A King in Hiding

by Fahim

  Then all of a sudden I remember Budapest and that game with Diana, when I couldn’t move despite being a piece up. Of course! That’s it! I speed up the pace so as to confuse him, so that he doesn’t have time to think about sacrificing his pieces. I block his position, I put pawns everywhere, I close, for him it’s like coming up against the walls of a fortress. The game goes on and on. Ten moves. Twenty. Thirty. He plays cleanly, efficiently, but he’s not a killer. Meanwhile I wheel and deal, weave in and out, fight hand to hand, nab him. People gather round to watch: they’re curious, convinced I’m going to lose. But he’s attached to his pieces. There’s not much time left on the clock. The game is stuck. We’re going round in circles. We’re in ‘perpetual pursuit’, repeating the same moves three times. It’s a draw. I emerge exhausted but relieved.

  XP: When Fahim arrived I didn’t need to tell him off. Our eyes met, and one look was enough. He’d made a big mistake: he knew it, and he knew that I knew. But I had to admit that even on his knees Fahim was still a tough opponent. Over supper that night the tension gave way to satisfaction, and we all laughed about it. Curious like the rest of them, he tried to work out the meanings of the mystery words of the day – including ‘palindrome’ and ‘aibohphobia’ (or the palindromic fear of palindromes) – before we moved on to our usual party games.

  The children told me about an incident that had shocked them. On the way out of the competition hall, one of the fathers, incandescent with rage because his son had lost, had grabbed the boy by the collar and thrown him into the boot of his car, before roaring off at top speed. If the world of chess can be a cruel place, how much more cruel can families be?

  Thursday. Round seven. I face Théo, my football-playing friend from Montluçon. Still just as nice, still just as addicted to sweets. Sure of myself, I play fast and lack precision, letting a few good moves slip past. On the brink of a draw, I finally get my head above water and find my way to a good finale. I keep one eye on Chesterkine’s table: he’s winning too.

  When I emerge from the hall people congratulate me, but I know what’s coming:

  ‘You played too quickly,’ Xavier will say. ‘You put yourself in danger again. I’ve warned you from the start. I’ve told you that something serious would happen, and now that’s three times that you’ve been on the brink of disaster. Focus!’

  Yet he doesn’t seem as cross as I expected him to be. He speaks quietly. I’m almost tempted to think … But no, I mustn’t – a good player doesn’t think about what the outcome will be!

  Friday. Round eight. My opponent is a boy from Monaco, who seems nice. I don’t understand why people from Monaco are competing in the French national championships, but then you could also wonder why I am. I play fast. There’s no way Xavier will know, because I’m on the second table, which isn’t streamed on the internet. The other guy plays well, but there’s nothing he can do against the steamroller I put in place.

  ‘Very good game,’ says Xavier finally. ‘Efficient and energetic.’

  On the first table, Chesterkine wins.

  XP: Fahim and Chesterkine dominated the tournament. Each with 7.5 out of 8 points, they were way out in front of the other players: the rest of the field was now trailing far behind and posed no threat to them. It was rare for two players to have such a high score, 7.5 points often being enough to make a champion. If the two of them finished the tournament neck and neck, the winner would be decided by a rapid game play-off. With his quick wits, his intuitive approach and his competitive instincts, Fahim would stand a good chance. But he still had to face the last hurdle. The final round was the deciding one. They were playing for the title. From experience, I knew that nerves would win out over technique: either one of the players might crack.

  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. On
ly 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.

  XP: 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.

  XP: 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.

  XP: 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?’

  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 be
fore 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: