What quickly became clear was just how smart a little boy Ivo really was. Polite to the end, he showed no hesitation in making his points, less patience for anyone who treated him like a child. And always with something of Petra’s swagger in the way he handled his confrontations. In fact, more often than not, it was Petra herself who was on the receiving end.

“That’s not true, Mommy,” he said. “Why should we care about the Serbs when they don’t care about us?” There was always a hint of the parrot in what he said, little phrases that he’d heard from Salko or his mother-mangled just a bit-but always injected at just the right moment. It wasn’t necessarily what he said, but how he said it that allowed his cleverness to shine through. Even when Petra was on the defensive, Pearse sensed her absolute pleasure in Ivo’s little jabs.

“Well, maybe that’s why we should worry about them even more,” she answered.

Somewhere along the way, he’d busied himself with a wedge of bread, rolling pieces of it into tiny balls. Preoccupied or not, Ivo managed to keep up. “No, because Salko said that’s what they want. And we’d be giving them what they want, and we can’t do that.”

“Like what?” she pressed, the rest of the table watching as the little boy kept his eyes fixed on his handiwork, every once in a while a bread ball popping into his mouth.

“Like letting them know we’re afraid. And we aren’t.” Another piece into his mouth.

“Never let them know,” chimed in the raid leader with a smile. “Even if you are, just a little.”

Ivo looked at the man, hesitated, then nodded, a very earnest nod for a little boy. And just as quickly, he was back to the bread.

“Is he always like this?” the man asked, his smile wider still.

“No,” answered Petra. “Sometimes he can get pretty serious.”

The entire table erupted in laughter, Ivo continuing with his very intricate bread work. When he realized that everyone was looking at him, he suddenly became embarrassed. Sensing the moment, Petra drew him in close, kissing the top of his head as he buried himself deep in her side.

“It’s just that they all think you’re as wonderful as I do, Ivi. Must be terribly hard having everyone think you’re so wonderful.”

That only made it worse. Except that perhaps Ivo was enjoying the attention more than he was letting on. And Pearse seemed to enjoy that just as much. The little showman, he thought. Why not? He was, after all, Petra’s boy.

Pearse wasn’t that surprised, then, when, an hour later, Ivo appeared at the door to his room, no less bold than at the table.

“Hello.”

Pearse looked up. He’d been alone on his bed with Ribadeneyra since dinner, the five-line entries no closer to unscrambling than when he’d started. He had managed to tease out some connection among the rest of the entries-even without the final piece to the puzzle-a pattern beginning to emerge, when the little voice broke through.

“Hello,” he answered, laying the pages on his pillow. Ivo remained by the door, his courage taking him only so far. “You can come in, if you want. I won’t bite.”

With a little nod, he pushed open the door, sized up the room, and slowly wandered in, not quite tall enough to see over the top of the chest of drawers. When he was satisfied, he turned to Pearse, one hand lazily running along the edge of the bed.

“Do you come from America?”

Pearse smiled. He’d expected a thousand other questions, not the one, though, most obvious to a seven-year-old boy. “Yup.”

“I knew it,” he said, as if having uncovered some great mystery. “I asked Mommy. She said I should ask you.”

Again, Petra was letting him in. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to merit it. “How’d you know?”

“The way you talk.” He started to roam again, his fingers lighting on the backpack. “What’s in here?”

“Nothing much.”

“Can I open it?”

“Sure.”

He watched as Ivo struggled with the zipper, a giddy anticipation of the unknown within. Or at least of something American. His disappointment on unearthing nothing more than a change of clothes and a few odds and ends was equally intense.

“Sorry,” said Pearse. “No chocolate.”

Ivo snapped his head up, the look now one of astonishment.

“Isn’t that what you were looking for?” asked Pearse.

A coy smile crept across the boy’s face. “How’d you know that?”

“Oh, I have my ways.” Pearse smiled.

For a moment, it looked as if Ivo might not let it go at that. Then, just as quickly, he was on to his next topic. “Did you come from America last night?”

“Actually, I haven’t been to America for a couple of years.” Another flash of disappointment. “Have you ever been to America?”

The look now turned to one of utter disbelief, less to do with the possibility than with the fact that Pearse had even thought to ask. “No! I know only one person who’s been to America. Except for you.”

“Really?” Pearse knew where he was going, but couldn’t hold himself back. “Who?”

“My father.”

It was said with such confidence, such an affinity, as if he had just spoken with him before coming into the room. The connection so clear. Again, he had to thank Petra for that.

“And where does he live?” asked Pearse. A look of confusion etched across the young face. “America. Like you.”

Pearse nodded. Obviously, his geography had its limits. Not wanting to lose him entirely, Pearse reached under the papers and pulled out his baseball. “Here.” He tossed it to him.

Ivo caught it, no hesitation.

“Nice catch,” said Pearse.

“I’m pretty good.” He examined the ball very closely. “What kind of ball is this?”

“It’s a baseball,” said Pearse.

Ivo’s eyes lit up. “A baseball! From America?”

From Rome, but close enough. “I know you were hoping for chocolate, but-”

“No, no. This is great. Can I play with it?”

“You can keep it, if you want.”

If possible, Ivo’s eyes grew wider still. “You mean … it’s mine?”

“Well, I might ask you to play catch with me sometime.”

“You can play anytime you want.”

“Thanks. Maybe sometime you could go to America with me and see a game.”

It was almost too much for him. “America?” A hint of hesitation crept in. “And Mommy, too?”

“Of course. And don’t forget Salko.”

Before Pearse had finished, Ivo was running back to the door, shouting to his mother. Within a minute, he was back, pulling Petra by the arm. Once again, her expression was far from what Pearse expected: not strictly a glower, but as close as she dared with Ivo looking directly at her.

“And Salko, too,” he bubbled.

“Yes, I heard you, sweetie,” answered Petra as she stared at Pearse.

“That’s very nice of him.”

Pearse smiled. “I just said-”

“Yes, I’m sure you did.”

Pearse wasn’t sure, but he suspected this was part of a family dynamic he’d never had occasion to experience until now. Something reserved for mommies and daddies. Even on the short end of things, it was awfully nice, more so to see Petra struggling with it as well.

Not sure what protocol demanded, he fell back on the slow nod.

“You have to go to sleep,” she said to forestall any further discussion. At once, Ivo launched into the ancient bargaining ritual, all of it to no avail. As he mopingly made his way to the door, he turned to Pearse and, instead of a simple “Good night,” shot a finger at him and winked. It was enough to provoke a moment’s giggle before a quick dash out the door.

Laughing, Pearse asked, “What was that?”

“Mel Gibson did it in a movie. He thinks it’s how all Americans say good night.” She remained by the door.

“Isn’t Mel Gibson Australian?”

At last a smile. “Don’t tell him that.”

A silence settled on the room. He thought she might go; instead, she moved toward him.

“So, have you figured out where this book of yours is in Visegrad?” she asked pointing to the papers.