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makes me happy. My father too: he’s invited as well and he really likes ‘Exavier’.
    â€˜Who’ll be there?’
    â€˜Quentin. And Olivier and his mother and sister – they’ve rented a gîte nearby.’
    Our holiday in Brittany is fantastic. Marie-Jeanne, Xavier’s mother, is like him: she looks ancient, but in fact she’s really nice, good fun and full of life. She has only one fault, but it’s a big one: she smokes all the time, and it makes the house smell awful. It’s a big, untidy house: the opposite of our own room at the hostel. My father and I sleep with the others in the dormitory on the first floor, while Xavier sleeps in a caravan in the garden.
    Every morning he takes me to the beach. The first day I can hardly wait. I long to go swimming, and the sea is so vast and beautiful! I tear down the beach, but when my feet hit the water I get a big shock: it’s absolutely freezing! As consolation I tell myself it’s dangerous, because I can’t swim yet.
    In the afternoons we play chess. At the Plancoët tournament I score four points out of nine and win a fine cup. I’ll keep it in my room at the hostel.
    In the evening we get excited and play all sorts of games before supper; we play tricks on each other and collapse in fits of giggles. I learn how to play a game with Tarot cards, in which each player is dealt a big hand and you have to try to take the ‘kitty’. When it gets dark, Xavier – who’s a great film fan – hangs a sheet up in the garage and invites round the neighbours, an elderly couple who live next door and an English couple who never stop talking. He’s brought the video projector that he uses for our lessons, and he calls it his ‘Cinema Paradiso’.
    On 26 July it’s my birthday. I’m nine years old.
    â€˜Xavier, how old are you?’
    I’m amazed to discover that he’s only as old as my father: with his beard and white hair I thought he was much older. Xavier gives me a bicycle and teaches me to ride it. I love it! Hills are tough, though.
    â€˜Xavier, I know why the Tour de France doesn’t go through Brittany.’
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because the hills are too steep.’

    When we get back to Créteil there’s a letter waiting for us: our asylum application has been refused. My father isn’t surprised: Frédéric has told him this always happens first time round. So he isn’t worried. Nor am I. He and Frédéric prepare a new application to present to the tribunal: thicker and fuller, with more documents and details. Together they fill out stacks of forms, write dozens of letters, make mountains of photocopies. Everything has to be translated, which costs a lot. But everyone is confident. Next time we’ll be granted asylum.

Chapter 8
    MY SECRET DREAM

    I n September I’m moved up into the mainstream class at school, along with Stéphanie. Most children stay in the special class for non-French speakers for at least a year. But Mme Faustine and the head teacher have explained to me that I’m ready to join the others and do the same lessons as them.
    From day one I’m bored. Everything’s too easy. It’s just like in Bangladesh: the teachers make a big fuss about saying things that are completely obvious. Useless. Annoying. They ask us pointless questions, and make us read books that bore us all to tears and then ask us stupid questions about them. I hate school. I don’t even like going swimming: you can’t just splash around, you have to learn to swim, and they’re always making us get out of the water and stand around waiting, and I get cold.
    There’s only one thing I look forward to, and that’s going to the chess club. On coaching evenings things always follow the same routine. When we arrive, Xavier talks to my father – or at least he tries to. He asks him about our life and how things are