The Bridge - Монгол Орчуулгатай Англи Өгүүллэг (A2-B1)
- Professor Octo
- May 2
- 8 min read
Updated: Nov 8
Chapter One - Florence
Zolboo’s plane landed in Florence, Italy, on a warm April morning. He was twenty-eight years old. He was tall, still wearing the thick winter coat he had been wearing in Ulaanbaatar. The air smelled like coffee, wet stone, and early spring flowers. When he reached the city center, he had to take off his coat as it was too hot. Scooters were buzzing past him like busy bees. The old European buildings made him feel like he was in a movie.
He had come on a six-month student visa to learn stone carving. He also planned to earn some money for his family. They were sheepherders in a rural province, and the cold blizzard had wiped off half of their herd. His old mother needed medicine for her heart. He had three younger sisters, two of which stayed in the countryside with their mother. Their father had passed away when Zolboo was nineteen. He has been the head of the household since then. On the long flight, he’s been thinking about the promise he made to his mother.
Finding his address was not easy. He didn’t speak much Italian except for the few sentences he had learned since getting his visa. He showed the address to a friendly man on the street. “Keep going in that direction until you see the piazza, then turn left!” the man said in Italian, smiling at the lost foreigner. Zolboo only understood the word piazza, which means a public square. He started walking in that direction.
He finally found the address after walking all day. Zolboo’s room was in a shared flat with two other students. Each morning, he crossed the Arno River to master Valenti’s marble workshop. Signor Valenti was short, with gray hair, and spoke with a lot of hand gestures. “Stone is like wine but slower,” he told his new apprentice. “it needs time and respect.”
Zolboo didn’t understand much of Master Valenti’s words, but he observed carefully. He practiced on cracked offcuts after hours. Growing up in the countryside, his hands were strong from cutting wood and carrying water. He learned to use the tools quickly. He enjoyed working with his hands to carve stones. His father was a carpenter and a wood carver. He had learned how to sculpt from his father, but stones were a different matter.
The language barrier weighed on him like a heavy backpack. He knew just enough Italian to order food and ask simple questions but not enough to understand signor Valenti. He had many questions on his mind, but he couldn’t ask them because of his language limit. In the evenings, he copied verbs and phrases into a notebook and repeated them while cooking dinner.
One late afternoon, dark clouds rolled over the red roofs. Near the ancient Ponte Vecchio, an elderly street artist was packing her canvases, but the wooden paint box was too heavy. Tourists hurried toward cafés to escape the rain.
Zolboo rushed to help. “Mi scusi, signora. May I help?” said Zolboo as he lifted the box, covered it with his coat, and carried the box a few blocks to the old lady’s studio. The rain started pouring heavily.
The old, kind-looking woman was very grateful. “Grazie, young man. You saved my paintings.” She reached into her bag, pulled out a tiny painting of the bridge, and put it on his hand. “A gift for a kind stranger.”
A young woman came running in. Her hair was soaked from the rain. She had light brown eyes and dark curly hair. “Nonna, are you okay?” she asked in Italian. The old woman laughed. “Yes, thanks to this young man. Sofia, meet our hero.”
Sofia turned to Zolboo and switched to English. “Thank you so much for helping my Nonna. She loves to paint, even when the sky is crying.” Sofia said with a thick Italian accent, smiling warmly with her beautiful eyes.
“Happy to help,” Zolboo replied in Italian, feeling a bit shy. His English was decent enough to communicate, but he was determined to practice Italian.
Two days later, while Zolboo was sanding a marble lion, a familiar voice behind him said, “Nice lion. He looks ready to roar.” He turned and saw Sofia holding a small box. She had come to bring a thank-you gift: homemade biscotti and an invitation to Sunday lunch.
At lunch, in a cozy apartment, Zolboo met the Rossi family, Sofia and her Nonna. The table was full of pasta, olives, bread, and stories. He learned that Sofia was studying art restoration at the university. She was surprised to find out that Zolboo was from Mongolia. She told him that she loved Mongolian calligraphy and showed him a notebook full of alphabets from different countries. Her Nonna used to tell her stories of Marco Polo’s adventures when she was a child, and she always wanted to visit Mongolia. They could barely communicate, mixing English and Italian. Sofia found Zolboo very funny. Before he left, Nonna Bianca winked. “A good bridge needs two strong arches,” she said. Sofia blushed; so did Zolboo.
That evening, street lamps glowed like tiny, full moons. As Zolboo walked home, he felt lighter than air. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sofia.
Chapter Two - The Trials
Spring turned to early summer. Zolboo and Sofia have gone on several dates. They explored hidden courtyards, shared gelato by the river, and laughed at each other’s funny stories. Zolboo’s Italian was improving by the day. On Sundays, they climbed the long steps to Piazzale Michelangelo. From there, Florence looked like a Renaissance painting. One afternoon on that hill, they folded paper cranes and set them on the breeze.
“Paper birds always find their way,” she said.
Zolboo called his family every day. One day, his sister called him and said their mother was ill. She was staying in a hospital. Duty pressed harder on his shoulders. He took extra shifts and sent home almost all his pay.
One afternoon in July, Sofia came to Zolboo’s workshop, her eyes shining bright. She had applied and won an artist residency in Ulaanbaatar for six months, starting in October. “Can you believe it?” she asked. “I can study Mongolian art in your city.”
Joy and worry wrestled inside him. “That is great news,” he said. But a problem stood in their path. His visa would expire in November. To renew it, he needed a full-time contract and proof of steady income. signor Valenti liked him, but the workshop had no budget to take him on as a full-time craftsman.
Sofia squeezed his hand. “Come with me. We can stay near your family. I can paint, you can carve, and later we will return.”
But if he left Italy, the money flow to his mother would stop, and coming back might be difficult.
They spent August seeking solutions. They queued outside the immigration office at dawn, filled out thick forms, and refreshed government websites late into the night. The screen always said, “No openings.” Whenever they calculated budgets, the numbers refused to be favorable.
News from home grew urgent. They had sold the sheep to pay for their mother’s medical bills, but it still wasn’t enough. His younger sisters were borrowing money to cover the costs of medicine.
Zolboo took a night job cleaning hotel kitchens. He finished the workshop at six, ate a quick sandwich, and scrubbed floors until one or two in the morning. Then, he slept for four to five hours and started again. Sofia tried to feed him warm soup, but he often fell asleep before the bowl cooled.
On Ferragosto, a national holiday, fireworks filled the sky. They stood beside the Arno River among celebrating crowds. She leaned against him and handed him a gold paper crane. He felt her heartbeat through her thin summer dress.
“I wish time could stop right now,” she whispered.
He reached into his pocket and gave her a small, heart-shaped marble pendant that he made. She was pleasantly surprised and wore it around her neck. She thanked him, and they kissed under the fireworks. A silent tear rolled down her cheek as she thought about how much burden he was carrying on his shoulders.
September brought heavier news. His mother’s illness got worse. The doctor suggested surgery, and the treatment couldn’t be done in Mongolia. She had to go to South Korea to get the surgery, but the family couldn’t afford it. The cost was equal to six months of his current wages.
Driven by fear of losing his mother, Zolboo was working like an animal and sending every penny to his family. His mother was getting some treatment in Ulaanbaatar, but she ultimately had to get the surgery.
Chapter Three - The Choice
The days passed by in a blur. It was now October, and Sofia’s flight was in three days. They met in her small studio, surrounded by half-finished paintings of Florence streets. Paint tubes, brushes, and sketchbooks lay around like fallen petals.
“I asked the program if I can delay,” she said. “They said if I miss the start, it is over for me.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay. You can’t abandon your dream just for me.” he said.
At that moment, Nonna Bianca came in, leaning on her cane, but her eyes were bright as always. She pointed at the painting of the Ponte Vecchio on the table. “Love is like this bridge,” she said. “Stone by stone. Two sides must build, or the river wins.”
She pulled an envelope from her purse. “I sold twenty paintings this summer. This is a loan for you, ragazzo. You can pay me back whenever. No interest, but only one rule: when you are strong, help another soul.”
Inside were enough euro notes to pay for the surgery and pay off the medical debt. Zolboo’s hands shook. “Nonna, I cannot accept this.”
“Pride builds walls,” the old woman answered. “Kindness builds doors.”
Tears ran down Sofia’s cheeks. Hope lit her face, but doubt still chained Zolboo’s heart. Money could be solved today, but tomorrow? Then, an idea rose like a sunrise over the steppe horizon.
“What if I go with you?” he asked, his voice growing. “I will work in Ulaanbaatar, help my family directly, and save for our future. And when we are ready, we will return to Florence together.”
Sofia stared at him, holding her breath. Slowly, her smile bloomed like a poppy. “Yes,” she exclaimed.
The following days passed quickly. Zolboo resigned from the workshop. signor Valenti embraced him. “A real artist follows his heart,” he said, gifting him a complete set of small, sharp chisels. His roommates held a goodbye party with music and cakes. They folded dozens of paper cranes and hung them from the ceiling like low stars.
On the final morning, Florence lay under a pale sky. Sofia and Zolboo walked across the Ponte Vecchio. The river whispered under the wooden beams. They tied one gold paper crane to the bridge rail. “For courage,” Sofia said. “And for finding our way back.”
Autumn wind met them in Ulaanbaatar. It carried the smell of dry grass and coal smoke. His mother cried tears of joy when she saw him with Sofia.
Zolboo carved small statues for local temples and earned good money. Sofia began her residency, painting vast blue skies and children riding horses. She learned Mongolian greetings and cooked Italian pasta for Zolboo’s mother and sisters.
Winter came early that year. Snow covered the steppe like a silver sea. In the warm ger, candlelight flickered on Sofia’s newest canvas. In the center stood a stone bridge, half Italian arches, half Mongolian arches, crossing a river of golden cranes. On the far side, two small figures walked hand in hand toward sunrise.
Zolboo took the painting outside and held it under the stars. He reached into his coat pocket, found the gold crane she had once given him, and let the wind carry it high. It fluttered, caught a strong gust, and sailed toward the horizon.
“Paper birds always find their way,” he said.
And together, they watched it fly, knowing that love—like bridges and cranes—can cross any river and every sky.
