A Means of Communication
"I'm going to lose my mind."
That was Bianchi's muttered verdict after they met Milan in the quarterfinals of the national tournament.
And every last one of them, Yohan included, felt exactly the same way.
They had already thought the Lazio prospect was ridiculous. Milan's was worse. A genuine, unhinged monster. Against a Roma side whose form had been peaking, he put on a one-man show and handed them a defeat so thorough that admiration was the only response left.
Strangely, the anger never quite took hold. The gulf in ability had been too vast for that. Frustration and temper only bloomed when the gap was narrow enough to feel surmountable. When someone tore through an entire pitch as if he had stepped out of another world, what settled in instead was a hollow, empty sort of resignation.
According to Bianchi, the boy was Italy's greatest prospect. Watching that kind of talent, the ranking hardly seemed unreasonable.
Yohan had managed a dry, incredulous laugh — but the other side had marked him as a monster in his own right, even if he didn't quite match their own prodigy. When every other Roma player was locked down, he alone had fought on, thrashing through their defensive line in plain sight. You would have had to be blind not to call it brilliant.
And so Yohan's first U-13 season closed out on a note that, for him, felt distinctly unsatisfying.
Then summer vacation began.
At Haley's house, Yohan was helping her pack for the short trip back to the United States she always made during the break.
"Should I leave this here?"
"Yeah. Put it there."
"What about this?"
"That's a book. Why are you putting it in the suitcase?"
"I have to read it for summer homework."
"When I get back, I'm just going to copy yours."
"What about the rest of the assignments? Didn't you say you'd be gone about a month and a half? Isn't that cutting it close?"
"I'll be fine, okay? What, you don't want to do homework with me anymore?"
"That's not it."
"Insolent little—"
"What was that tone just now? Did you watch a new drama yesterday?"
"I did. It's set in the Middle Ages with a king as the main character. It's really good."
"The delivery's pretty cool, actually."
"Is it? Insolent brat."
Even trading nonsense like that was enough to set them both giggling.
Caroline knocked and stepped into the room where they were working.
"Yohan, could you come over here for a second?"
"Yes, Aunt Caroline."
She looked down at him with that same kind voice, meeting the puzzled face tilted up toward her.
"Want to come to America with us? How about going with Haley this year and coming back together?"
"This year? This year's a little difficult… I really, really want to go, but…"
"Still have to stay for soccer training?"
"No, it isn't that. I have to go to Korea with the Sisters."
"Korea?"
"Yes. We're going to do volunteer work at a Korean orphanage. The schedule's already set, so I can't just decide not to go…"
"Ah. I see."
Korea was the homeland of Yohan's late mother. She knew this would be his first real visit since early childhood, and that the feelings waiting for him there would be anything but simple. There was nothing to be done about it. It was simply beyond anyone's control.
"I'd love to go next time, though."
"Would you? Then would it be all right if I spoke with the Sisters separately?"
"I'd like that very much."
"All right. I hope we can all go together next time. Aiden's going to be so happy."
"I think I'll be even happier. Just hearing about it is enough to get me excited — if I actually go, I might faint from joy."
Caroline always thought the same thing: Yohan had such a lovely way of speaking. He was growing strikingly handsome, too; once he got a little older, he was going to be terribly popular. Haley, of course, insisted every time that he was ugly.
For Yohan, Korea was an unfamiliar place.
That was only natural. He had been born in Rome, crossed over to Korea at two, and lived there for three years — and that had been the end of it. Aside from the faintest scraps of memory from that period, and the faces of his parents that somehow remained vivid even so, he had almost no recollections of the country at all.
Even so, his identity was Korean. The nuns had raised him that way. They had always intended to bring him back regularly once he was old enough, and that threshold had arrived now, in the year he turned thirteen.
"Sister Melissa Romani. It's been a long time."
The orphanage director who came out to greet Melissa pressed her hands together and bowed in return.
"Hello, Sister Kim Ja-yeong. It's been a long time."
"Your Korean has improved tremendously."
"I've been studying hard."
Korea was unfamiliar territory for the nuns as well, though nowhere near as much as it was for Yohan. They had a history of frequent volunteer work here, which was how they had come to know the Korean sister — and how they had taken Yohan in, around that same time.
The story wound through those days was, in its way, almost fated. It was also a cruel one, bound up with the deaths of Yohan's parents, and so the nuns had kept it quiet. Or rather — when Yohan had asked, they had explained as simply as they could, careful not to wound him.
A major fire had broken out at an orphanage where the Trigoria nuns were volunteering. A couple who happened to be former firefighters had been there that day for interpreting and volunteer work, and they had gotten every person in the building out safely. Their son was Yohan. The husband, moreover, had been Italian — a native of Trigoria, and Caterina's childhood friend. The incident had made national news in Korea for a time, though it was quickly forgotten.
That was the account Yohan had been given of how he came to be taken in, and of his parents. All of it was true.
"This child… is he…?"
Sister Kim Ja-yeong trailed off, looking toward Yohan. Sister Melissa smiled gently and nodded.
"Yes. That's right. This is Yohan. Yohan Lee."
Sister Kim Ja-yeong had not been among those saved by Yohan's parents. She was the director of a different orphanage. But she knew who he was. In Korean religious circles — especially Catholic ones — that fire had become very well known.
"Hello. I'm Yohan Lee."
Hearing his bright, flawless Korean, Sister Kim Ja-yeong snapped back to herself.
"Hello. I'm Kim Ja-yeong. It's good to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine."
The party climbed into the car the orphanage had prepared and set off toward the lower grounds. It was a considerable distance, and between the flight and the jet lag he might well have been exhausted — yet Yohan sat quietly the whole way, without a single complaint. If anything, he was looking forward to it. He had heard that every child at the orphanage was under nine, and the thought of teaching them soccer had him eager.
Korea was a country he would return to often from now on, if not every year. It was his mother's homeland, and a homeland of the heart for Yohan himself. And so he carried the same quiet wish he always did when he was with Haley: that here, too, he might build good memories — for himself, and for the people around him.
Two weeks of volunteer work later, Yohan returned to Italy and collapsed onto his bed as if he had been shot.
The fatigue had been considerable. He was still a child himself, but playing host to a swarm of energetic kids four or five years younger was physically punishing work. Aside from the children, the orphanage was staffed entirely by adults — all of them religious — which made the place thoroughly dull from a child's point of view. The result was that an overwhelming amount of attention had poured onto Yohan, who, while not their age, was still the closest thing available. By the end of the volunteer period he had been drained dry, body and mind. After a long flight on top of that, he had simply gone flat.
"Yohan! Ciro's on the phone!"
Caterina's voice carried in from beyond the door, aimed at the boy still groaning into the mattress. Yohan carefully centered his pillow, buried the back of his head in it, and answered.
"Please tell him I'll call back later!"
"All right."
"Thank you!"
Home always settled the heart. His own room, fragrant with good wood, settled it even more. Yohan felt his screaming body ease into a lazy yawn and drifted into a nap, only rising again at dinnertime for a meal.
He made his way to the convent's small dining room and found Caterina turning a small, battered box over in her hands.
"What's that?"
"Oh, you're up. This is a phone box. Sister Melissa's old one."
"A box?"
"Mm. It's for you. Come here — want to read the manual together?"
"For me…? I'm fine without a phone, though."
"Wouldn't it be good to have one? You're a middle schooler now. You need some way to reach your friends and the coaches when you're out."
"Is that so…?"
"The Mother Superior watched you handle the volunteer work in Korea so responsibly and decided you were ready to make your own judgments. She said she'd pass on the one she used."
"Then how is the Mother Superior going to reach people?"
"She's switching to a smartphone. The Vatican just released an application for people with limited mobility — she needs to download it so she can communicate and pray more easily when she goes out on volunteer work."
"Really?"
"Really. Here. Take it."
The phone Sister Melissa had been using was a flip phone — the kind that opened and closed, the cheap sort favored by older people and the elderly. Yohan accepted the handset that fit neatly in one palm and stared at it. He had seen Melissa talk on it often enough that the device itself was familiar, but the moment it became his, it looked strangely foreign.
After turning it over and examining it for a while, he said,
"I'll take very good care of it."
"I know you will. Let's look at the manual."
"Yes."
He was doing his best to look composed, but inside, Yohan was genuinely delighted. He had said he didn't need one, but the truth was he had wanted exactly this — the ability to reach his friends and the Sisters from anywhere. The feeling that came with a first means of communication ran that deep.