A King in Hiding (5 page)

‘The hostel at Créteil is full at the moment.'

The woman picks up the phone and dials 115. After a brief conversation she announces:

‘The Samu Social, an organisation that finds accommodation for homeless people, has found you a hotel room.'

M. Bamoun translates. My father stiffens:

‘I've run out of money.'

Just as I thought.

‘No need to worry. The cost is covered while your application is being processed.'

I think about all the people living on the streets of Dhaka, all the poor people who are homeless. I'd never imagined there might be an organisation that could find them somewhere to stay. Let alone that one day it would be me needing this sort of help.

It's already late when we get to Fresnes. The man on reception shows us the room: it's magnificent, with a television, and in the bathroom a tiny swimming pool called a bath.

Gesturing with his hands, the man asks if we have eaten, and when my father signals ‘no', he goes away and comes back with a tin of something. The label says ‘sweetened condensed milk', which means nothing to us. But since we're starving we accept it eagerly. My father opens the can. It's full of white, sticky goo. I taste it. Milk, sweet and sickly: yuck! Who could eat that? We throw it away and go to bed hungry.

By the next day I realise that this hotel is not the paradise I thought it was: in fact it's more like a version of hell. During the day we have to get out of the rooms. Even if we have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no official stuff to take care of, no one to go and see. And it's cold. Colder than you can imagine. I have a lovely coat with a red collar that my father had bought me in India, but even with my jumper on underneath it I'm still cold. My father finds a hat and gloves for me. I'm sure it won't be enough to stop me freezing to death.

So we go out as little as possible. We stay in the foyer. All day. With nothing to do. Ten hours a day. Ten long hours of endless boredom. In the foyer. In the corridor. In the icy draughts. Sometimes standing up, sometimes sitting down. Sometimes in front of a television screen showing rolling news bulletins that I don't understand.

We're not the only ones. There are other people waiting with us. People of all ages and colours. People from all over the world who have ended up here by an accident of fate, like us. Occasionally, not very often, they talk. In whispers almost. As if it's against the rules. They speak in languages I don't understand. We can't even communicate with each other: we come from different corners of the globe.

I'm raging. I want to go back to our room, to sleep, have a shower, warm up. To play chess with my father. But I don't complain: I can see that he's fed up too. I don't want to heap my unhappiness on top of his. So I keep quiet. And I wait.

We only go out when we need to buy something to eat: a little rice, chicken or fish. Then we have to wait ages for our turn to use the kitchen. When the food is ready, we eat. My father cooks well. Though obviously not as well as …

When evening comes at last, we go up to our room. I go straight to bed and fall asleep. To forget.

After a month, we go to a different hotel. Out towards Valenton. It's a day I'll never forget. I'd never seen snow before. I'd heard a lot about it and I couldn't wait to see it. People in France are lucky. Well, that day it was snowing. Really snowing. And it didn't take me long to realise that I detested it: it was freezing cold, the pavements were all slippery, and we struggled with our cases. Now I could see that snow was completely pointless, that it was just a pain for everyone.

We had to find the bus station, the bus for Valenton, the stop to get off at, the hotel. It's so hard living in a country when you don't speak the language!

At Valenton, our life gets better. We're allowed to stay in our rooms. So I flop in front of the television. I drug myself up with cartoons and mangas. When I've had enough, I turn the TV off and do nothing. I stretch out and think. I'd like to have friends. To play with them. Is it possible to have friends in France?

The hotel is in a remote district miles from anywhere, where there's nothing to do and the streets are deserted. There's a massive shopping centre, but it's always empty. I wonder how the people who work there earn a living. My father and I go there regularly to buy provisions. Since we don't have a refrigerator, we keep our food on the windowsill. In Bangladesh it would go off in no time.

We get to know a Bangladeshi couple at the hotel. They arrived on the same day as us, and will leave with us too. I don't know yet that they will get their papers long before we do. I like them: we speak the same language. They and my father talk together. I hear them say that we may be in France for a long time. A very long time. That I might have to live here for ever. That I might never go home again.

So I decide to live a life with no regrets, not to look back to the past any more, not to think about Bangladesh any more.

A month later the news comes. They're expecting us at the Créteil hostel. Another move, more chaos. It's pouring with rain. The gutters in the street are overflowing. Our bags are heavy. We're soaked.

As we arrive at the hostel, a handful of people in the foyer watch us vaguely. A woman smiles at us. I feel intimidated. My father makes straight for the reception desk. A man arrives: he's tall and he's called Muhamad. He shakes our hands warmly and quickly jots down some notes before giving us some things: two toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, a broom, toilet paper and 45 euros. We're rich again!

We follow Muhamad up some stairs and along a corridor that's horrible and running with water, with pails and floor cloths in the middle, dustbins in a corner, and all sorts of stuff piled up at the far end. He opens a door with numbers on it that I recognise from my English lessons at school: 123, easy to remember. This is our room. It's small, with bunk beds. I choose the bottom one. There's also a table and two chairs, a wardrobe, a washbasin and a refrigerator. Outside the window, between two tall buildings, the bare branches of a tree are swaying. My father seems pleased. The room is clean, the walls are white and spotless. He likes it when things are clean and tidy. He detests cockroaches. So do I.

While my father unpacks our bags, I go off to explore. The corridor has dried out and doesn't look such a mess. The building is quiet. Too quiet. Like everywhere else in France, there are no children to be seen. I open doors and look inside. I find the bathroom and toilets, which are a bit dirty and disgusting. But Muhamad is back already, and takes us downstairs to a big room full of tables and chairs.

‘This is the canteen, CANTEEN. This is where you'll come to eat for the moment.'

The hours pass, quietly, slowly, pointlessly. And then – then I hear a vague murmur, footsteps, noises getting louder, people chasing each other, a stampede, shouts, voices – children! It's five o'clock. Success! Friends!

I race out to meet them. By a stroke of luck there's a Bangladeshi boy, Hadi. He introduces me to the rest of them, and straight away I'm one of the gang. Some of them speak good French. I admire that. Maybe one day I will too. We play games – not cricket or badminton but football and tag. On fine days we play outside, behind the building. On rainy days we hang about on the stairs. Sometimes we play outside even so and get soaked and are told off by our parents. But we do it again anyway.

In the morning my friends go off to school, and I wait. I'm impatient. When the clock says the school day is over, life will begin again for me. The older boys arrive back first, then the younger ones who are at primary school. Maybe in France the older you are, the less you have to work?

Muhamad puts my name down to go to school. On my first day, my friends show us the way. I'm happy not to be left all alone in the hostel any more. The head teacher meets us at the school door. His name is Jean-Michel. He has white hair that makes him look old, and jeans that make him look young. I've never seen a head teacher wearing jeans before.

Jean-Michel takes me into the playground. There are children running in all directions, but I'm not fazed. I'm not easily fazed. Plus I recognise some of them from the hostel. When break is over, Jean-Michel takes me into Mme Faustine's class, which is for children who don't speak French. Then he takes me into Mme Klein's class for eight- and nine-year-olds. Then we go back to Mme Faustine's class. I'm not sure whose class I'm in.

Mme Faustine tells me to sit down. There are only ten children in the class: two Chinese girls, a Sri Lankan boy who lives at the hostel, a Chechen boy who is also from the hostel, two black boys, a fair-haired boy, a weird boy from I never find out where, a chubby girl and a wimp. Mme Faustine gives me some colouring to do. I take my time, as I'm in no rush to start work. When I've finished, she tells me the picture is of Father Christmas. She makes me say it after her. FATHER CHRISTMAS. I've never heard of Christmas. In Bangladesh we celebrate Eid.

I have lunch in the canteen. The dinner lady serves me a sort of white sausage, peculiar and not particularly nice-looking. One of my friends explains something to me but I don't really understand: I think it's a special sausage for Muslims.

After lunch, Mme Faustine puts a sheet of paper on my table. There are blanks to fill in. I glance at it, then look up at the teacher in surprise. It's so easy that for a moment I think she must be making fun of me. But no, she keeps a straight face. So I take my time. I'm not frightened of her: Alya's mother told me that teachers in France never hit their pupils, even when they get things wrong.

The next morning I'm not so eager to go to school. My father wakes me up quietly. Then loudly. Then he shakes me. Then he gets cross. I can't stay in bed any longer. I start the day in a bad mood. The journey's over. Life goes on.

Chapter 6

A TRUE DISCOVERY

E
ven when we were still at the Bamouns my father would look all serious and say:

‘Fahim, I didn't bring you halfway round the world so that you could watch cartoons.'

In November, he bought a French book on chess for me. I couldn't understand the French text, obviously, but I would look at the diagrams and try to work out the problems. More importantly, he decided to find a club where I could play. This wasn't easy, as neither of us spoke French, and the Bamouns knew nothing about chess. But eventually he found a club called ‘La Tour Blanche'.

To begin with I didn't like it: it was nearly all adults there, and I couldn't understand what they were saying. But I carried on going there, even after we moved out to the suburbs.

In December I played in a tournament. I liked being back in the competitive atmosphere, and I was eager for the fight and for the pleasure of playing against new opponents. With eight wins and a draw, I was the winner. I felt proud. My father was over the moon. Both for my success and for the cheque for the 70 euro prize money.

At the awards ceremony, a man came over to speak to us. When he realised that we didn't understand what he was saying, he repeated himself slowly. My father made out ‘club' and I grasped ‘Créteil'. The man scribbled a quick note and wrote down an address.

Once we've settled in at the hostel, we decide to go and find this club in Créteil. We ask the people at the hostel, and Hadi translates. The club is in a street with a name. This always amazes me, as streets at home don't have names.

‘It's easy,' they say. ‘It's near those funny buildings that look like cabbages called Les Choux de Créteil.'

My father and I set off to find it. We look everywhere, go round in circles, get it wrong, get lost, and before we know it it's dark. It's really hard to find your way in Europe. When at last we arrive outside the building it's late. It's in darkness, the door is shut and the metal shutter is pulled down.

‘Is this where it is, do you think?' asks my father.

I'm disappointed:

‘It doesn't look like a chess club.'

I look at the sign beside the door.

‘Wait!'

I point.

‘I know that word. It's on the cover of the book you gave me. I think it says “chess”.'

We feel more hopeful again, and the next day we go back. Earlier. The club is open. A man stands in the doorway; he's tall and thin and smoking. He smiles at us. My father gives him the note. The man reads it and looks interested, then tries to explain:

‘There's no one here today. You'll have to come back.'

He waves his hands about, then goes off to find a calendar:

‘Saturday. Come back on Saturday. There's a lesson at eleven o'clock.'

We go away. I'm really disappointed. It's pathetic, this club. Either it's shut or there's no one there. There's nothing going on, it's dead. And it looks cramped and shabby. We've got to find another club, but I don't dare tell my father.

Third time lucky. We go back on Saturday. The man teaching the lesson looks just like Nagy Laszlo. I'm surprised. He doesn't look like a trainer. A trainer should be young, slim, clean-shaven. He's the complete opposite. He has a big paunch and a beard, and he looks at least 70!

He looks up:

‘Hello?'

Another surprise. I'm expecting the voice of a little old man, weak and shaky, to match his grey hair. But his voice is loud and booming. I know at once that I will never get on with this man.

‘You must be Fahim?'

Hearing my name I nod, feeling a bit shy.

‘I'm Xavier.'

He beckons me to come closer. The club members are looking in silent concentration at the projected image of a large chessboard. Xavier takes me through the problem on his computer. I think about it. I know the answer, but I don't know how to say it. So I point with my index finger as though I'm moving the pieces, one by one. Xavier smiles and turns to his pupils. He asks questions and they answer them. Words, words and more words piling up, mountains of words that I can't understand. The lesson goes on for ages. I'm bored. Then the pieces on the wall begin to move, and I watch intently. Then they start talking again, and I'm bored once more.

I turn to my father:

‘Can we go now?'

‘Don't you want to watch the exercises?'

I try to persuade him:

‘No, it's too easy, I want to go.'

‘OK, let's go.'

But Xavier signals to us to wait, and my father sits down again. Too bad! When the lesson is finally over, I try to slip outside. Xavier keeps my father back and suggests we meet up the following Tuesday. I hope my father will refuse, but he agrees.

It's too late for lunch in the canteen. On the way back, my father buys me a sort of sandwich with hot meat in it, called a kebab. I know that today I've made a true discovery. Kebabs and I were made for each other!

XP
:
When he first arrived at the club, Fahim was only eight. I remember a serious child – too serious perhaps – with eyes shining with curiosity. Whenever I spoke he frowned, as if to work out what I was saying, then looked questioningly at his father. This little boy from halfway across the world seemed lost.

A few days earlier, my colleague Patrick had mentioned that an ‘exceptionally gifted' child (that was what the note said) had arrived from the Indian subcontinent. It irritated me, as every week people tell me about some new prodigy. So it was with considerable reservations that I greeted him when he arrived – late – at my lesson. My students, all of them older, were preparing for a high-level championship, and were stumped by a problem designed to test their spatial awareness. Fahim was at least four years younger than them, but he surprised me. Instantly, he found the geometrical key to the problem. I knew then that this boy had the makings of a champion.

On Tuesday I go back to the club, dragging my feet. I don't want to see Xavier again, let alone work with him. But I don't have the heart to disappoint my father. He seems so pleased to have found me a trainer. Xavier (or
Ex
avier, as my father will always call him) is waiting for us. He gestures to me to sit down and we start to play. It's hard but exciting. I make mistakes and lose quite a few games, which makes me cross and all the more determined to fight back.

Time passes. What a funny teacher! We just play, and he doesn't say anything: no remarks, no advice. He just thinks about the game, twiddling his beard between his fingers. I'm a bit thrown, but pleased: I don't like it when people tell me how to play.

It's evening. We've been here for hours and I haven't noticed the time slipping past. Xavier wants to fix a time to meet up again, but my father is embarrassed. With a few gestures, Xavier makes him understand that there is nothing for him to pay. I see him differently now: in the end, I can see that we'll get on well together.

From now on, I go to the club several times a week. Xavier gives me problems to solve by arranging pieces on a chessboard. While I solve one problem, he sets up another one. Then we play.

XP
:
When I think back to those early games it makes me feel quite emotional. Fahim had been coached intensively by his father and his early teachers, and showed real potential. He had an astonishing ability to concentrate, extraordinary gifts for mental arithmetic and the geometrical perception of space, and a remarkable memory, all of which enabled him to put multiple moves together in advance and to plan well ahead. For such a little chap, he had an unbelievable mental overview of the game.

I often quote Plato: ‘You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in an hour of conversation.' It was perfectly clear already that this child, who spoke a different language from me and with whom my only means of communication was through playing and watching, was a shrewd tactician, alert to the slightest errors on his opponent's part and capable of deploying a range of strategies that is rare in one so young.

Fate, if such a thing exists, had put this child in my path for a reason. Forced by his chess-playing abilities to leave his home on the other side of the world, he had chanced to end up just a kilometre away from the club. I had to take him under my wing: ‘If you refuse to teach a man who possesses the right disposition, you lose a man. If you teach a man who does not possess the right disposition, you lose your teaching. A wise man loses neither men nor his teachings.' I am a great admirer of Confucius.

To begin with it wasn't easy, all the same. The chessboard was our sole means of communication. For tactics this wasn't a problem. But for working on the subtleties of the game it was impossible. How can you explain the complexities of these things through hand gestures? Fortunately, Fahim picked up French at a rate that was quite astounding.

Xavier teaches me the French names of the pieces – the queen was a mere lady (
dame
) and the bishops fools (
fous
) – and technical vocabulary such as the term for a ‘pin' (
clouage
) and ‘promotion' when a pawn reaches the other side of the board. He shows me when you have to sacrifice a piece to put yourself in a position of strength, why I shouldn't play my queen too early in the game, tricks for stopping my opponent from castling, and how to avoid traps for beginners.