The score was Fischer 6.5, Spassky 3.5. Spassky was being steamrollered. In that context, game eleven represented the most challenging in the champion’s professional life: a challenge to which he rose with great courage. Once again, Fischer played the poisoned pawn variation of the Najdorf, gobbling up white’s sacrificial offering. He had brazenly captured the pawn in the same position against many other players and had always escaped unscathed. The great eighteenth-century player (and composer) François Philidor described pawns, the foot soldiers of the chessboard, as “the souls of the game,” and Fischer certainly never underestimated their worth.
However, Spassky’s team had had over a week to search for ways to enrich the venom. The toxicity of the swallowed pawn was exposed on move fourteen, when Spassky made a highly counter intuitive retreat of his knight to its original position. He insists he conjured up this move at the table. Byrne and Nei describe it as “a diabolical withdrawal” and “the most interesting move in Reykjavik.” Fischer soon found his queen short of squares as the hunt closed in; eleven moves later, she was finally trapped. There were whisperings and murmurings through the audience, prompting Schmid to spring nervously from his chair and to press down furiously on the “silence” button. The game was now effectively over, though Fischer limped on for a few more moves. When he eventually conceded, cheers and shouts of “Boris!” resounded through the hall. The champion visibly relaxed. “The rest of the match will be more interesting for me,” he said.
Fischer rarely lost, and the historical evidence was that when he did lose, he was psychologically knocked off balance. What impact would defeat have on him this time? Around the world there was excited talk of “turning points,” of the match being “at a crossroads.” In Izvestia, grandmaster David Bronstein wrote, “The world champion has at long last retrieved the key to offensive play and will now probably be able fully to display his many gifts.”
In the event, game twelve was a quiet game—plain-speaking grandmasters called it “tedious”: manifestly drawn a good twenty moves or so before the result was sealed with a handshake, it was prolonged apparently through pure obstinacy. The only amusement to be had was watching the beads of sweat break out on the brows of the two contestants. For once it was a warm day, but Fischer had insisted the air-conditioning system be switched off because of its gentle hum. Throughout the game, he made constant complaints to the arbiter about disturbances in the audience. This time, he had unmistakably good grounds. Some local lads had managed to sneak into a basement room and were screaming into the ventilator pipes that led directly to the hall.
Later, Schmid received a Fischer missive, insisting that the first seven rows in the hall be cleared: “The spectators are so close, and so noisy, and the acoustics are so poor, that I can hear bits of conversation, as well as coughing, laughing, and so on. This is not suitable for a world championship match, and I demand that you and the organizers take immediate action to ensure full and complete correction of these disgraceful conditions, and furnish me a full report of what is to be done.” “It was just a normal letter by Bobby’s standards,” Schmid said, trying to ignore it. However, for Fischer and thus for the organizers, noise was an irritant that would not go away.
Complaining seems to have been cathartic for Fischer. Game thirteen certainly suggests so. Just to replay the seventy-four moves of this nine-hour marathon is to sense the tension. For much of the time, the position was mind-bogglingly complex, and it was unclear who was ahead. C. H. O’D. Alexander described it as “a struggle of heroic proportions.” Fischer gave up a piece but retained and then activated a phalanx of pawns on the wing; they marched, slowly, inexorably, and menacingly, up the board. Several times, under intense pressure, Spassky found just the right saving maneuver. But then on move sixty-nine, exhausted, he slipped up, making the wrong check with his rook; the Soviet press called it “the fatal check.” After that, he could not stop one of Fischer’s pawns from queening. “Bobby poured more into the endgame than he ever did in his life,” said Lombardy. When the victorious Fischer left the stage, Schmid—disregarding U.S. allegations of bias—sat with a demoralized Spassky and rehearsed the latter stages of the game. His mistake and his fatigue apart, Spassky could have taken comfort from his part in such a tour de force. David Bronstein went through the moves countless times and wrote of the game’s delightful intricacy, “It’s like an enigma titillating my imagination.”
Larisa Spasskaia, together with the wives of the other Soviet team members, had now arrived in Iceland. “I hope I can make him relax and think,” she said. Following his titanic and ultimately futile exertion, Spassky needed time to recuperate. On the morning of the fourteenth game, a second postponement was announced. Ulvar Thordarson, a keen chess player and eye specialist who had been asked to be the official doctor shortly before the Fischer-Spassky match began, issued a statement confirming that he had “today at this time [10:20 A.M.] examined Boris Spassky, who does not feel well. I have on medical reasons advised him not to play the scheduled game today.” The exact nature of the illness was not disclosed at the time. Thordarson now says that it was not serious—a cold, no doubt brought on by stress. When the doctor went to see Spassky in the hotel Saga, the champion was well enough to joke with him. “He challenged me to a game of chess. I said, ‘You stick to chess, I’ll stick to medicine.’”
Cramer was less than sympathetic. “Poor Spassky. The Russian bug has struck again because I’m sure there is nothing wrong with the Icelandic climate. Perhaps he wants a couple of days to talk with his wife and get his mind off chess.” Then Cramer approached Thordarson, demanding to see the medical report and receiving instead a stern rebuke. “Before I threw him out, I explained the ethical code between a doctor and a patient.” Thordarson handed the report over to Schmid, forbidding the arbiter from making it public. Cramer next tried it on with Schmid, too, earning him a second scolding. “Spassky does not feel well. That is enough,” the German grandmaster said. The widespread perception in the Western media was that Spassky, behind in points and mentally drained, would now capitulate without much of a fight.
17. MIDDLE GAME
Now I have nothing but my wife.
— CHESTER FOX
After the trauma of the first phase of the match, the organizers and contestants settled into a familiar routine. The shock of Fischer’s approach had worn off. Like inhabitants of an occupied town, they accommodated to a new way of life. There was the certainty of a complaint or more each day by letter, sometimes signed by Fischer, sometimes by Cramer; there were threats, tantrums, ultimatums. But there was also a built-in momentum arising out of a comforting regularity—the game, the day(s) off, the familiarity of the proceedings. As under occupation, the citizens could never let down their guard: there was always the danger that a Fischer complaint would escalate out of control. Some of the protests, however, began to lose their edge; indeed, tension levels among the organizers peaked when no objections were lodged. What was Fred Cramer planning now?
This self-made millionaire from Milwaukee and former president of the U.S. Chess Federation was a tiny man with a giant ego who had made his fortune in the lighting industry. Brad Darrach described him as five feet five “with a little help from his shoemaker” and added that, depending on his mood, he “looked like any of the seven Disney dwarfs.” When Cramer was encircled by the press, his lack of height rendered him invisible and all the journalists on the edge of the group could make out was a squeaky voice somewhere in the void.
Cramer was then in his late fifties and held the official title of vice president of FIDE, responsible for Zone 5 (the United States). He became Fischer’s unofficial spokesperson after Edmondson was summarily fired. Two men more different than Edmondson and Cramer would be hard to imagine. U.S. Air Force colonel Edmondson had a dignified military bearing and a calming influence. Former captain Cramer was excitable and self-important. However, he was highly regarded for his work as president of the USCF—bringing in the Elo
system, named after its inventor, professor of mathematics Arpad Elo, which rated the strength of chess players. Cramer also left the USCF a substantial legacy.
Cramer regarded himself as a man of many key roles: gatekeeper to the American genius, main organizer, strategist, and spokesman—someone equivalent to the U.S. president’s chief of staff, barring the way to the Oval Office. In reality, he was little more than chief gofer, in charge of a coterie of lesser gofers, all tensely awaiting Fischer’s barked orders and sweating in case they failed to meet their fickle master’s whims at any hour of day or night. He once even admitted as much: “I am authorized only to complain.” Complain he did. Barely a day passed without a volley of his discourteous notes. He would also complain in person to officials—sometimes rather conspiratorially by whispering to them in a public place. “Ear-shattering whispers from six inches,” according to the British Guardian newspaper.
He was in the habit of holding impromptu press conferences in the antechamber to the main playing hall or in the lobby of the Loftleidir hotel, oblivious to how comical or portentous the journalists found them. He reveled in the attention and would dramatize the latest developments using an idiosyncratic vocabulary consisting predominantly of warring metaphors such as “The Russians are supporting their frontline troops with a paper barrage.” Not being blessed with the spokesman’s qualities of wit, tact and diplomacy, he was a journalist’s godsend, always to be relied on for a quote. In public relations terms, he was twenty years ahead of his time, defending Fischer’s behavior by launching verbal counterthrusts rather than by apologizing. The more outlandish Fischer’s conduct, the more vociferous Cramer’s defense. The Russians were always talking “nonsense,” “garbage.” The officials were “stupid” or “incompetent” or “biased.”
Reporters aside, he was not popular in Reykjavik. Spassky accused him of acting as though Fischer were the champion and “I was nothing.” The officials disliked him, too. Today, Schmid dismisses him with a laugh as “Bobby’s servant,” simply carrying out his wishes in a way Edmondson might not. He found fault so often, says Schmid, “that I was well trained.” Following his early attempt to have Schmid removed as chief arbiter, Cramer had aired doubts about the German grandmaster’s impartiality when he played bridge with the champion on a day off and when on a separate occasion he was observed dining with Ivo Nei. Schmid dismissed the accusations robustly: “Whenever I see Mr. Cramer, he tries to hide behind a big man.”
The big man was the key to Cramer’s frenetic activities. In Don Schultz’s phrase, “He was a 100 percent ‘yes-man’ for Bobby: Cramer did not want to be fired, like his predecessor, Edmondson. So he did literally everything Fischer wanted. Whatever Fischer would say, he would respond, ‘Yes, sir. I agree with that, let’s do it.’” It is easy at this distance to mock Cramer’s submis-siveness to Fischer’s every wish. But he was far from alone: most of those serving Fischer accepted that there was a line not to be crossed if his wrath was to be avoided.
Cramer’s press conferences were his—often desperate—means of proving to Fischer that he was faithfully executing orders. Schultz believes it was not the most effective strategy. “A better way would have been to go to the authorities behind the scenes. Instead, Bobby would say something and there would be a press release.” Frank Skoff, who became president of the U.S. Chess Federation in August 1972 and was one of Fischer’s aides in Reykjavik, is more generous: “Fred would have been a good guy if he’d just tempered himself a bit, but he was one of these people who bubble over, and when he gets going he shoots in all directions.”
Fischer’s bodyguard in Iceland, and one of the few to achieve some sort of rapport with the challenger, Saemundur—“Saemi-rock”—Palsson recalls how if Fischer needed to be woken up for a game, Cramer would “knock on the door and then say to me, ‘You stay there.’ Then he would run off.”
The close relationship that developed between Fischer and Saemundur Palsson, between the chess megastar and an Icelandic policeman, is one of the curiosities of the match.
In Iceland, the thirty-five-year-old Palsson was as much a celebrity as Fischer. An avuncular, regular-guy, he had won the gold medal in the Icelandic Judo Championship (middleweight), had taken first place in a Reykjavik rock-dancing tournament, and was the ex-goalkeeper for the national handball team. He had one other fateful attribute that put him on guard outside Fischer’s house the evening the contender finally arrived: His superiors knew he spoke some English, enough to communicate with the challenger.
On that night, at around midnight, Fischer poked his head out of the window to check whether the road was clear. When he saw that it was, he went out, asked Palsson, who was sitting in his police car, for directions to the city center, declined a lift, and loped off into the night. Palsson radioed his headquarters for instructions. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he was ordered.
The chess player was now heading due west—away from the city. They pulled up alongside him. “Good evening, Mr. Fischer,” Palsson said. “How about coming with us? If you like, we can show you around and escape this jungle of much concrete.” The American agreed to an excursion. The night was chilly; Fischer had ventured out without a sweater. After picking up some warmer clothing, they took off for the mountains. Palsson contacted headquarters again, naturally briefing them in Icelandic. Sharply, Fischer demanded to know what they were talking about. Palsson was suitably mollifying.
In the country, they found a flock of sheep and chased them “like children.” It was the beginning of a firm friendship—some say Palsson was the only real friend Fischer ever had. “I need a tailor,” Fischer said that night. “Do you know where I can find one?” Palsson knew everybody in town—he promised to introduce Bobby to the finest tailor in Reykjavik, Colin Porter, an Englishman married to an Icelander. “My TV aerial is broken. Do you know anyone who can repair it?” “I’ll make sure it’s fixed,” said Palsson.
For the next two months, Palsson and Fischer were nearly inseparable. Fischer always called him “Sammy.” The policeman became the dependable elder brother that Fischer never had. They played tennis, they swam (“I was a little faster than him, but to keep him in a good mood I would lose”). Palsson would take Fischer to his house by the sea, where Bobby would lounge on the sofa while Mrs. Palsson cooked up colossal helpings of Icelandic cuisine. Fischer grew attached to Palssons son, Asgeir, then seven years old. Bobby could not understand why, when they went out in the middle of the night, Mrs. Palsson would not let her son accompany them.
Palsson even looked after Fischer’s finances. He remembers Fischer as being naive to the point of ignorance on issues of money, and especially on the foreign checks he received from various sources in Reykjavik. “He only wanted green [cash]. I said, ‘I can prove to you that these checks are real money.’ And I took a check for six or seven thousand kronur and we went down to the bank, where I said, ‘I need to change this check.’ And Bobby signed and got his money. Thank God he didn’t throw all those checks in the wastebasket.”
Meeting Palsson today, one understands instantly why Fischer found him easy to get along with. The Icelandic police inspector is immensely likable, transparently trustworthy, and unaffected. In Iceland, he is a national icon. “Oh, you must meet ‘Saemi-Rock,’ people say when talking about Fischer, and their eyes twinkle as they tell you about his exploits and how close he was to the strange American. The tone is affectionate, if a touch mocking.
His reputation for irrepressible amiability was enhanced a few years ago in an episode with which everyone in Reykjavik seems familiar. At a drunken and rowdy party, a brawl had broken out and neighbors called in the police. Palsson duly arrived, and within a few minutes he had deflated the situation and was teaching the partygoers how to dance. “I said, ‘Hey, everybody, let’s all be in a good mood. Shall we try a few steps?’”
During Fischer’s two months in Reykjavik, Paissons devoted attendance on the challenger was rewarded with shabby treatment from th
e police, the ICF, and particularly Fischer himself. Paid for a shift of eight hours, sometimes he worked eighteen. For the first fortnight, he had obligations during the day, and then, because of Fischer’s unorthodox sleeping habits, he would be on duty half the night as well. Later he was released by the Icelandic police force to be with Fischer full-time—but this still involved long hours. When Palsson complained, the Icelandic Chess Federation promised him some overtime, which he never received. Paul Marshall suggested to Fischer that they recompense Palsson, to which Fischer replied, “Offer Sammy money? He’s my friend. He would be offended.” “Whether he was very clever or very mean, you never knew,” says Palsson. “I would never have asked, but if he had offered, I would not have said no.”
Financial rewards might have been lacking, but Palsson had privileged access to the entire drama, even to the games themselves. Fischer wanted Palsson to stay backstage, to bring him orange juice and provisions; as Spassky did not protest, he was there for almost every match. At least once he served Spassky as well, not wanting to leave him out.
Palsson confesses to not being the brightest star in the firmament. But he has an emotional intelligence that allowed him to read Fischer’s moods. “You had to play Bobby like a violin. Sometimes it was best not to talk at all.” His attachment to Fischer remains touching, though he badly overrated Fischer’s attachment to him.
By late July, a diurnal rhythm has taken hold of the match. The games are supposed to begin at five in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, but Fischer is always tardy, at times by just a few minutes, at other times by up to half an hour. Palsson is under strict instructions not to rouse him too early from his slumber. It is a short drive from the hotel Loftleidir to the coastal road and then to the Laugardalur, the municipal sports center consisting of an open-air athletic stadium, a swimming pool, and the giant fungus-shaped exhibition hall where the match is taking place.
Bobby Fischer Goes to War Page 22
