A King in Hiding

by Fahim

  For a while now these links have been broken. My father doesn’t show me her letters any more and stops calling her when I’m there. He can see it’s too painful for me. And I’ve started to forget her face. When I’m alone I concentrate hard and try to picture her, but she’s gone. I don’t even have any photos to help call back her memory.

  Sometimes I blame my father for taking me so far away from my mother. I blame my mother for letting me go. But mostly I blame myself. Everything that’s happened is my fault: if I hadn’t loved chess so much my father wouldn’t have been forced to take me and run away.

  Then I dream that I raise a regiment to fight the bad people who forced us to leave. I conquer India with a small force, then with a more powerful army I conquer the whole of Asia, then Europe and last of all China, because there are so many people in China. With all the people of Asia and Europe and China behind me, I confront my enemies. I make them take off their black masks and show their faces. I threaten them the way they threatened me. But I wouldn’t hurt their wives. Or their children.

  Then I become president, and there is a statue of me at the North Pole with the inscription ‘Fahim the King’. I build an enormous palace of gold and diamonds. I set off with my army to fetch my family, and when I find my mother …

  The ski trip is over. The journey back takes ages. The others are impatient to get home. I’m just scared. What if my father hasn’t managed to phone the helpline? What if they’ve made us move to a different hotel? What if my father doesn’t come to collect me? What if I never find him again?

  Luckily he’s there to meet me. But after that I’m always afraid of losing him. Of losing him as well.

  XP: After the tribunal’s decision, Nura explored every avenue and exhausted every possibility for staying in France, trying to obtain a family residence permit and then a work residence permit, and trailing from the Préfecture at Créteil to the administrative tribunal at Melun, the administrative court of appeal in Paris, and back again.

  He had worked out that this was an area in which I was incapable of offering him any effective help: I often say that in life I can only count up to eight and read up to the letter H – just enough to identify the squares on a chessboard. Luckily he found a valuable source of help in Hélène, president of the chess club and a petite bundle of energy. You couldn’t help but admire their tenacity and determination. At every step of the way new obstacles were thrown in their path: making appointments, collecting files, filling in forms, filling in more forms because they’d changed colour, writing letters, telling their story, proving they had integrated, demonstrating how hard Fahim was working at school, showing his good results and his successes at chess, and sending for documents from Bangladesh and having them photocopied and translated, with all the expenditure this implied in terms of both energy and money.

  Each new attempt was met with refusal and ended with a new order to leave French soil. The responses of the authorities were Kafkaesque. At different times, Nura was told to supply a long-stay visa, proof of his address, a statement of child allowance payments and even pay slips – all of which he didn’t have precisely because of his irregular position in France. And how many times was he asked, above all, to supply proof of the threats to which Fahim had been subject in Bangladesh? How he regretted not having kept that anonymous letter that he had received in Bangladesh!

  On several occasions their file was lost. In Bangladesh, civil status consists only of two forenames, with no family name. Which of these two names should be used as identification, the first or the second? Following an ingenious combination of the forenames of Fahim and Nura in the national register of aliens – to which only the bureaucrats held the key – their file was lost for ever. So they had to go back to the beginning again.

  As one rejection followed another, so Nura underwent a great change. He never smiled any more, and his complexion faded from its handsome warm tone to a dull grey. The man who had been preoccupied but active now sank deeper into depression with each passing day. Helpless, overwhelmed, broken and close to being destroyed, he was crumbling away. In his place he was leaving a ghost.

  My father still believes in miracles. He sees a television commercial: ‘To know your future, call our clairvoyant on 0800 …’ He wants me to make the call. I try to dissuade him, but nothing will change his mind: he wants to know if we’ll get our visas soon. I dial the number and wait, and wait. After many long minutes the line goes dead. The credit on his mobile has run out. Our answer will have to wait for another day.

  XP: In 2011, the Ministry of the Interior announced that henceforth France considered Bangladesh as a safe country. The thousands of Bangladeshi nationals living in France, who at that time made up the largest number of asylum-seekers, could go home. This bore little relation to the realities of life in Bangladesh as depicted in the press. Even OFPRA, the government agency with responsibility for refugees, cited in a report the continuing violence and insecurity there, describing the democratic process as fragile. The damage was done, alas, and the authorities refused to budge: Nura would have to go.

  The small world of chess, which was becoming quite experienced in such matters, was now to demonstrate once again its capacity for mobilisation and solidarity. There are many trainers who get involved on a daily basis in order to help pupils who are in difficulties, whether on a psychological or a social level. Lots of them give lessons to undocumented immigrants, not knowing whether these pupils – Chechen or Kosovar, Armenian or Sri Lankan – will still be here the next school year, or even the next week. In 2011, the club in Maisons-Altfort, next door to Créteil, mobilised in support of a young Nicaraguan boy who had lived in France for ten years. He had arrived with his mother who had married a Frenchman – who treated him and loved him as his own son – and he lived with them and the two children they had together. As soon as he reached the age of eighteen, he was to be deported from France and sent to Nicaragua, where he knew no one. But through their actions the club members succeeded in getting him freed on the tarmac, just minutes before the plane was due to take off.

  Elsewhere, the father of a former pupil of mine found himself in the front line in the affair of Blendi and Blendon, twins whose parents had fled with them to safety from Kosovo. Blendon had suffered a brain haemorrhage that had left him paralysed down one side. He and his family were deported to Kosovo just before he was due to have the operation that might have restored much of his mobility.

  That same day, France was condemned by the European Court of Human Rights for the inhumane and degrading treatment it inflicted on children placed in detention centres, citing notably a baby that had been deprived of milk for many hours.

  These stories made it all too clear that for Fahim – who had no home, no papers, no money and nothing resembling the stable and dignified life to which every child has a right – there were yet further depths to which he could sink. To which he was about to sink.

  Chapter 11

  CASTLES IN SPAIN

  As soon as my name is put down for the French championships I begin to feel there’s hope again. So much so that when Hélène, the club president, says to me in January, ‘2011 will be your year’, I want to believe her. I have a feeling that my dream’s about to come true at last.

  But in fact 2011 will turn out to be the worst year of my life.

  XP: The French youth championships, held in April every year, attract hundreds of young players – boys and girls aged from six to twenty – from throughout France and the French overseas territories. The heats are divided into sections according to age, and there are nine rounds spread over eight days: one round per day for eight days, with two rounds on the ninth. A game lasts three to four hours, or sometimes even more. To win, a player must checkmate his or her opponent (which is rare), force them to resign (when the game is so uneven that there is no point in going on), or let them time out (if they’re close to running out of time). Occasionally games end in a draw.

  I put on a br
ave face for the journey to Montluçon, which is really long. When we get there, I go to find the accommodation that the club is renting, explore the Centre Athanor where the competition will be held, and race out on to the pitch behind the competition halls to kick a ball about.

  Before and after our chess games, we charge outside to play endless games of football. I know some of the players who come from the Paris region, and some from the provinces because I’ve met them before at the team championships. Now I get to know more of them, including a boy called Théo, who’s good fun, says hello to everyone and shares his sweets. Soon I discover his one flaw: whenever he loses, either at football or at chess, he goes crazy. At first I’m surprised, but after a while I just think it’s funny.

  XP: The chess championships are a world unto themselves. Or rather two worlds: the world of the competitors in the competition halls, and the world of their families and trainers outside.

  The atmosphere in the playing area is like a study room at a boarding school: nobody says a word, but there’s a buzz in the air. Against a background of tension and the ticking of clocks, the ambience goes through different phases: in the initial stages of the games the moves come quickly; then, as the problems become more complex and the ranks of the competitors are thinned as more and more of them are knocked out, the pace slows down.

  The players move about a lot: at this age especially it’s impossible to stay sitting still for hours at a time without losing your concentration. On the contrary, you have to keep getting up, moving around, unwinding, discreetly letting off steam, giving vent to rage or despair, or simply getting a change of air or perspective. So while half the players consider their next move, their opponents stretch their legs, go off to get a drink at the far end of the hall, go to the toilet or watch a different game.

  The boys are livelier, the girls quieter. The younger girls line their lucky mascots up beside the chessboard, while the older ones are chic and carefully groomed; the rooms where the boys play, on the other hand, smell of sweat and trainers. Some of the boys are obviously nervous, tipping their chairs back, swinging their legs and drumming their fingers. Others are still as statues, staring into space, apparently daydreaming or even nodding off. But in fact all of them are on high alert.

  Outside, the atmosphere is charged. For friends and supporters, club presidents, trainers and above all the players’ parents and families, the hours of waiting are tense and anxious. It’s like a school sports day: everyone’s in competition, everyone’s in the same boat. People drink coffee and watch the games live-streamed on the internet. Whenever the door opens they turn round to look. Immediately they can tell what’s happened: the player coming out will either be king of the world or wrung out, exhausted, pale and shattered. Garry Kasparov described chess as ‘the most violent sport there is’. As a mental fight to the death, chess is far more brutal than most martial arts. Victory is a triumph; defeat is correspondingly agonising, comfortless and lonely.

  For me these are happy days, with nothing to worry about, no emergency helpline to call, no homework to do, no chess exercises even. Nothing but playing chess and enjoying life: a week of battles on the chessboard and having fun with friends. And with Xavier. With Xavier there’s no way you could ever be bored, he always has so many ideas for games to play, and such a fund of stories to tell and songs to sing. We’ll ask him if he knows a song with a particular word in it – ‘window’, or ‘table’, say – and however hard we try to trap him he can always think of something.

  At Montluçon Xavier is on outstanding form. As soon as we get there he plays us a track by a band called Mickey 3D which is quite rude about Montluçon, and we all end up singing it the whole time.

  ‘Xavier, tell us the story of Nimzowitsch and the cigar.’

  ‘At a tournament, Nimzowitsch’s opponent rested a cigar on the edge of the chessboard. Nimzowitsch, who detested the smell of tobacco, demanded that the referee should enforce the ban on smoking. The player with the cigar protested that he hadn’t lit the cigar and therefore wasn’t smoking, and the referee was forced to concede that he was in the right. Whereupon Nimzowitsch retorted: “You know very well that in chess the threat is more powerful than its execution!” And it’s true, a single piece may pose several different threats at once. But as soon as it moves to put one of these threats into practice, it cancels out all the others. For Nimzowitsch, life and chess obeyed the same rules.’

  At mealtimes, Xavier thinks of a word and we have to guess its meaning. I learn a whole range of obscure words including ‘fulminate’, ‘procrastinate’ (I have no trouble understanding what that means), ‘carminative’ (which sends Loulou into fits of giggles), ‘saxicolous’ and ‘catadioptric’. I also learn the word épectase, or ‘orgasm’, but I’m not sure I understand what it means. Xavier tells a story about a French president who died of une épectase while he was with his mistress. The grownups all scream with laughter, especially when Xavier reaches the punchline:

  ‘When the doctor arrived he asked: “Le président a-t-il encore sa connaissance?” (“Is the president still conscious?”). And the guard on duty (understanding the other possible meaning, “Is the president’s lady friend still with him?”) replied: “No, she left by the service stairs.”’

  ‘Xavier, couldn’t you think of a different word?’, asks Hélène. ‘Think of the children!’

  ‘But,’ protests Xavier, all innocence, ‘it’s history!’

  The grown-ups giggle and tease me:

  ‘So Fahim, did you understand?’

  I shrug. Serge, the group’s other trainer, comes to my rescue:

  ‘I’ll explain, Fahim. Let’s see, what do you like best?’

  ‘Er, apricots?’

  The grown-ups laugh so much they nearly fall off their chairs.

  ‘Well, une épectase is a bit like if you were eating an apricot and choked on the stone.’

  I honestly can’t see what’s so hilarious about choking to death on an apricot stone, but their laughter’s catching. From then on, whenever the analysis of a move shows that one of the players is in an ideal position, everyone sighs: ‘Ah, mais c’est l’épectase aux abricots!’

  ‘Xavier,’ Hélène persists, ‘next time could you please choose words that are more appropriate?’

  The next day, Xavier arrives looking triumphant, with a clutch of words that are highly proper: ‘bumfuzzle’, ‘crapulous’ and ‘turdiform’. After that he tells me that I’m the lord of misrule: a case of the pot calling the kettle black, or as we would say in Bangladesh, of the sieve telling the needle it has a hole in it.

  XP: The French championship requires a huge amount of preparation, intense effort and immense concentration. Right from the start, Fahim seemed more interested in having fun, messing around and making friends, perfectly normal preoccupations for a naturally sociable child, but taken to extremes by him that year. He simply wasn’t ‘psyched up’.

  Every morning I would make him come to the apartment where I was staying, a quiet space for working away from the group. I would tell him about the player he was facing that day, show him his earlier games, explain his strengths and weaknesses. When Fahim came back from the tournament in the evening, he would input his moves into the computer and we would analyse them together.

  I had been aware for a while that Fahim’s openings were weak. Because they offered no immediate gains he found them boring, and he would veer between a slightly lacklustre approach and flashes of brilliance that were intended to knock his opponent off kilter, while forgetting to prepare the ground for his next moves. He would come to his senses in the middle of the game, by which time he would find himself on the brink of disaster and left with no alternative but to salvage what he could. I had worked hard with him on his repertoire of openings, trying to get him to give up his preference for the Sicilian Dragon, a strong but risky opening that he loved. I’d taught him alternatives, especially the Classical Sicilian.

  Just before the second round, I wa
rned him:

  ‘Fahim, the French championships attract not only the best players, but also the best trainers. They come here with their clubs and their “private stables”.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Can I go and play football?’

  ‘No, listen to me! Every trainer knows the pet moves of the other players and their trainers. Every trainer prepares their protégés and equips them with secret weapons.’

  Fahim shrugged, a gesture that had become a habit with him and that had a unique capacity to annoy me.

  ‘You’re a much better player than your opponent this afternoon, but he’ll be making careful preparations. As we speak, he will undoubtedly be vetting every aspect of your game. When he comes to sit opposite you he will know you by heart. Look, he’ll know already that you’re far too fond of the Dragon.’

  ‘OK.’ He shrugged again.

  ‘And his trainer specialises in countering bad variations of this opening. You absolutely have to play the Classical Sicilian.’

  ‘OK. Now can I go and play football?’

  He was miles away, elusive, impossible to pin down. He was crossing a minefield with a flower in the barrel of his gun. Predictably, he allowed his opponent to take him by surprise from the opening, and – prompted by a reflex reaction as much as nerves – he fell back on his Dragon. And he lost.

  I tried to reassure myself that this setback was due simply to his lack of experience. This was his first national championship, whereas his opponents were tournament ‘pros’ who’d been coming since they were mere tots. I hoped that Fahim would quietly rise back up to the surface like a submarine, without alerting his opponents. But in his expression and his attitude I could detect a sadness, a level of anxiety that I’d never seen in him before.