frane's life now, is
really a remnant of his youth, a Yugoslav "John Wayne' macho mannerism
from 40 years ago.

'Ah those girls from Belgrade," he remembers through Almir. 'They were
really liberal back then. You would go to the beach and, if they liked
you, they would come right up and within 10 minutes . . .' Almir assures
me it is true.

Frane has never married. He spends the days with his sister in her house
and sleeps at his own home in the village. It is a strong stone house,
with private patio shielded by grape vines from which he makes 'lozo', a
type of brandy. He has an open view of the village.

There is a story about Frane, about why he never married, about why he
is trapped in the past. It seems that in his youth he loved a girl from
a poor family. Frane's own family, being relatively wealthy in property
and higher position, forbad their marriage. One day Frane awoke to
discover that her family had taken her and had emigrated to Australia.
He never saw her nor heard from her again. And he has grieved his whole
life.

Tonight, we sit in his grape arbor and drink his homemade prosek, a
sweet sherry type of wine. "I can bring my ukelele and we can play some
music," I say. He looks at me mournfully for a moment. 'Ah yes, we
could,' he says,' but there are no women, so what would be the purpose?'

I light a cigar and pour more prosek in silence, having no good answer
for him.

Later we go down to the Riva for some pivo. There are plenty of women
present and kareoke loudly booms from nearby speakers, but Frane seems
no happier.

"Look at those three Swedish girls," he says. 'Here they are, sitting
alone, and no-one comes to charm them,' as if such a crime was unheard
of in his day.