A King in Hiding (14 page)

Just before the second round, I warned 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.

I hardly ever call my father when I'm away. We don't need to speak to each other to be close. But that morning I do decide to call him, and he tells me. That France has run out of money, that the Prefect is going to close down all places in emergency hostels, that 600 families are going to be put on the streets.

‘Fahim,' he says, ‘you absolutely have to win this championship. You're our last hope. If you win, “they” might take notice of us. This is the moment. You've got to get noticed. Do it for us. Don't come back without that trophy!'

XP
:
With young players, parents hold in their hands the potential to do real harm. Some parents project their own ambitions on to their children and exert a terrible pressure on them, demanding the best results, the highest level, the most resounding victory. They fail to understand that all players play according to their individual abilities, progress at their own pace, and have to contend not only with that day's opponent but also with their own changing moods and fluctuations in concentration. They forget that in order to win you have to concentrate on the chessboard, not on the result, or else it's impossible to play well. How many times have I told my pupils:

‘Listen to the pieces, enter into the game, don't think about the result, stay receptive to whatever your position requires.'

And I'm not even talking here about parents who know nothing about chess, who see it solely in material terms and bemoan the loss of every piece, convinced that this is invariably due to some lapse in concentration, and blithely unaware that it might be the result of a strategic decision.

This was a problem I never had with Nura. He was perfectly capable of giving Fahim a dressing down if his attention wandered. But he never came to inveigle me with suggestions: ‘You should tell him that …' or ‘He really needs to …' One day, however, I'd made the mistake of remarking that if Fahim won the French championship it might help them to re-open their case. So when Nura heard that the emergency helpline for homeless people was going to be shut down, he put terrible pressure on Fahim. The more intense the tournament became, the less confidently Fahim seemed to play, and the less able he was to concentrate. His strokes of brilliance became increasingly rare. Several of my colleagues, having heard people sing the praises of this young champion who had come to scoop the title, were evidently deeply puzzled.

Despite all my tirades and pep talks, Fahim was indeed behaving like a submarine, but this was a submarine that had decided to sink down to the ocean floor and stay there. The result was a fiasco: Fahim finished in seventh place, behind players who were not only weaker than him but also less talented.

Coming on top of Fahim's lack of progress during the year, this defeat led me to do a lot of soul-searching. Where was the Fahim of our early days together, focused and headstrong, lively and determined? Had he been so damaged by the ordeals of life and his experiences in France that he was no longer capable of fulfilling his potential? Had his gifts vanished for ever? Or was it my fault: was I still the right trainer for him? Perhaps he needed a trainer who was younger, more like him?

Back in Paris, I asked one of my former pupils, Jonathan, if he would look after Fahim. Being young and of Indian origin, perhaps he could be more of a role model for Fahim? This looked as if it had a chance of working out, with the two of them planning practice sessions and tournaments. But Jonathan was busy and their plans got bogged down, and in the end I carried on as Fahim's trainer.

When I get back to Créteil, defeated and empty-handed, my father isn't even angry. He doesn't say anything. It's as though he isn't there. He doesn't say anything either when my school report arrives: my marks are in free fall and my start to the next school year is not exactly covered in glory.

At the beginning of the summer I play in the Paris championship again. Xavier pushes me to compete at the next level up:

‘You don't play again for a title you've already won once.'

But I'm dead set on the idea of winning the 1,000 euro prize money, which we so desperately need, and I stay in the same category as last year. I finish in 47th place.

XP
:
At the Paris championship another trainer came up to me looking rather smug:

‘Xavier, my pupil beat yours!'

‘Yes, but just look at Fahim, take a good look at him. Do you have any idea why he lost? The emergency homeless service has just been closed down. The hostel where he and his father live has put them out on the street.'

July in Paris. It's part of my routine now. I call the emergency helpline. Every time my father's worried, on edge. Every time they say we can stay at the hostel for another fortnight. Until the day when the bomb drops:

‘You have to vacate the room,' the lady says.

My heart misses a beat. I can't speak.

‘Hello?'

‘But where are we going to sleep?'

The lady is embarrassed:

‘I don't know. I understand your difficulty, but we aren't allowed to give out rooms any more.'

I can't believe it. I hang up, then call back again straight away. Several times. It's the same answer every time. We're out on the street. It's all over. My luck has run out.

My father rushes off to see the social worker. Her name is Véronique, she's nice, she'll find a solution for us. But Véronique has gone, and the lady who's replaced her is chilly, indifferent, rude. As soon as we start to explain why we're there she throws us out. My father talks about her to this day:

‘She very very not good.'

Of all the people we've met on our journey, I think she's the only one he bears a grudge against. While my father stays in Créteil to try to find a solution, Xavier takes me off to Marie-Jeanne's house for the summer. I spend my days daydreaming. I dream that I live on a boat, that I'm sailing around the world, that I explore everywhere and see everything. I dream I'm the most powerful man in the world, a lord, a king, an emperor. I dream of escaping this world, of walking on the clouds, of living on the moon. And when I come down to earth and realise that all this is impossible, I dream of simply being rich enough to buy a beautiful sports car and go wherever I want to. Especially to the European championships.

Back in Créteil, my father is living at the chess club, where Hélène has said we can stay for the summer. He sleeps on the sofa, but he'll have to leave when the new school year begins and the club starts up again. On the telephone he tells me all the things he's tried. He agreed with the president of a Paris chess club that in return for accommodation and pay he would clean their premises and teach for a few hours a week. The president painted a glowing picture of the advantages for me of going to school in a part of Paris that attracts the right sort of people and with a major high school close by. My father accepted on condition that I could continue to train at the Créteil club. My progress in chess mattered to him more than anything, and my trainer was Xavier! The president agreed, but then things got confused. The president announced online that I was joining his club, trying to put pressure on my father, who wouldn't give an inch. Then he dropped my father like a stone and gave him a tent instead.