A King in Hiding (19 page)

‘So, are you proud of yourself?'

‘Well, … I came out of it OK!'

‘Wait! Going into a competition hall isn't like going swimming! Concentrate! If you let your mind wander you'll never get anywhere. React, for heaven's sake!'

Fahim carried on protesting:

‘But I won, all the same.'

‘You tread on a mine and lose a leg, and you come and tell me that it's great because you got to the end by hopping! And then what? Walking on your hands? Fahim, what matters is not the game, it's your attitude, it's the championship.'

Monday. Round four. As soon as my opponent sits down opposite me he's virtually lost already. You can feel he doesn't believe he's going to win. He's used to losing to me: he's my ‘client'. For me it's a stress-free game, a free point more or less. I look around us: one boy is tying one of his laces, another's daydreaming, a third is making a lot of noise getting a snack out of a plastic bag. I get up to go to the toilet. I've got time, unlike once when I was up against the clock and had to hold it in with all my strength, which shot my concentration to pieces. I come back. Two players are signalling to the referee, crossing their index fingers to say their game is a draw. One boy has his head in his hands, chewing his lip, slumped in his chair, twisting his fingers and drumming his feet on the floor. He lifts his arms, stretches, raises and lowers his shoulders and then takes up his position again, head in hands. The players around him can feel the tension mounting. The ones who are walking around are drawn to his table like a magnet. A crowd gathers. Everyone looks intently at the board, as though trying to help him out in his desperate attempts to untangle the threads of his problem. Everyone holds their breath. Then he moves a piece, and the tension subsides. Everyone goes back to their places.

XP
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As the tournament goes on, the pressure becomes more intense. The system pits the strongest players against each other at the end of the tournament, and schedules the most important games at the point where everyone is beginning to feel tired.

Tuesday. I catch Fahim just as he's racing out to kick a ball about instead of applying himself. He wins round five, but I'm still vigilant:

‘There are just two players who have won all their games: Chesterkine and you. Look out, Fahim, there's still a long way to go!'

Wednesday. Round six. I'm up against the winner of the French championship at Troyes. I don't bear him a grudge any more for stealing the title from me: it wasn't his fault I couldn't be there. And in any case I want to live my life with no regrets.

Chesterkine looks Asian and is tall and laid back. He lives on the other side of the world, on an island that belongs to France. He has the back-up of a major trainer, but the place where he lives is so remote that he trains on Skype. Everyone says it's a paradise on earth in the middle of the ocean: it's called Tahiti.

So here we are, face to face. I might not bear a stupid grudge against him any more, but I have no intention of letting him win the title this time around. I manoeuvre for hours without success. So does he. I try to force the exchanges towards an endgame in my favour. Oh no! Too late. Chesterkine forks in the middle of the exchange. I lose a bishop with nothing to compensate for it. It's hopeless. End of story. I can already see my life passing in front of my eyes. I can't even propose a draw. Not with the new rule in place.

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
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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
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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.