The walk from the station was long, and the steep, recklessly curved road was deserted. He had chosen to arrive so that he made the climb in the cool of the evening. He carried a small overnight bag and a long, thin leather case. His shoes were scuffed and white with dust. He had removed his jacket and slung it over his shoulder, but his straw hat made his head sweat, soaking his white blond hair and dripping on his shirt. The heat was exhausting, and his mouth was dry; but when a donkey cart passed him, he made no attempt to obtain a lift.
He kept climbing, higher and higher, until he came to the Chiesa Matrica, the small church of the Mother of God. He gave a small bow of his head as he passed. Continuing along the narrow cobbled lanes, he reached the rough track he knew so well. It was not far now, perhaps another two miles.
The sky darkened. The heat gave way to a cool, light breeze from the sea. Luka took out a handkerchief and dusted his shoes, then put his jacket on. Soon he could see thick, hand-built walls with dark green moss between the stones, and he knew that he would soon reach the high monastery gates.
He was not expected, yet he knew that he would not be turned away. The heavy iron ring and old, frayed bell rope were exactly as he remembered them, and he could hear the bell ringing in the courtyard. He knew it would take a few moments before anyone could reach the door and open the small, carved peephole.
Father Angelo was painfully incapacitated by arthritis, but when he was told Luka Carolla was at the gate, he was so eager to see the boy he forgot to use his walker.
Father Angelo wrapped the boy in his arms, weeping with pleasure, making him so welcome that Luka himself was close to tears. Brother Guido, a monk Luka did not recognize, hurried to assist the father. He bent to pick up Luka's bag and was taken aback when it was snatched from his hands. Luka apologized quickly, explaining that the bag was light and he could carry it himself. He never let the long, narrow case leave his grasp.
Brother Guido took Father Angelo's arm, and the three walked slowly across the courtyard into the cool stone corridor.
The father's slow, shuffling steps halted, and he patted Luka's arm. "You shall have your old room, remember it?"
"Yes, Father, I remember it." Luka replied in English.
"They closed the orphanage, did you know? Did I write that to you?"
"Yes, Father, you did. Would it be okay if I stayed a coupla days?"
"My, my, Luka, you are American now."
Father Angelo's sandals made a familiar shushing sound or the flagstones as he leaned heavily on Brother Guido. He seemed frail to Luka; his flesh hung on his bones, and small tufts oi downy white hair sprouted on his otherwise bald head. The younger man felt such a longing to hold the old man that he moved farther into the shadows, afraid of the depth of his emotion.
Father Angelo called to two other brothers across the courtyard.
"It's Luka… Lukal You remember Brother Thomas, don't you, Luka?"
Thomas was almost unrecognizable. His girth had shrunk to almost nothing, and his once-thick, curly black hair was white above his wizened face. He smiled and waved as he came toward them with a brother who seemed even more elderly. Luka stared hard; it could surely not be Brother Louis, and yet… The two old men shuffled closer, and Luka realized that it was indeed Brother Louis, but it was soon clear that the old man did not know his identity. His mind was as vacant as his small, washed-out eyes.
Brother Thomas wrinkled his nose and nodded. "Luka? Well, well, Luka… Welcome, welcome. What a fine young man you have grown into, and so smart. You look wealthy; you look like an American through and through."
He bent his head to Brother Louis and shouted, "It's Luka, Louis, do you remember? Luka!" Brother Louis sucked in his cheeks and smiled, exposing his pink gums. Thomas repeated at a bellow, "It is Luka!" Then he shrugged. "He can't hear; he's deaf. He's over ninety, you know. Well… welcome, welcome." The two old men shuffled off.
Luka, Father Angelo, and Brother Guido turned a corner. Brother Guido opened the door to a cell-like stone room and ushered Luka inside. The room contained an iron bedstead, a folded mattress and pillow, a small chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. While Father Angelo leaned against the doorframe, Guido carefully removed a pressed white sheet and pillowcase from one of the drawers and placed them on the bed. Then he picked up a large white china jug, excused himself, and went to get some water.
Luka put his bag down and laid the smaller case on top of the chest. He turned, and Father Angelo smiled at him, a sweet, loving smile. Luka's mouth trembled, his eyes filled with tears, and he took the old man gently in his arms.
"Oh, my son, my beloved boy, how happy you make this old man. I began to believe I would not see you again before I die. I give thanks to God."
Brother Guido returned with the jug of water.
"Thank you, Guido," Father Angelo said, "and if you will assist me back to my room, I shall leave this boy in peace. There's a robe and sandals, Luka, should you wish to change, and mass will be in one hour. At supper we shall hear all your news…"
Luka whispered a soft thank-you as they left, then waited, listening to their footsteps, until there was silence. He closed his eyes and sighed; he had come home.
The wooden shutter creaked as Luka pushed it open. There was his old vegetable patch, sadly neglected. He remembered how much he had raised there, how he and old Brother Louis had toiled there… Beyond was the small walled garden, and beyond that the wild, open fields. Beyond that was the sea… He used to believe they were on the edge of the world. The faint, musty smell of incense that always clung to the monks' robes, the rooms, still lingered.
He stripped quickly, wanting to be naked, wanting to be cleansed. He poured the cold water into the bowl and picked up a wooden nail brush, its bristles tough and hard. Without soap, he scrubbed himself until his white skin was red raw. Finally he slipped the robe over his head, tied the sash, and slipped his feet into the sandals.
He unpacked his clothes from the soft leather bag: two fine cotton lawn shirts and a pair of pants identical to those he had been wearing. Then he took out two pairs of black socks and carried them to the paper-lined drawers. He produced a cloth and polished his shoes, which he placed neatly at the bottom of the wardrobe, next to the empty bag. His shaving equipment, in its matching leather bag, he placed on the chest of drawers, next to the long case he had brought with him. He could not resist touching the case lightly before lifting the mattress and stowing it underneath.
He made the bed carefully, tucking the rough white sheets tightly at the corners, turning over the top six inches. When he was satisfied, he looked at his Gucci watch and smiled. He would not be needing it here; he would know the time by the ringing of the bells. He laughed to himself as they began pealing for the seven o'clock mass, and for a moment he wondered whether to join the brothers. He decided to make the excuse that he had fallen asleep, though sleep was the last thing he could think of. He climbed silently from the window and headed for his old vegetable patch.
He walked between the rows of dried and rotting lettuces, noticed the tangled beans and the strawberry patch that had been allowed to run wild. The potato patch was wretched. He sighed… How many hours had he spent digging and hoeing, cutting and planting? He was deep in thought as he made his way to the low stone wall, lifted his robe, and in one fluid movement landed on the other side. He surveyed the fields that stretched far into the distance, seeming to merge with the skyline. He reached the top of the slope, stood caught between earth and sky, and there was the dark, glittering sea. The breeze tugged at the edge of his robe. He tilted his head to feel the coolness on his face. Then, as if in slow motion, he fell to his knees, lifted his hands, and stretched his arms high.