A King in Hiding (20 page)

Saturday. Round nine. I shake my opponent's hand and banish all thoughts from my head. Above all, I mustn't think about my father, about the European championships, even about Chesterkine, who's sitting at his table a short distance away. The game is a tough one. After an hour and a half it doesn't feel good. My opponent's queen is reigning supreme over the centre of the board, and with the support of a bishop she controls all the black squares, whereas I've only got one rotten old pawn in the middle. I put my head in my hands, I jiggle my legs, I get ready to move a piece and then decide against it. I've got a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I'm a dead man!

I get up and wander around. I go over to have a look at Chesterkine's table and – big surprise! – he has one less piece: a testing position – impossible to recover from, even – for a player who is so keen on his material. So it's Chesterkine who's the dead man!

I think on my feet: if he's going to lose, I don't need to win my game. I only need to draw. I'd be better off not taking risks in order to win at any price. But I hesitate. Inside my head I can hear Xavier's voice:

‘Fahim, get over your urge to bluff. Even Kasparov sometimes goes for the safe option!'

I really hesitate. I want so badly to try my chances. But my decision is made. I change my strategy. I'm not going to win this battle, but I'm going to win the war! The weight pressing down on my chest lifts instantly. The tension melts away and I go back to my table, feeling calmer. I return to the game unworried, focused, determined not to lose. Almost enjoying making things difficult for my opponent, I defend myself every inch of the way.

Chesterkine leaves the hall, looking upset. I save my skin: a draw. I get up slowly. Am I there? I check the results on the scoreboard. I can hardly believe it. I've done it! I've won the French championship! I can feel an imaginary plane ticket in my hand, the ticket that will take me to Prague for the European championships. Then all my other dreams will come true. Maybe my name is already being inscribed on the North Pole …

I start to move towards the exit, as though carried in triumph by my victorious army, when suddenly I hear a voice behind me:

‘With no visa he won't be able to travel. He'll never go to the European championships.'

Soaring in mid-flight, my dream stalls, shatters into a thousand pieces and falls to earth. Undocumented, ‘illegal' … I'm a king in hiding. My legs nearly give way under me: I'm a champion, and it's all for nothing!

Chapter 14

CASE BY CASE

XP
:
I hadn't stopped all morning, rushing around tidying up the mobile home I'd been staying in, putting everything away, doing the housework …

‘I know you didn't win, Marie. Don't be downhearted. You played a magnificent tournament. You deserve your medal, even if you didn't win the title.'

… giving back the keys, making a few telephone calls to sort out problems that apparently couldn't wait until Monday …

‘Yes, Quentin. Brilliant! I'm proud of you. It won't be long before you're a master.'

… damn, my credit card's blocked …

‘Oh Loulou, it just isn't your year! Hang on in there, your time will come.'

… ouch, that's my back gone again, better fill up with petrol, can't use my credit card, damn …

I arrived at the hall just as Fahim was coming out. He was quite calm, expressionless. People have an image of the national chess champion as looking like a young Mozart, a bespectacled prodigy who's clearly top of the class. Nothing could have been more different from the appearance of this young boy in his threadbare tracksuit and trainers.

‘I drew and Chesterkine lost.'

He spoke quietly and didn't smile, even when I congratulated him. Too much excitement, perhaps. He called his father. I didn't understand what they said to each other, but I couldn't mistake the contrast between Fahim's reserve and Nura's deafening delight. He was about to call everyone who mattered to him and announce:

‘Fahim, world champion of France!'

As we waited for the closing and awards ceremony, my pupils came up to me one by one, to show me their game, seek congratulations or reassurance, share one last joke or simply say hello. Only Fahim remained silent.

I go up to receive the trophy like a robot. I'm just an illegal immigrant. When I mount the podium, people clap and I smile.

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It was already late when Fahim, Quentin and I set off on the drive back. On the way, I began to relax. One more day and I'd be on holiday. When we stopped to eat I called my sister. At the other end of the line I could hear celebrations, chants of ‘Fahim! Fahim! Fahim!'

The significance of what had just happened suddenly dawned on me. In my career as a trainer I've coached many French champions, but Fahim was special, both for his unusual situation and for the efforts I had made on his behalf. All at once, the stress of the journey ebbed away and I was flooded with feelings of calm. I gave Fahim a broad smile – and came up against a blank wall. His expression was still impenetrable. Could this be his own way of digesting what had happened?

I try to cling on to everything that's going through my head:

‘Xavier, will you tell me that story you promised me if I became French champion?'

‘Of course, a promise is a promise. I tell this story to all my pupils who win the French championship, and only to them. You in particular will really like this one. In the 1930s, Alekhine …'

I'm hardly listening.

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We made a detour to drop off Quentin and stopped for the night. I thought back over Fahim's story. It would make a good novel. Before we set off again the following morning, I posted a message on Facebook: ‘Wanted: ghost writer for story of Fahim, 11 years old, homeless, visa-less and a national champion.'

It was already late in the afternoon when we reached Créteil. I headed straight to our arranged meeting point with Nura, dropped off my young champion, congratulated him again, and dashed off to the polling station. It was the first round of the presidential elections, and no way was I going to miss out on casting my vote.

By the evening I was back at home. At last! I was on holiday! Peace and quiet for a whole week. Before going to sleep I had a quick look on Facebook – and was staggered to discover that my post had received hundreds of ‘likes' and was going viral. Someone was suggesting starting an online petition. Someone else was re-blogging the story. Someone else again wanted to write an article about it. All of a sudden I realised the urgency of the situation. If we wanted to get people talking about Nura and Fahim, to get their voices heard, to get them granted visas to stay in France, now was the time to act. It was now or never.

Next day I got straight on to the Federation to warn them that they needed to be on the front line. I asked around for anyone who had contacts in the media. All kinds of people – friends and strangers, acquaintances of Fahim or simply fellow chess-players, seasoned activists and observers stirred into action by the day's events – were following my example.

‘You'll get some rest when I'm dead,' my mother used to say to me last winter when I took her up her morning croissants. Not yet though, it would seem. I began with the best of the specialist press, along the way making contact with Diana, the charming English journalist who lived in Budapest and already knew Fahim. Then I networked, following up my own contacts, then contacts of contacts, exploring every possible avenue.

The first signs of interest were not long in coming. The Créteil correspondent of
Le Parisien
came to interview Fahim for the local pages of the newspaper. The culture magazine
Les Inrockuptibles
, where Anna-Gaëlle's husband David worked, had the same idea, and published a front-page article with great photos. Things were starting to happen at last!

I tell the journalists my story:

‘I came to France in 2008. Afterwards I came to live in Créteil, and then I began training at the chess club. Then I went to school and played in tournaments. Then I entered the French championships. And I won.'

And:

‘I like playing chess because … it's a duel, a duel between two players. It's like a video game, but it's for real.'

Xavier has worked so hard to make it happen that I try to make an effort with my answers.

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The article didn't appear in
Le Parisien
. Great news! The editor had raised an objection: ‘This isn't a story for the local pages; this is heavyweight material, it deserves the full treatment: we'll give it a full page in the national edition and move the photograph.'

Fahim readied himself for another interview, with good grace but with no enthusiasm. The media circus neither upset him nor interested him. He understood what we were aiming for but he remained unmoved, unruffled. Had the experience of victory been such an ego-boost that being fêted by the media paled into insignificance in comparison? Since his victory he had seemed so far away: smiling and good-natured, certainly, but devoid of all enthusiasm. It was as though he was expecting something more. But what?

I don't tell anyone that I've won the tournament. I don't like talking about myself at all, let alone my wins. At school, no one apart from a handful of good friends knows that I play chess. Once a teacher even said to me:

‘You're good at figures and you've got a logical mind, I'm sure you'd like chess. I could teach you if you like?'