I don't know if the crazy-making Yugo's were blowing, or if they blew
only in his mind.
Henry had always been a shadowy, non-descript character to me. I had
met him two or three times, always in the dark and always in the company
of his Polish lady-friend, M. I don't know his nationality, but he
spoke English like it was his own language. He was of medium-build.
Maybe his hair was thinning or almost gone. I have only the dimmest
impression of him beyond that, looming in the dark, almost silent,
almost invisible.
Anyway, it seems that Henry had purchased a stony plot of ground inland
on the island near the ancient Illyrian/Roman village of Skrip. There
he had put a small trailer and made it a a holiday home. He had cut
down the weeds and cleaned up the place and, as he proudly proclaimed,
the neighbors had grown to accept him when they saw him working his own
land.
Sometimes, there is a difference between reality and the dream, however,
and coming here in mid-summer, stuck in a small trailer, unprotected,
beneath a brutal sun, blinding light reflecting off the white stone,
proved trying. In addition, the neighbors, having accepted him, were
good people. Every time they saw him, they cried 'Hey, Henry, come and
have a drink with us.' Pivo, vino, rakija . . . it was all one to
Henry, who happily sampled, tippled, and guzzled his way along.
How to imagine what was boiling in his brain?
One day, the neighbors found him half-dressed, lurching about his land,
thrashing his arms, and raving in drunken shouts beneath the sun. They
could not calm him down and - to protect him from himself - ended up
tying his hands and feet and taking him to the hospital. He was
transferred to the mainland. When M. came to visit, he did not
recognize her. His brother had him flown back home to more temperate
climate and rather less booze. Or maybe the people there were just not
as friendly.
The latest word is that Henry has recovered, but we have not seen him
again this year. His trailer sits empty and, with the autumn rains,
weeds are beginning to reappear among his stones.
The neighbor who gave me this news, paused, then - being a good person -
asked anxiously: 'Jos vino, John?'
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