A King in Hiding by Fahim Page B

retreated?’
    â€˜Um …’
    â€˜The Battle of Berezina.’
    â€˜The what?’
    â€˜The Battle of Berezina.’
    Xavier tells me a tale of a frozen river, melting ice, drowned regiments and disaster. It’s fascinating. Then we start playing again. I am the Napoleons and Xavier is the Russians:
    â€˜Look Fahim! The Russians never retreat!’
    I refuse to give up any squares:
    â€˜Nor do the Napoleons!’
    After that game it becomes a sort of catchphrase for us:
    â€˜The Russians never retreat!’
    â€˜Nor do the Napoleons!’
    At a tournament a few months later, I handle the opening well but then find myself plunged into the unknown. My opponent is pushing me into a corner but I refuse to retreat. In a sudden burst of arrogance, I launch a counter-attack, Russian-style.
    â€˜It is at the moment of death that a chess player clings on to life,’ as Alekhine would say.
    I refuse to give in, and soon my opponent is sweating like mad. He’s doing any old thing, and then he collapses. Phew! I’ve won! At last!

    XP : Despite a few good games, Fahim wasn’t on the right wavelength for chess any more. ‘You can’t look up at the stars when you have a stone in your shoe.’ I wasn’t sure what to do, whether to give him some breathing space or to push him? But the one thing I know how to do is to be a trainer. Forcing him to get a grip, encouraging him always to do better was my way of supporting him so that he could keep his head above water. And on top of this I also had the feeling that somehow – even if I couldn’t see quite how exactly – chess could be a lifeline for him and his father.
    At the time I put the emphasis on chess as a sport. I know it’s an idea that tends to raise a smile, but chess – sitting as it does at the interface of games, science and culture – is also a sport. In France it falls under the remit of the Ministry of Sport, moreover. To play chess you need to be fit both physically and mentally and to train regularly. Chess tournaments work like other sports competitions, with championships, rankings, trainers and referees. And if anyone objects that it’s not very physical, I would remind them that rifle shooting from a prone position is an Olympic discipline. And I’d add that, like footballers and tennis players, great chess players give up competitive playing around the age of 40, rather than struggling to continue to play at an international level.
    With Fahim, therefore, I insisted that he should adopt the regime of an athlete, with plenty of sleep (even if a healthy diet wasn’t always possible) and a competitive stance: not slumped in his chair, but upright, chest out and arms crossed on the table to make his presence felt to his opponent. I hoped this would help him to rediscover the dynamic of the game, his will to attack and his will to win. His will to play.

    That winter I go on the school ski trip. Since I don’t have any skiing kit, everyone chips in, at school, at the club and at the hostel. In the end, by the time we set off my bag is the biggest of all of them. It’s a long journey. The peculiar smell in the train carriage gives me a headache. It’s like being in a car, only with a different smell. Every journey is a bad memory.
    It’s late in the evening when we get to the chalet. In our room we laugh and shout and make a noise late into the night. The others can’t sleep and Céline tells us off.
    In the morning, some of the others sail effortlessly down the pistes, while I manage to get my skis on and try to look as if I know what I’m doing. But my feet slip from under me, my legs fly off in all directions and there’s no way I can stay upright. Luckily the others in my group are just as bad, and we all take turns to fall flat on our faces. I can’t stop laughing, especially when a boy I can’t stand comes over and tries to act all