Italy, 1915
A man named Mr. Wiinstead picked me up from the port and said my name with a nod but did not meet my eyes. Too tired to feign decorum, I studied his face, pitted with scars, eyelids heavy, skin splotched, spider-veined. He angled his chin and I knew to climb into the carriage. It swayed from side to side as we ascended the narrow dirt path into the mountains, thick with cypress then pine, cut with ravines tumbling green toward the ocean. He said little as we climbed. When we reached the cloister, he took my bags and led me through a series of arched stone walls, some crumbling. We rounded gravel paths lined with pots either empty or sprouting tangles of seemingly wild plants, then reached an inner courtyard where he put my bags down.
Mr. Wiinstead cleared his throat. “You’ll
