Part 11 (1/2)

Well, it's all part of our adventure. We have to keep it a secret that we're here.

He looked at her and then he whispered. Should I hide in school?

She tried to keep her face serious and gently took his hand. No, silly. They'll know you're there. But ' we don't want anyone to know who we are.

We don't? Why not? He looked at her strangely, and she felt the iron mountain fall back on her heart.

Because it's safer. Everyone thinks we're still in Rome.

Because of of Papa? His eyes were large and sorrowful now as they looked into hers.

Yes. We're going to say that our name is Parelli. And that we're from Milan.

But we're not from Milano. We're from Roma. He glared at her, annoyed. And we're di San Gregorio. Papa wouldn't like it if we lied about that.

No, and I don't like it either. But it's all part of the secret, Alessandro. We have to do it this way, but only for a little while.

Then can I tell them my real name at school?

Maybe later. But not now. Alessandro Parelli. They'll probably never even use your last name.

They better not. I don't like that one. For a moment Isabella almost laughed. They'd probably call him Alessandro Spaghetti, as Natasha had done to her when they met.

It doesn't matter what they call you, darling. You know who you are.

I think it's silly. He tucked his legs under him and watched his friend. Jason was carefully tying knots in the laces of his shoes, which he had carefully put on. But on the wrong feet.

It's not silly, Alessandro. It's necessary. And I will be very, very angry with you if you tell anyone our real name. If you do that, we'll have to go away again, and we won't be able to be with Aunt Natasha anymore, or Jason.

Will we have to go home? He looked horrified. I haven't even used his train.

Then do as I tell you. I want you to promise me. Alessandro, do you promise?

I promise.

Who are you?

He looked at her defiantly. I am Alessandro ' Parelli. From Milan.

All right, darling. And remember that I love you. Now hurry up and get dressed.

They could already smell Hattie making bacon in the kitchen. And Jason was staring down in confusion at his oddly clad feet.

You have them on the wrong feet, sweetheart. Isabella stooped down to give him a hand. Guess what? Alessandro is coming to school with you today.

He is? Oh wow! She explained to him about Parelli and that they were cousins from Milan. And then she remembered to tell the same thing to Alessandro.

I'm his cousin? Why can't I say I'm his brother? He had always liked the idea.

Because you don't speak English, silly.

After I learn, then can I say that we are?

Never mind that. Just get your pants on. And wash your face!

Twenty minutes later Corbett buzzed from downstairs. The boys were respectably clad in corduroy pants and sneakers with s.h.i.+rts and sweaters, woolen hats and warm coats. They had gobbled a quick breakfast and were off. As the door closed behind them Natasha looked at her faded T-s.h.i.+rt and wiped her hands on her jeans.

Somehow I always wind up wearing whatever he was last eating. Alessandro sure looked cute.

He wanted to tell them he was Jason's brother. Isabella sighed as they walked away from the door.

Do you think he'll be able to keep his name a secret? For a moment Natasha was worried.

Unfortunately in the last four and a half months he has learned a great deal about secrecy, discretion, caution, and danger. He understands that the first three are necessary to avoid the last.

That's quite a lesson for a five-year-old boy.

It is as well for a thirty-two-year-old woman, Isabella said, and as she watched her Natasha knew she spoke the truth.

I hope you keep that in mind, spaghetti face. I wasn't exactly thrilled with your announcement last night that you wanted to go out. Alessandro is one thing, he's an anonymous child. There is nothing even faintly anonymous about you.

There could be.

What did you have in mind, seeing a plastic surgeon for a new face?

Don't be absurd. There is a way of carrying oneself when one wants to be seen. Of being there', of commanding attention, and saying Here I am.' If I don't want to be seen, I don't have to be. I can wear a scarf, a pair of slacks, a dark coat.

Dark gla.s.ses, a beard, and a mustache. Right. Look, Isabella. Do me a favor. I have very delicate nerves. If you're going to start wandering around New York, I may have a nervous breakdown. In which case I won't be able to finish my rewrite, my next advance won't come in, my royalties will dry up, my publisher will can me, and my child will starve.

But Isabella only laughed as she listened to her. Natasha, I adore you.

Then be a good friend. Stay home.

I can't do that. For G.o.d's sake, Natasha, if nothing else I need air.

I buy you some. I'll have it sent to your room. She smiled, but she had never been more serious. If you start roaming around New York, someone will see you. A reporter, a photographer, someone who knows fas.h.i.+on. Christ, maybe even a reporter from Women's Wear Daily.

They're not interested in me. Only my collections.

Who're you kidding, darling? Not yourself, and not me.

We'll talk about it later.

With the question of Isabella's venturing out still unresolved between them, they left each other for their separate worlds: Natasha, lost among her unruly papers, her many half-filled coffee cups, and her visions and characters and imaginary world; Isabella to her pad covered with minutely detailed notes, her carefully kept files, her long lists of the fabrics they currently had in stock, her swatches, her samples, her perfect memory of the summer line. Neither of them even heard the children come home at three thirty, and it was another two hours later when they met, each of them stiff, hungry, tired, in the kitchen.

Christ, I'm hungry. For a moment Natasha's accent seemed even more southern. Isabella looked tired, and there were soft shadows under her eyes. Did you eat today?

I didn't think to.

Neither did I. How'd it go?