Prologue: First Footsteps on Italian Soil
The bustling harbor reeked of salt and sea, alive with the shouts of sailors hauling cargo and calling out across the docks.
From the massive ferry moored along the shore, two figures stepped onto solid ground amid a throng of tourists and travelers.
One was a middle-aged nun in a habit, her head wrapped in a veil. The other was a small, adorable boy with black hair and striking bright brown eyes, his hand clutched tightly in hers.
"This is Italy."
The language that came from the blue-eyed nun was unmistakably Korean. Her pronunciation was a little awkward, yet her vocabulary was remarkably fluent, and every word carried a gentle warmth.
The boy, his expression a mixture of fear and quiet excitement, looked up at her.
"Is this Dad's hometown? Rome?"
"Your father's hometown—and the place where you were born—is a little farther still. What do you think of Italy so far?"
"The sunlight feels warm."
"I'm glad you feel that way. I know you'd like to rest, but hold on a little longer. We still have to take a train to the church. Can you manage that?"
"Yes, Sister Caterina."
"Our Yohan is such a brave little man."
Sister Caterina stroked the boy's hair with a hand full of affection. It might have seemed strange that a child of only five could read the emotions of others so well—but sometimes a child's instincts run deeper than an adult's.
"You said you wanted to play soccer, didn't you? There's a small pitch behind the convent. You can play there as much as you like."
At those words, Yohan's face lit up.
"I really can?"
"Of course."
"I think Dad would like that."
Caterina's expression darkened at once.
Yohan's father had been Italian—born in a country where football was practically a second religion—and of course he had loved the game. But he had already crossed a river from which there was no return. Yohan's Korean mother had been the same; under her husband's influence, she had loved watching matches. Both of them had hoped their son might become a footballer someday—but only if he had the talent, and only if he kept up with his studies. That he would actually love the sport himself had been the unspoken condition, and as it turned out, Yohan did love it. Word was he even had a bit of talent.
Which made it all the more heartbreaking. Those two had left for heaven only a short while ago, and still Yohan seemed to carry their hopes inside him.
He was alone now on this vast earth crowded with every kind of person—but Sister Caterina vowed she would raise this child well. It was the only way to repay the debt she owed Yohan's parents, who had saved her and the sisters of the convent. It was a mission handed down from heaven itself.
"Yes. Mateo would have liked that."
"Right?"
"Of course. You must be worn out from the seasickness. Let's sit for a bit and rest before we go."
"Okay."
Still holding Caterina's hand tightly, Yohan sat with her on a nearby bench and caught his breath. They talked quietly as they rested.
"You said the convent was in Tri... somewhere. I forgot."
"Trigoria. A small, quiet place south of Rome."
"And the Mother Superior knows I'm coming, right?"
"Yes. So do the other three sisters. Once you arrive, we'll be a family of five."
"I'm scared I'll make mistakes."
Already fretting about reading the room and staying out of everyone's way—Caterina found it worrying. She smiled warmly.
"Yohan, children your age, and grown-ups too—we all make mistakes every single day. Whatever you do wrong, it's all right. That's how we learn."
"Okay..."
"The convent isn't a heavy place at all, so you don't need to worry so much. Everyone there is kind."
She gently stroked the nodding boy's hair, then took his hand firmly again.
"Shall we go?"
"Yes."
Together they pushed through the crowds and boarded a bus. Yohan pressed himself against the window, watching buildings of unfamiliar architecture and landscapes he had never seen in Korea, filled with wonder and curiosity. But those feelings soon turned to fear.
Everything was so strange. Signs written in letters he could not read. People who looked nothing like anyone he was used to seeing. And with his parents' accident still so recent, if Caterina had not been right beside him, he might well have burst into tears.
For hours they sat as the bus wound through the outskirts of Rome—a city steeped in history—heading south. When they finally reached their destination, they stepped down.
"Do you need the bathroom?"
"I'm fine."
"Then just... wait here a moment..."
Caterina glanced around, then led Yohan to a quieter spot nearby—somewhere with fewer people, yet close enough to a police officer that it felt safer. She pointed to a public restroom a short distance away.
"I need to use the bathroom. Can you stay here by yourself for just a little while?"
"Oh—yes."
"You're such a good boy. I don't think I can hold it until we reach the convent... I'm sorry. I'll be right back."
Yohan sent her off with a smile, but inside he was deeply unsettled. Caterina was close by, yes—but the thought of being left alone in this foreign land was frightening in a way he could not help. People rattled off a language he could not understand at machine-gun speed. He felt as though the ones with different hair and eye colors were eyeing him with suspicion. Even the police officer seemed to be taking an interest.
He was anxious, but he could hardly follow her into the women's restroom. So Yohan bit down on his lower lip and steeled himself alone.
Caterina had only just gone in, yet the wait already felt endless. In front of her he had tried to act composed, but he was five years old. Mature for his age, perhaps—but still only a child.
His eyes began to well with the loneliness that came riding in on the fear.
Just then, a middle-aged man with a warm, kindly face came to a stop in front of him.
He glanced down at Yohan, who stood with his tiny fists clenched tight, then broke into a broad, toothy grin.
"Ciao!"
It was a word Yohan knew. On the ferry, when Caterina had been teaching him Italian, she had told him it was a friendly greeting.
Yohan blinked twice. He thought hard for a moment, then carefully opened his mouth.
"B-Buongiorno...?"
At the uncertain little voice, the man burst into hearty laughter. He nodded, made a quick wait-here gesture, then strode over to a nearby stall, bought an ice cream in a flash, and held it out to Yohan.
He said something rapid and incomprehensible—then ended with a single word Yohan did catch.
Nome?
The man was asking his name.
"Yohan..."
"Yohan? Giovanni?"
"Ah...! Giovanni...! That's right...! In Italian..."
Yohan nodded furiously, babbling in his confusion. Perhaps the man found it endearing—he laughed again and pressed the ice cream into the boy's hand, then made a chewing motion with his mouth, miming that he should eat.
There was nothing but goodwill in the man's voice and manner. Reading it, Yohan felt some of his fear ease. He had been wanting something cold anyway. In clumsy Italian he managed a thank-you, then took a big bite of the ice cream.
Sweetness flooded his mouth. A smile rose to his face without him meaning it to.
Seeing the reaction, the man laughed that big, open laugh once more.
He's a really kind person who laughs a lot, Yohan thought, looking up at him.
In that moment Caterina came out of the restroom, spotted the man standing with Yohan, and her eyes went wide.
"Yohan!"
She hurried over, worry plain on her face. The man took in her habit, offered a polite greeting, and spoke with her for a while. Yohan understood none of the Italian, but from their expressions and the tone of the exchange he guessed that Caterina was thanking the man.
Before long she laid a gentle hand on Yohan's shoulder. At the same time the man grinned at the boy and waved—a bright, vigorous farewell full of a sailor's cheer.
Because of that easy warmth, the fear of a strange land drained out of Yohan. For five-year-old Yohan Lee, his first impression of Italy would remain a good memory.