Nowhere Boy Chapter 6 - A story about a boy and a police visit PDF

CHAPTER SIX "You forgot to write your name again," Madame Pauline said. "How is your teacher going to tell it's yours?" "The awful handwriting?" "Max!" The School of Misery wouldn't have been half as bad if Max had been able to zone out afterward, eating pretzels and playing *Minecraft*. The...

CHAPTER SIX "You forgot to write your name again," Madame Pauline said. "How is your teacher going to tell it's yours?" "The awful handwriting?" "Max!" The School of Misery wouldn't have been half as bad if Max had been able to zone out afterward, eating pretzels and playing *Minecraft*. The problem was Madame Pauline, the old Flemish woman his mother had hired to keep an eye on him till she came home from work. Madame Pauline was fluent in French as well as Dutch and English, and full of opinions in all three languages, including that "this *Mindcraft*" would rot his brain. She kept him busy, mostly studying for *dictée*, the weekly spelling test that was basically impossible since in French various words that were pronounced the same were in fact spelled differently. Max started writing his name. But just as he reached the end of it, the doorbell buzzed. The unexpected sound made his hand jump, completely ruining his *x*. *X* was the hardest letter of all to write in French cursive, and it was Max's luck that he had to write it constantly. "*Effaceur,*" said Madame Pauline, handing him an ink-erasing pen like a nurse ready with a scalpel. Max could barely write a sentence without it. Then she got up to see who was at the door. Max whited out the messed-up *x* and started correcting it with the fountain pen. But the paper tore and he remembered that he was supposed to use the special felt pen on the opposite end of the *effaceur*. *There's this amazing invention called a computer,* Max imagined telling a crowd of Belgians. *You can type and then erase with the push of a button!* He crumpled up the paper and tossed it onto the floor---he would have to start again---then wandered out into the entry hall to see who was at the door. Madame Pauline was talking to a trim man around his father's age in a dark-blue uniform and matching cap, a gun holstered to his hip and the words "*Police*/*Politie*" on the arm of his jacket. Max froze. Why was a cop at his house? Had something happened to his parents or Claire? A catalog of dark thoughts flashed through his mind---car accidents, heart attacks, mass shootings (they didn't seem to have any in Belgium, but his parents certainly worried about them back home). Madame Pauline didn't seem terribly alarmed, though---she was chatting in French with the cop, a rare smile on her face. Max realized it was far more likely that his family had just violated some strange, silly Belgian rule---like putting their garbage out in the wrong color bags (there was some strict code that Max's parents never quite understood and were always fighting about). The cop stepped inside the foyer and took off his blue cap. He was balding, and the remaining hair was shorn close to his scalp. He looked up at the medieval-looking bronze lantern in the entryway with an appreciative smile before he seemed to notice Max. The corners of his dark eyes crinkled. "La famille How-Weird?" Max nodded uncertainly. Were they all being charged with some crime? "You prefer English?" "Yes, sir," Max said. He'd never called anyone "sir" before, but he'd also never had a police officer show up at his door. "I am Inspector Fontaine. I am here for the composition of the house." Max looked at Madame Pauline. Whatever this was didn't sound like the tragedy he had imagined. "He wants to see if who your parents say is living here lives here," she explained. "It is required to get your identity cards from the commune." "Oh," Max said as relief flooded through him. The commune was the local town hall that issued official documents---like identity cards and parking passes. "But I'm the only one home right now." Inspector Fontaine smiled. "I will just talk to you then." He looked back down at his pad. "You are Max How-Weird?" "Yes." "And your parents are Michael and Elizabeth How-Weird." "Yes." "And your sister is Claire How-Weird?" "Yes." Max almost expected Inspector Fontaine to ask *And your cat is Teddy* *Roosevelt How-Weird?*, but instead he said, "And no one else is living in this house?" Max shook his head. "Not that I know of." Inspector Fontaine assumed a serious expression. "We have to make sure there are no illegals. It's a grave problem here in Brussels." "All over Europe!" Madame Pauline added. "Those Muslims just keep flooding in." The way Madame Pauline talked about "those Muslims" made Max uncomfortable. When his mother dropped him off at the School of Misery in the morning, she talked mostly with the European mothers dressed in work suits and heels like her, but she always smiled politely at the mothers in headscarves and full-length coats. Farah's mom was one of them, and Farah seemed like one of the nicer kids in his class. She always helped him when he seemed confused about what page he should be looking at or where he was supposed to put his tray at lunch. "What Muslims?" Max asked. "The Syrians, the Iraqis, the Afghanis," Madame Pauline said, ticking off on her fingers. "Haven't you seen the news? They're flooding Europe. It's worse than the Africans. They don't want to fit in." She made a clucking noise. "If you come to our country, you must follow our way of life, our laws," Inspector Fontaine said. Madame Pauline nodded vigorously. "Exactly!" Even though Max knew they were talking about Muslims, he felt as if the warning also applied to him. He was from a different country. He didn't really want to use a fountain pen and have recess in the rain. He hoped the interview was over, that Inspector Fontaine would leave. But Madame Pauline was just getting started. "Europe used to be safe before they arrived." "Islamic State is a real problem," Inspector Fontaine agreed. "We must keep watchful." The cop stuck his head into the dining room and peered around. Max wondered if he thought a terrorist might be hiding there. Inspector Fontaine's eyes traveled over the wood paneling and the crystal chandelier, then over to the living room with its enormous picture window looking out on the garden. He took a step into the dining room toward it, drawn in by something, it seemed to Max, that only he could see. There was a commotion as Teddy Roosevelt careened out beneath the side table and flew in a panicked white blur into the hall. *Looks like you found one,* Max was tempted to say. But he had a feeling Inspector Fontaine wouldn't appreciate the joke. "That's my cat," he said instead. Inspector Fontaine reached out like he might like to pet Teddy Roosevelt, but Max could already hear the cat's paws pattering down the basement stairs so he could hide among the packing boxes in the hall. Inspector Fontaine smiled. "My grandfather, Henri Fontaine, used to own this house. My best friend, Georges De Smet, lived next door. And I'm still friends with Hugo LeClerq, who lives behind you." At that moment, Max understood that, in the same way that he still considered his house in Washington, D.C., to be his house even though another family was living in it, the police officer considered Max's house to be his. "They don't make houses like this anymore," Madame Pauline said. "No," Inspector Fontaine agreed. "They are expensive to maintain, though. My father sold it after my grandfather died, and the current owners rent it out to foreigners with big jobs at the European institutions." He smiled at Max, as if they both knew he was one of these wealthy foreigners, then walked over to the living room window and looked out at the garden. It was wild and overgrown: a tangle of ivy, roses and rhododendron bushes. Max liked it even better than the prim, old house. Inspector Fontaine spoke to his own reflection. "The garden needs a trim." Again, Max had the impression that it was Inspector Fontaine who really owned the house. "I'll mention it to the parents," Madame Pauline said. This seemed to satisfy Fontaine, at least enough to return to his memories. "Georges and Hugo and I were all in *Scoots*." "The Belgian Boy *Scouts*," Madame Pauline explained to Max. "Fantastic group!" Inspector Fontaine said. He turned to face Max. "You know Tintin of course?" Max nodded. As far as he could tell, Tintin and the Smurfs were the sum of Belgium's contributions to world culture. His father had given him a couple of the comic books about the Belgian boy reporter before they'd moved. "Hergé, the man who drew him, was a *Scoot*. It gave him great *confiance*." "Confidence," Madame Pauline translated. "You, *Mex*, should join it." Max gave a halfhearted smile. He'd done the Scouts for a few years back in America, but the thought of spending even more time speaking French and trying to figure out what he was supposed to be doing---while orienteering in the rain---held zero appeal. "It would do him good," Madame Pauline agreed. "I'll make sure the parents know." Inspector Fontaine smiled and handed Max a card. On it was his name and police station extension. "Any trouble, you call me. Albert Jonnart is a special street for me. And I still keep an eye on this house." "Thank you, sir," Max said, even though he suspected Inspector Fontaine's interest was less in protecting his family than in meddling, with Max especially. Reluctantly, it seemed to Max, the police officer walked back toward the door. On the way, he stopped to pick up the crumpled paper Max had left on the floor and tossed it back on the table.