Free A King in Hiding by Fahim Page A

late?’
    My father smiles:
    â€˜Who put an idea like that in your head? We weren’t late. He said five o’clock, and we were here at a quarter past.’
    When it starts to get dark, we have to face facts: Xavier isn’t here. On the way to the club again a couple of days later, I begin to put on a spurt. I don’t like to admit it, but I’m worried: will Xavier be there? From a distance I’m relieved to spot a light in the window. I’m also relieved by the broad grin that greets me as we go in:
    â€˜Aha, I see you’re on time! Bravo Fahim! I hope Tuesday night has taught you a lesson.’
    As it turns out, I’m on time for the rest of the year.

    XP : Some people might have thought I was hard on Fahim. In fact I was more laid back with him than with any of my other pupils, to the extent that sometimes I could feel it gave rise to tensions and jealousies. I made allowances for the ordeals that he’d gone through and the conditions in which he lived. But I train my pupils to win tournaments: they come to me to become champions, not to be babysat. I can scarcely imagine the great Olympian swimmer Laure Manaudou saying to her trainer: ‘I haven’t done any swimming this week, I had more important things to do.’ Or her trainer replying: ‘OK, that’s fine by me, see if you can do some next week.’
    Fahim’s early tournaments brought their fair share of surprises. Some good, some not so good. On the plus side, it turned out that he could play all his moves back from memory, and while this isn’t remarkable for a good adult competitive player, for such a young child it’s exceptional. It testified to the attitude of a player who seriously wants to improve his game. And to an incredible memory – another of his talents, which took me by surprise on more than one occasion. I remember sending him to a tournament that was being held miles away, near the Gare de l’Est. When I got out the map of the Métro to show him how to get there, he reeled off from memory all the different lines and changes and the names of all the stations along the way: one Sunday when he had nothing else to do he’d learned the map off by heart.
    But there were disappointments too. Of course Fahim was a far better player than most of the other under-10s. Against adult opponents he played well, very well even, seeking out their flaws, spotting their mistakes and weaknesses, surprising them and often beating them. But when he played against other children the pace was too slow for him, and the stakes were too low. He would get bored, slacken off early in the game, let down his guard and then find himself out of his depth. He’d only wake up when disaster was threatening to strike all over the board.

    In April, my friends at the chess club set off for Troyes, for the French championships. Even though I’ve known for months that I can’t compete, and even though I hate travelling, I’m sad to see them go, and a bit angry too. A boy called Chesterkine wins the title. To this day I can’t hear his name without bearing him a slight grudge.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Fahim, I’ve found you a competition in Paris. The organiser’s really nice, you’ll see. Over the years he must have spent more time at chess tournaments than Karpov and Kasparov put together.’
    Xavier doesn’t understand: I couldn’t care less about his tournament. I want to compete in the French national championships. And I want to win. Because when I was at the top of the Eiffel Tower I made a promise to myself: one day I’d compete in the European championships. A Bangladeshi at the European championships, now that would be doing it in style! But I don’t kid myself: I know my father can’t afford to send me there. Not there, not anywhere!
    In fact I’ll never be able to take part in any international championships – unless I win the