Every night over the next few days, Max brought Ahmed food and other supplies, including the English dictionary he had promised. Then Max listened to Ahmed read from Boy Heroes of the War Between the States. The first chapter was about Johnny Clem, who joined the Union Army at age ten and, at age twelve, during the Battle of Chickamauga, shot the Confederate colonel who had demanded his surrender. Max had found Johnny’s story thrilling, but Ahmed seemed unmoved. Max figured this was probably due to the difficulty of the language: they had to pause often so he could explain to Ahmed what a word meant or how to correctly pronounce it. But it also crossed Max’s mind that Ahmed had actually been in a war. As he imagined the story through Ahmed’s eyes, it seemed sadder and less glorious: a boy who’d begged to join the army after losing his mother in a train accident and then ended up shooting a man with a tiny musket sawed down to his size.
During these visits, Max purposefully avoided telling Ahmed the latest news: how the chief planner of the Paris attacks had turned out to be Belgian, how he had traveled back and forth to Syria. How three of the other terrorists, including the only one still at large, had lived in the Brussels neighborhood of Molenbeek, a short walk from Parc Maximilien and just three miles away from Max’s house.
An edginess had descended over the city. It was impossible not to feel it, even at school. Waiting for the sliding door to the courtyard to open in the morning, parents huddled together, talking quietly. Max noticed a few of them eyeing the mothers in headscarves, their polite smiles struggling to camouflage their unease.
In class, Madame Legrand handed back the latest dictée. Max had received a 34 out of 77.
“Almost half,” Farah said in French when she joined him at his desk to help correct it. “Not bad!”
Max wished he could make some joke about how she was grading him on the largest curve ever, but that was way beyond his French. “Thanks to you,” he said instead.
“I can read your writing too.”
“My handwriting, you say, was bad?”
Farah blushed. “No … not.”
Max grinned to show he was just teasing. “I know. Bad in America too. But on the computer I write good. You need a computer. Modern.”
She burst into an easy laugh that made Max feel clever—even in French. He wondered if she could ever hang out after school, perhaps to help him with his homework. He wanted to hear her laugh again. But he had a feeling that Madame Pauline might not appreciate Farah as her replacement.
“Farah,” a voice called out from behind them.
Max stiffened. Oscar had been avoiding him since their fight, but Max didn’t like the mischievous tone of his voice.
Farah turned around and gave him a stern look. “What?”
“You know any of those terrorists they’re looking for?”
Farah turned back around without answering, but Max shot Oscar a look.
“What?” Oscar said innocently. “You know she lives in Molenbeek.”
Before Max could spring out of his chair to grab Oscar, a shadow fell over the table.
“Oscar!” Madame Legrand barked.
Oscar slumped down in his seat, but his narrowed eyes made Max think he was still gloating.
Before dismissal, Madame Legrand reminded the class that the school welcomed children of all religions and believed in treating everyone with respect.
On the way home, Max told Madame Pauline what his teacher had said, hoping to work up to inviting Farah over. But she just responded with a loud snort, as if Madame Legrand was the real fool.
“You think these people pouring in respect our culture? They want us to support them, but they don’t want to become anything like us.
“You’ll see, Max,” she added darkly. “One day, Europe is going to be theirs.”
Max sighed. He didn’t want to risk Madame Pauline sharing an opinion like this with Farah. He wanted Farah to like hanging out with him, not think he or his parents thought this way. Madame Pauline wasn’t alone in her opinion. After Paris, Max had started reading the newspapers online. Politicians across Europe and the United States were blaming the refugees for the attacks—or at least the open borders that allowed them in.
The next afternoon, Max was home, reading a British editorial calling for stricter identity checks and border controls, when the doorbell rang. He closed his laptop and rushed downstairs just as Madame Pauline opened the door. A familiar voice echoed up from the foyer.
“Bonjour, Mex,” said Inspector Fontaine, looking up to where Max had stopped short on the stairs. “Or should I still say hello?”
“Bonjour, Monsieur,” Max said. His heart was hammering, but he tried to keep his voice steady. Even if Inspector Fontaine knew about Ahmed, maybe Max could still warn him.
“Tu parles un peu français maintenant. Bravo!”
“I just speak a little,” Max said in English.
“You make the effort. Not everyone does.”
Max nodded. He couldn’t tell if the cop was playing with him or whether it was possible he didn’t know about Ahmed.
“You must be busy,” Max said, trying to suss out why he was here.
He slipped down the stairs, desperately trying to think of a way to warn Ahmed. But the only idea he could come up with was to shout, “Run, Ahmed! Police!” and this seemed just plain idiotic, a good way to both incriminate himself and make sure half the Brussels police force went racing after Ahmed.
Inspector Fontaine took off his cap and brushed his sleeve against his forehead, wiping away drops of rain. “Oh, yes. Bad business.”
“You need to get rid of these people,” Madame Pauline scolded.
Only a small twitch of the inspector’s eye betrayed his annoyance. “If only it were so easy, Madame. The European Union won’t agree to bar the door, not yet anyway. But I have resolved to get tough. If I catch any of them breaking even the smallest law—”
“Aren’t some of them just kids?” Max asked before he could stop himself.
Inspector Fontaine gave him a pitying look, as if he didn’t truly understand. “Islamic State recruits children, Max, boys your age, even younger.”
“Islam is a violent religion,” Madame Pauline added.
Max almost mentioned what Ahmed had said about the importance in Islam of helping people. But she probably wouldn’t believe him, so instead he just said, “Most Muslims don’t seem violent.”
“Until they are radicalized,” Fontaine said. Then, before Max could reply, he held out a piece of paper. “I was passing by, so I thought I’d drop this off.”
Was this some elaborate police game? Max opened it up. A man’s name was written inside next to a phone number.
“What is this?” Max asked.
Inspector Fontaine smiled in a self-congratulatory way. “A gardener. You give your parents that number.” He strode into the dining room and pointed out the window. “Tomek will trim the garden back into shape. Fall’s the best time to plant bulbs…”
But Max barely listened as he prattled on. Had Inspector Fontaine really come by just to pass on the name of a gardener? It bothered him too that the cop knew that Max’s parents hadn’t hired someone. Had he just assumed they wouldn’t get around to it or was he watching, perhaps from the neighbor’s house?
“Thanks for this,” Max said, holding up the piece of paper. “Merci.”
Inspector Fontaine hesitated, continuing to look out at the garden. Max almost felt like he was fishing for an invitation to stay. But Max didn’t offer one.
“I must be going,” Inspector Fontaine finally said.
But as he walked himself back to the hallway, he stopped by the basement door and poked his head in. Max felt his legs crumple.
“Your cat likes to hide down there, I bet!”
Max couldn’t even speak. He just nodded.
Inspector Fontaine chuckled softly, as if remembering Teddy Roosevelt’s panicked flight. “I used to play hide-and-seek there.”
Then he walked himself to the door.
“Bonne journée,” he said, seeing himself out.
The moment the door slammed, Max let out a deep breath.
But Madame Pauline just shook her head. “It’s no wonder this city is crawling with terrorists when the Brussels police are more worried about gardening!”