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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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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.
    â€˜Is this where it is, do you think?’ asks my father.
    I’m disappointed:
    â€˜It doesn’t look like a chess club.’
    I look at the sign beside the door.
    â€˜Wait!’
    I point.
    â€˜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:
    â€˜There’s no one here today. You’ll have to come back.’
    He waves his hands about, then goes off to find a calendar:
    â€˜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,