Tell No One Who You Are by Walter Buchignani

places like Boitsfort and Uccle seem like cities. As for Brussels, well, it did not belong in the same world.
    Not a word was spoken as they walked, but all along the way Régine felt the eyes of Jean studying her. Finally he pointed to a farm up ahead and said: “That’s where we live.”
    The family farm was even bigger than she had imagined a farm to be. Fields of wheat stretched out from behind the farmhouse as far as she could see. On one side of the house, cows grazed in an open pasture. On the other side, next to the barn, a tractor stood idle. Régine followed Jean along a footpath that led from the dirt road up to the front of the house.
    She was met on the porch by Monsieur and Madame Carpentier and their daughter, nine-year-old Marie. The first thing Régine noticed was that Monsieur Carpentier was as tall as his son, while Madame Carpentier was as short as her daughter.
    Madame Carpentier was very cheerful. “Come in, come in!” she said. “Jean will take your bag upstairs. Did you have a good trip? We were so anxious for your arrival.”
    Madame Carpentier took hold of her elbow and led her inside the house. Her husband and Marie followed.
    “When you put your things away, we have a nice surprise for you!” Madame Carpentier said.
    “A surprise?” Régine asked.
    “Yes. There’s someone we want you to meet!”
    Jean took her to an upstairs bedroom, dumped her duffel bag inside the door and left without saying a word. He didnot seem happy about having her here. There was another bed in the room and Régine realized, judging from the doll on it, that she would be sharing the room with Marie. She wished Marie would appear so she could ask who it was she would be meeting. Who could it possibly be?
    Later that afternoon she was led into the living room, where an elderly couple sat, smiling. She had never seen them before. Why would they want to meet me? she wondered.
    “These are Monsieur and Madame Lalonde, our neighbors,” Madame Carpentier said. “They rushed over as soon as they heard you were coming.”
    “Bonjour!” said the elderly couple in unison.
    “Bonjour,” she said slowly.
    “The Lalondes have been our friends for a long time,” Madame Carpentier continued. “They live on the next farm. And they have relatives in Marche.”
    Régine shrugged. What difference did it make where these people came from? Monsieur Lalonde’s smile broadened. He seemed about to speak when Madame Carpentier jumped in again.
    “Marche!” she announced. “Just like you! Their relatives might know your parents. Can you believe it?”
    Madame Carpentier dragged a chair to the middle of the room for Régine to sit on. Then she turned and sat on a chair beside her husband and Marie. Jean came down and leaned against the wall, watching. Régine sat in the chair in the middle of the room and felt she was on display.
    “What a small world we live in!” Madame Carpentier said, clutching her heart as if the thought of it was too much for her.
    “Yes, it’s true,” Monsieur Lalonde said, turning to Régine. “Tell us, where in Marche do you live?”
    Régine had never been to Marche in her life. Not only that, Monsieur Lalonde spoke Walloon, a dialect of French that Régine did not understand. The Lalondes must have sensed this and they switched to French.
    “What street do your parents live on?” Madame Lalonde asked.
    “We know lots of people in Marche,” said her husband. “What does your father do?”
    Régine tried to think how to answer. But there was no way. She swung her legs and stared at the floor. Her only hope, she decided, was to say nothing. That’s it, she told herself, just play dumb.
    “Is something wrong?” Madame Carpentier asked.
    “She’s shy,” Madame Lalonde suggested.
    “Are you shy, Augusta?” asked Madame Carpentier.
    Régine nodded.
    “I don’t think she’s shy,” Jean said, still leaning against the wall. “I think she’s stupid.”
    “Jean!” his mother