A King in Hiding (17 page)

‘Fahim, where did that good, polite, respectful, motivated boy go, the one I met that morning in February 2009?'

I shrug. I don't know what to say. I don't have any memory of that boy. I can barely remember that time, when my father and I lived together, when we thought we would always have a roof over our heads, food on our plates and pride in our hearts. When I still had hope that I would see my mother again.

Now I feel alone. I feel in danger. I don't believe in anything, I'm not expecting anything, I'm not hoping for anything. Every day is an ordeal. I leave my feelings, hopes and fears outside, then I shut the door and double-lock it. I move forward blindly, always on the look-out for a laugh, just to pass the time.

Christmas 2011. Despite the way I'm behaving, Xavier is still kind to us. To celebrate the holiday, he puts together a Christmas lunch at the chess club, just for my father and me.

‘Foie gras and microwave ready meals: a real feast in the circumstances,' he greets us with a chuckle. He tells jokes and even manages to make my father smile.

We're in the middle of eating when the phone rings. Xavier answers it, and all of a sudden his face falls.

XP
:
For some time my mother had been suffering from chronic bronchitis. On Christmas Day disaster fell: rushed to accident and emergency, she was rapidly diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. She had only a few weeks to live, just time for us to say our farewells.

From then on I spent as much time as I possibly could with her, sharing breakfast with her, playing cards, talking, laughing – and crying. I gave up chess in favour of Scrabble, playing it with almost as much enthusiasm as chess, especially on one occasion when, after beating me (a rare event), she got up and put the game away, just to tease me:

‘I want to bow out victorious, so that's our last game!'

Fortunately it didn't take much to persuade her to carry on playing – and losing.

Xavier isn't there. He comes to lessons, but he doesn't look at me. He doesn't say anything. At first I think he's angry with me.

‘Fahim, my mother's ill. Gravely ill.'

His eyes are red.

‘She needs me just now. And I need her. I want to spend all my time with her. Do you understand?'

Oh yes, I understand! I put on my casual air, but for once I don't shrug.

XP
:
I know that Fahim and Nura must have missed me a great deal during this time. I fitted lessons in when I could, dashing off to the hospital straight afterwards. I could only listen with half an ear, even to Nura.

One lunchtime I stopped off to buy a bottle of champagne: when there's nothing left to celebrate, there's always champagne. My mobile started to vibrate:

‘Exavier, it's Nura. I no money left.'

‘Listen Nura, I'm on my way to the hospital. Then I have to give a lesson in Paris. I'm not free until nine o'clock.'

‘Exavier, I no money. Is all gone. I need. Big problem. Tonight no good, no shop. Shop shut. Now shop. Need eat.'

I looked at the bottle I was about to pay for. Only a complete bastard would refuse. But a detour via Créteil would mean that I'd miss visiting time at the hospital, and I wouldn't see my mother that day.

‘Nura, I can't come to you. You come to me. Catch the bus at the Pompadour intersection, and I'll wait for you at La Croix-de-Berny. La Croix-de-Berny. Do you understand?'

Of course Nura didn't know the bus, he didn't know the bus stop and he never turned up. Furious at having wasted precious time waiting for him, but also filled with remorse, I went off to the hospital. I don't think Nura and Fahim had anything to eat that night.

Another time, when I'd rushed from the hospital to give him his lesson, I found Fahim sprawled on the sofa. When he told me he hadn't done his work I was so angry I was shaking: I could have stayed with my mother for another hour! I went outside and lit a cigar to calm myself down. ‘He's only a child, it's up to me to find a way to get him to work again,' I tried to reason with myself. But did Fahim care about chess any more?

Xavier has vanished from my life. He's melted away. I see him at the club, when he comes for lessons and for my training sessions. But he comes without his laugh, without his stories, without his expressions. Without his will to see me win. Even before he leaves again, I'm facing everything alone: the chessboard, my life, my future. I keep my thoughts from wandering to the European championships: is it just a dream too far for a boy from Bangladesh?

I don't kid myself: soon, at my present rate, I'll only be eligible for the Val-de-Marne championships.

I try to remember. How was it that I used to be able to command my pieces on the chessboard, to tell the king where to go, order the queen about, force the pawns to sacrifice themselves? How did I manage to take control of my own life, to go in the directions I decided, to try to live a life with no regrets?

Then slowly, gradually, almost without noticing, I start to get a grip again. Without my father who is still silent, without Xavier who is so far away inside his head, I set out on my journey again alone. I travel over the chessboard, looking for the path to follow.

If Xavier was here he'd say: ‘A long journey begins with a single step.'

That's another quotation from someone Chinese. I let my mind wander, thinking back to those openings that I haven't worked at. I try to remember what Xavier told me:

‘Since you like the Sicilian, you should find out about all the Sicilians. With black, it could become your home ground, where you feel most comfortable. But you need to know your ground. Remember that Anand–Kramnik game: e4 c5 Nf3 d6 d4 cxd4 Nd4 …'

I jump:

‘Oh, that reminds me of my terrible Dragon at Montluçon!'

‘Precisely, and you should have used a different variant.'

Feverishly, I arrange the pieces on the chessboard to replay these moves. I experiment with them, relishing them. I try different ways and I start to play, quickly. I imagine what Xavier's reaction would be, which variant he would suggest next, and I carry on.

The next day I come back again. Without Xavier the club feels empty. I hang around for a while, then finally sit down and go back to my ‘home ground'.

‘Fahim, you know so many Sicilian variations, you could use the details of one to perfect another. Look at that Judit Polgar game: when white does this, what does black do? Watch out, don't deploy your knight. You have a strong square for your knight, all the black squares, two open files towards the king, two diagonals … Hold on a minute! Judit Polgar was Hungarian, not Russian, but that's no reason for her to retreat!'

Sometimes I stop, feeling discouraged, but inside my head Xavier urges me on:

‘That's good. Now get right up to the net, like in tennis!'

And sometimes he tells me off:

‘So how are you going to carry on with this game? Remember the Japanese proverb: “It's too late to think about digging a well when you're thirsty.”'

If he was here I'd shrug my shoulders.

‘There isn't bad.'

Or what about here?

‘No! Right square, wrong piece!'

Or here?

‘That's good. You're making progress. You're beginning to understand that tactics are not an end in themselves, but rather they're the meat of the overall strategy.'

I carry on, then stop suddenly:

‘Xavier, I can't remember how I got here, I couldn't do it again.'

He would say:

‘When you visit a town, knowing what its monuments are isn't enough, you have to remember how to find them too. Otherwise you'll never see them. When you first arrive, you pick out a few landmarks, such as a square, a statue or a building. You memorise two or three routes, and then you explore. Gradually you discover shortcuts, you get to know the one-way streets, you make the space your own. It's the same in chess. You know a few moves, then you learn how to prepare them, to find the paths that lead to them.'

Then he'd add:

‘Maybe one day you'll start to look at chess as you might look at a town, in order to see its beauty. I hope you'll reach that level, and that, like Alekhine, you'll discover that chess is not a game but an art.'

When I've had enough of studying, I pretend it's a video game. Xavier wouldn't like it, but since he's not here … It's true that chess is more like real life than
Mario Bros
. You can't miss a move and try it again a hundred times and always end up in the same place. So I pretend that I'm the trainer of a team of chess pieces, like playing
FIFA
on Anna-Gaëlle's computer.

February 2012: time for the Île-de-France youth festival. I turn up at the hall on my own, but because I don't have enough money I can't enter the tournament. Fortunately the referee pays for me out of his own pocket. Maybe I still have a little bit of luck left in reserve.

The competitors here are playing for a chance to qualify for the French championships. I've already qualified, so I play in a parallel competition. As I'm top of my section, I play the reigning champion for the title of champion of the Île-de-France. The good news is that it's a blitz game: I love blitz! The bad news is that my opponent worries me: every time I play him I lose. I'm his ‘client'.