A King in Hiding (21 page)

I changed the subject to avoid the question. If he only knew …

Now I feel even less like talking than ever. When people congratulate me and I have to smile I get a lump in my throat. Not being able to go to the European championships hurts so much.

XP
:
The article in
Le Parisien Dimanche
burst on the scene like a bolt of lightning in a clear sky. It unleashed a procession of journalists, and the media machine went into overdrive. Overnight, I became like Tex Avery's Coyote, looking carefully to left and right before gingerly stepping out to cross a road in the middle of the desert, only to be mown down by hundreds of vehicles. Now all of a sudden here I was, a full-time press officer.

A stream of journalists, photographers and television cameras descends on the chess club. Xavier has absolute faith in it all. He's convinced that in the end it will ‘force the technocrats to budge'. He must be hoping that the publicity will reach the ears of the Prefect of Créteil, who will instantly pull the necessary papers out of a hat, as if by magic. Everyone around me is excited, especially my friends at the chess club, who appear in the background as extras and can watch themselves on television in the evening.

Occasionally I get carried along by their enthusiasm. It's almost as though I'm a celebrity: people are interested in me, they stop me in the street to ask if it's really me. Even my teachers at school seem impressed. So I play along with it, smile and answer questions nicely. I know that people think I'm happy. Fortunate, even. No one knows that I'd rather be living in total obscurity, just a face in the crowds of Créteil like any other kid, and have a plane ticket in my pocket.

XP
:
Fahim soon learned that he shouldn't be too quick with his answers, that some questions would crop up over and over again …

‘Who is your favourite player?'

‘Alekhine.'

‘Why?'

‘Because he was an attacking player like me.'

… and that there were some questions that didn't need answers:

‘So Fahim, what does this place represent for you?'

It was all he could do to keep a straight face:

‘Er, a chess club?'

He understood that a shrug of the shoulders was never a good response, and that it was much better to show himself in his best light, smiling and unaffected. He meta-morphosed into a young media professional. The story of his victory was related far and wide, appearing in the Bangladeshi and Indian press and on television in Qatar. Fahim seemed to have captured the world's imagination.

Media pressure was now becoming a game changer. Hélène got a call from the security branch of the French police wanting to know more about Nura and Fahim's situation. And lo and behold they were given an appointment at the Préfecture for the following week. With any luck their file wouldn't have gone missing this time.

Friday morning, two days before the second round of the presidential elections. I was woken up by a flood of texts. Quick, turn on the radio, listen to the
France Inter
morning show. It's amazing, people were saying. I held my breath and clicked on the podcast.

‘Our guest this morning is the prime minister, François Fillon. On the
France Inter
phone lines we have a call for him from Marion in Paris. Good morning Marion.'

‘Good morning Monsieur Fillon, good morning
France Inter.
Yesterday France learned that our new national under-12 chess champion is a young Bangladeshi boy who with his father has been living here as an undocumented migrant since 2008. For this reason, he is unable to compete in international championships. I would like to ask M. Fillon what he thinks of this state of affairs and what he would do for young Fahim if M. Sarkozy is re-elected. Thank you.'

A few seconds later the answer came that was to change Fahim's life for ever:

‘There are two things to consider here. The first is the general rule that within the territory of the French Republic, no one should remain in an irregular situation. The second is that certain people have their situation regularised, notably because of their potential to make a contribution to our country. If this young man is a chess champion, clearly his case is deserving of the closest attention. So we won't wait for the presidential elections, we'll look at this today.'

There was scarcely time to ask the question this begged – what if he hadn't been a French national champion? – before my phone started to ring non-stop. Every journalist in the land wanted to come to the club. By midday Hélène rang to say:

‘Xavier, I've just had the prime minister's office on the phone …'

Friday afternoon. School's out and I'm fed up. Some of my friends poke fun at me. Since the television cameras came to film us all coming out of the school gates at the end of the day, the whole school knows. That day the kids created such mayhem that the camera operator had to wait for them all to go and then ask me to come out again.

I head off to the club. I'm going to meet Xavier and my father. I dawdle along the way: there's no reason to hurry. When I get there Xavier is by himself, and his eyes look a bit red. Like when his mother was ill, but with a smile. A big smile.

‘Fahim, I need to talk to you.'

‘OK.'

‘Do you know what's happened today?'

‘Um, no …'

He sits me down on the sofa and he tells me. All of a sudden it hits me. I bury my head in my hands:

‘You don't mean to say the prime minister of France is interested in me?'

The week passes as though in a dream. The waiting drags on for ever. It's unbearable. What if it really is just a dream? All around me people are running around getting papers together, doing all they can to build up a dossier that no one can challenge.

Friday, 11 May 2012. We're on our way to the Préfecture. I have a smile on my face and fear in my stomach. Beside me, my father's expression remains impossible to read. He's dreading that there may be yet more unexpected problems: questions, demands, more waiting, another lost file. He won't believe it until he's holding our papers in his hand.

Outside the sunshine building, a handful of journalists are already waiting. The police officers smile at us, and one of them comes over to shake our hands. The mayor of Créteil, Laurent Cathala, arrives and greets us warmly. A man wearing a suit and holding a walkie-talkie comes to meet us at the gate and shows us the way. Laurent Cathala comes with us. I want to believe that this time it really is going to be good news. In my pockets my fingers are crossed. An entrance foyer, doors, corridors, stairs. At last we get there. On the door it says: ‘Director of Immigration and Integration'. I'm relieved: no tickets, no endless queues, instead there are two men waiting for us. We go in. I feel intimidated. They exchange a few words with the mayor, then they turn to my father. I look on the desk and my heart misses a beat.

‘Monsieur, here is your visa. It authorises you to live and work in France. And for your son, here is a
laissez-passer
that will allow him to travel within the Schengen area and to return to France without hindrance.'

My father is already holding out his hand to touch the precious document that will open all doors for us, when the mayor turns to say a few words to him. Suddenly everything seems to be happening too quickly, I'm not sure I can take it all in. My father looks at me as if to ask what's going on, and I translate in a whisper:

‘The mayor's office is going to give us somewhere to live. And they've found a job for you …'