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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:
    â€˜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.
    â€˜You must be Fahim?’
    Hearing my name I nod, feeling a bit shy.
    â€˜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:
    â€˜Can we go now?’
    â€˜Don’t you want to watch the exercises?’
    I try to persuade him:
    â€˜No, it’s too easy, I want to go.’
    â€˜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.