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.
"Forgive me, forgive me, I have sinned, I have sinned. . . . Hail, Mary, Mother of Jesus ..."
The bells ceased, leaving only the sound of the sea and wind.
He would give himself a penance; he would not leave the monastery until he had sown and reaped; he would not rest until he had made good the neglected vegetable garden.
Luka joined the brothers at the long refectory table in the cavernous dining hall. There had been fifteen or sixteen monks when he had last been there, but now their numbers were depleted. Brother Guido was the youngest, and he sat with two others whom Luka had not seen before.
Father Angelo patted the seat next to him and bowed his head in prayer, thanking the good Lord for bringing their son Luka to visit. Supper was always eaten in silence, the only sound the scraping of the spoons on the thick-rimmed white bowls. A basket containing thick chunks of homemade crusty bread was passed; but the bread tasted stale, and the thick, congealed soup was tasteless. Still Luka ate ravenously. His last meal had been many hours ago.
Supper over, the plates were cleared by Brother Guido, who placed a bowl of bruised pears and apples in the center of the table as a signal that the meal was at an end and conversation could begin. Some of the brothers helped themselves to fruit, but the heavy red wine was relished more. Luka refused wine but accepted a glass of water.
"So, Luka, how was America?"
Beneath the table Luka's hands were tightly clenched, but he answered with a shy, sweet smile, "America was very different."
"Did you go to college?"
"Yes, but as you no doubt recall, studies were never the top of my list. I learned English. Sometimes I have to think twice before I speak Sicilian now. Do I sound American?"
Father Angelo nodded, his eyes bright points.
"I lived with my father in New York City," Luka continued.
Their attention was unwavering, unnerving. He could think of nothing to tell them, no anecdotes, no amusing incidents. He flushed, his cheeks so red that Father Angelo touched his face.
"You are tired, I can tell. Perhaps we should wait to hear your news another time?"
Luka gave him a grateful nod, his hands beneath the table twisting frantically. But Brother Guido studied the visitor closely.
"I
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.
"Forgive me, forgive me, I have sinned, I have sinned. . . . Hail, Mary, Mother of Jesus ..."
The bells ceased, leaving only the sound of the sea and wind.
He would give himself a penance; he would not leave the monastery until he had sown and reaped; he would not rest until he had made good the neglected vegetable garden.
Luka joined the brothers at the long refectory table in the cavernous dining hall. There had been fifteen or sixteen monks when he had last been there, but now their numbers were depleted. Brother Guido was the youngest, and he sat with two others whom Luka had not seen before.
Father Angelo patted the seat next to him and bowed his head in prayer, thanking the good Lord for bringing their son Luka to visit. Supper was always eaten in silence, the only sound the scraping of the spoons on the thick-rimmed white bowls. A basket containing thick chunks of homemade crusty bread was passed; but the bread tasted stale, and the thick, congealed soup was tasteless. Still Luka ate ravenously. His last meal had been many hours ago.
Supper over, the plates were cleared by Brother Guido, who placed a bowl of bruised pears and apples in the center of the table as a signal that the meal was at an end and conversation could begin. Some of the brothers helped themselves to fruit, but the heavy red wine was relished more. Luka refused wine but accepted a glass of water.
"So, Luka, how was America?"
Beneath the table Luka's hands were tightly clenched, but he answered with a shy, sweet smile, "America was very different."
"Did you go to college?"
"Yes, but as you no doubt recall, studies were never the top of my list. I learned English. Sometimes I have to think twice before I speak Sicilian now. Do I sound American?"
Father Angelo nodded, his eyes bright points.
"I lived with my father in New York City," Luka continued.
Their attention was unwavering, unnerving. He could think of nothing to tell them, no anecdotes, no amusing incidents. He flushed, his cheeks so red that Father Angelo touched his face.
"You are tired, I can tell. Perhaps we should wait to hear your news another time?"
Luka gave him a grateful nod, his hands beneath the table twisting frantically. But Brother Guido studied the visitor closely.
"I
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