I was surprised to receive an email from Andrew Johnston last week. I had not heard from him for a couple of years, with his living in Sydney and my being in Adelaide, but we had kept in touch for the first few years after he moved interstate. However, our contact had tailed off, as it often does when not being nurtured. He seemed well and very happy in his life with Martina and was still writing his pieces on ordinary life in various parts of Australasia. His nephew, Michael, was also still doing the same thing in overseas locations and had been to some most interesting places. Andrew still saw a lot of Michael and his Croatian wife, Philipa, the former mainly when he was in town from his wanderings, but the latter more frequently. Philipa had recently had a baby boy, whom they had named Andrija, in deference to both Andrew and to her Croatian heritage. They were both delighted with him. Philipa had decided to stay at home and rear him as a close mother and, consequently, with Michael being away much of the time, Andrew and Martina called in to see her every two or three weeks. I had the impression that Andrew and Martina, not having any children of their own, had appointed themselves as Andrija’s unofficial guardians and took a great and loving interest in him. Philipa was in no way put out by this, having had a long-standing fondness for Andrew and having no family of her own in Australia. It seemed to work well for all parties.

Andrew gave me very little information on those whom he had once known in various parts of Europe. He did mention that Philipa’s mother, Božena Gradić and his old landlady in Dubrovnik many years before, was still alive and living in her newer, smaller apartment in that city. She was getting on in years now but seemed to be enjoying reasonable health. There was no mention of his old love Niki Menčetić or the “shadowy” Stjepan Dobrečević, and certainly none of Bernard Listeau, who had nearly killed him, although I was not surprised at this, as he had put all that behind him, at least as much as was possible. He did, however, talk a little about Lucien and Simone Delasalles, his old Bordelaise friends. They were still making wine around St. Émillion and raising their son, André, and I had to smile at the proliferation of the use of Andrew’s name in various languages around the world. I imagined Andrew also smiling quietly to himself at it all and revelling in his passive way of populating the world with his namesakes. Simone had also since had a daughter, called Beatrice, who was the apple of Lucien’s eye and almost took his attention away from winemaking. Otherwise, there was no mention of the people who had so framed his world. Oh, he did mention that he had to a large extent mended the fences with his brother, Adrian, and his wife, Susan, and they caught up with each other every month or so. Given the problems that Adrian’s well-meaning actions had had on his life, I imagine that that had taken some doing but I had the impression that Martina’s quiet but insistent calm and charm had played no small part in this reconciliation.

However, newsworthy though all this was, Andre’s prime reason for getting back in touch with me was for another reason. As I mentioned, Michael had been to some most interesting places in his work and had chanced upon a very strange story on one of his trips. He was unsure what he should do about the matter and had raised it with Andrew, who in turn had taken it up with me. For whatever reason,he obviously thought that I could help with his dilemma, primarily about whether to publish it or not. I was quite taken aback by this approach for advice as Andrew had never before chosen to consult with me on matters of life and I was unsure why he should think that I could help in this case. Anyway, he asked whether I would, in principle, be prepared to hear the story and the circumstances surrounding it, and then decide whether I could help him or not. I considered the matter and, finding it all rather intriguing and possibly rather interesting, replied that I would be prepared at least to hear him out. As a result, I left it to him to arrange for us to meet in Sydney at a time when both Michael and he would both be in town, and settled back into my quiet life, albeit slightly curious about what the mysterious “strange” matter could entail.