The officials had shared a question with chess organizers worldwide: Would Fischer show up at the proceedings at all? According to an anonymous aide quoted in the press, when Fischer had been offered the key to the city he responded, “I live here, what do I need a key for?” In the event, the celebrations found him in an unusually relaxed state of mind. So eager was he to sign autographs that he mistook several hovering journalists for groupies, grabbing their pens. And when he gave his speech, he even made a joke: “I want to deny a vicious rumor that’s been going around—I think it was started by Moscow. It’s not true that Henry Kissinger phoned me during the night to tell me the moves.” Comfortingly for those who relied on Fischer for dinner party horror stories, some things remained constant. He banned cameras from the reception, and only after some discussion was the press allowed in.
His future and the future of world championship chess alike seemed assured. An editorial in The New York Times commented, “The Fischer era of chess has begun, and it promises a brilliance and excitement the ancient game has never known before.” Fischer stated that he would not shrink from defending his title; on the contrary, he would regularly take on challengers. Few expected him to be knocked off his throne for a decade or more. One exception was his former second, Larry Evans: “I just had the feeling he would never play competitive chess again.”
There was a widespread consensus that Fischer would soon enter the multimillionaires’ club. Almost immediately after the match, entrepreneur and bridge fanatic Ira G. Corn, with whose financial backing the U.S. bridge team had won the world championship in 1970 and 1971, proposed a Fischer-Spassky rematch. Talks were held over a possible simultaneous display in London’s Albert Hall. Lucrative tournament offers arrived daily, from Qatar to South Africa, from the Philippine president Ferdinand Marcos to the Shah of Iran.
Promoters and producers, financiers and backers, were soon reminded of Fischer’s allergic reaction to contracts. A frustrated Paul Marshall remembers that megacontracts were drawn up, but “although he wanted the money, he wouldn’t make written commitments, and you can’t get the money without such commitments.”
Warner Brothers had the idea of making a Christmas LP in which Fischer would record some basic chess lessons. Two producers had been dispatched to Iceland during the match to try to agree on terms. Fischer was too busy to grant them an audience. Nevertheless, money was considered no object in the LP’s preparation—the potential spoils were forecast to be massive. Larry Evans was contracted to assist with the script for a handsome fee. He asked the president of Warner Brothers whether Fischer had actually signed a contract and was told no, but this was a mere formality. All the particulars had been agreed to in principle. Said Evans, “In that case, I’d rather be paid in advance.” He was.
A manufacturer offered Fischer over a million dollars to endorse a chess set. Palsson was promised a percentage if he could get his buddy to agree. “I said to Bobby, What’s wrong with the idea? You wanted chess in every home.’ I’m positive I could have persuaded him, but I had to have more time. They needed an answer immediately because it was September and the sets had to be in the shops by Christmas.” In the end, this and every other proposal ran aground.
Fischer, meanwhile, made a few TV appearances, including a show with Bob Hope in which the champion delivered responses to well-meaning questions, sometimes sullenly, sometimes with a shy grin, head rolling to one side, eyes fixed to the ground, words drawling from the side of his mouth. At Fischer’s invitation, Palsson had accompanied him to the States—taking unpaid leave from the Icelandic police force—with the idea of becoming his minder and fixer, and perhaps finding a shop window to display his own dancing talents. His wife and children stayed behind in Iceland. “Maybe my wife was a little jealous of Bobby because he always wanted to speak to me and took up so much of my time.”
Palsson and Fischer stayed with the Marshalls in New York and then moved west to Pasadena. None who knew Fischer would be surprised to hear that Palsson never received a cent in payment. But today, the Icelander has no regrets about going. He was quoted in the press and treated like a star; during the day, while Fischer slept, he was driven around in a limousine lent to them by Bob Hope. At one glamorous reception, the chairman saluted him as Fischer’s bodyguard, “without whom, in Fischer’s own words, he would never have become world champion.” “They all stood up and clapped,” says Palsson. “That was America. It was a great feeling. It was the highlight of my life.”
Fischer had sworn to Palsson that he would even meet the president—that an invitation had arrived from the White House and that both of them would go. In fact, White House files reveal that the question of a presidential invitation threw the administration into a state of tortuous indecision, producing a stream of conflicting recommendations. A year earlier, after Fischer’s victory over Petrosian, a ten-minute photo opportunity had been canvassed. The president should make time, said this first recommendation, as it would “show [his] interest in an intellectual sport for which there are estimated to be, world-wide, 60 million fans.” The idea had originated with Leonard Garment, President Nixon’s acting special counsel and close confidant. Dr. Kissinger and the National Security Council added their stamp of approval to the proposed appointment. But a note from Garment on 18 January 1972 killed it off:
From a source I consider reliable, I have a description of Fischer as “incredibly eccentric, possessing strange religious attachments, having a very colorful private life, can be both incredibly rude and charming, unpredictable.”
Following Fischer’s triumph, the issue returned to the White House agenda. Interestingly, there was even talk of flying in Spassky, too. General Alexander Haig, Nixon’s chief of staff, saw “no problems with the president agreeing to meet with Bobby Fischer. There has been widespread international interest in the match, and the meeting would be pleasing, for example, to the Icelanders considering that their president has just met with Fischer. On the other hand, we do not think it would be appropriate for the president to meet with Boris Spassky.”
What happened to the invitation is unclear. Palsson says it was ther, but Fischer could not make up his mind about dates. “Bobby knew I wanted to go to the White House. He had to send a guest list, and he said, ‘You’re top of the list.’ I asked when we were going. He was always postponing it.” The publicity value to the president diminished with every passing day. Almost thirty years later, an irate Fischer snarled, “I was never invited to the White House. They invited that Olympic Russian gymnast—that little communist Olga Korbut.”
Three months in the States were enough for Palsson. His family did not want to relocate to the United States, and he missed them. He told Fischer he was leaving; Icelandic Air paid for his ticket home. Fischer rushed up to his friend at the airport and said, “Are you really leaving me?” In a fit of guilt, the U.S. Chess Federation found $500 to compensate Palsson for his labors; as he had been with Fischer for five months, that worked out at $3 a day.
Within a few months, Fischer had virtually vanished from public view, pausing only to put in a cameo performance toward the end of 1972 at the Fried Chicken tournament. This took place in San Antonio, Texas, and was funded by George Church, who had made a fortune from his fried chicken franchise empire. Some of the best players in the world were there, though Fischer was not invited. One of the organizers said this was because “there was a danger that for his appearance fee Bobby would demand Mr. Church’s entire business.” However, he was welcomed as an honored guest and flown in on a private jet. Naturally, he was late, holding up a round of games for fifteen minutes.
The tournament culminated in a three-way tie, between the Armenian veteran Tigran Petrosian, the Hungarian veteran Lajos Portisch, and an anemic-looking twenty-one-year-old Russian. Anatoli Karpov was the Soviet authorities’ hope for the next generation, though they were worried about his stamina. He weighed only about 106 pounds and looked as if he barely had the strength to lift any piece weightier than a pawn
. But he was hugely gifted, mentally tough, and a member of the Botvinnik school of wholeheartedly Soviet chess players. He once said that his three hobbies were chess, stamp collecting, and Marxism. His chess, like his personality, was sober, practical, and phlegmatic.
In 1974, Karpov took on the Soviet elite one by one in the Candidates round. Having already beaten Lev Polugaievskii and then Boris Spassky (in a closely fought contest), he emerged victorious against Viktor Korchnoi, too. Korchnoi had accused the Soviet authorities of favoring the younger man in their head-to-head.
So Karpov was set to challenge Fischer in a match for the world title. The general assembly of the International Chess Federation met during the chess Olympiad of 1974 to agree to the terms of the match. Fischer had fired off a fusillade of 179 demands, all but two of which FIDE immediately conceded. Petrosian grumbled, “These men do everything that Bobby wishes, and he will sit down at the chessboard on the conditions that he dictates to them.” Although Ed Edmondson was back on Fischer’s team, once again Fred Cramer was the main conduit for Fischer’s conditions, one of which was that the arbiter should be banned from engaging in any journalism about the match, even after it was over. A FIDE member was overheard to comment, “Mr. Cramer will not stay quiet even for three minutes, and he wants the match controller to stay silent for his whole life.”
There remained, however, two sticking points. Firstly, FIDE had proposed that the winner be the first person to win six games. Fischer insisted that the championship be decided by ten victories, draws not to count, and that the number of games be unlimited. Second, Fischer insisted that if the score reached nine wins apiece, the champion (that is, Fischer) should retain the title, meaning the challenger must win by two clear points, an unheard-of advantage for the incumbent. After much haggling behind closed doors, the delegates offered a compromise—victory to be achieved by ten wins, up to a maximum of thirty-six games (at which point the player with the most points would be declared the winner). Otherwise, they pointed out, the match could be prolonged indefinitely. Fischer instantly dispatched a note: “I have been informed that my proposals have been rejected by a majority of votes. By doing so, FIDE has decided against my participation in the 1975 world championship. I therefore resign my FIDE world championship title.”
All was not yet lost. Many people interpreted his resignation as another, familiar display of brinkmanship. The bidding process for the match continued apace, with Manila offering a staggering $5 million, said to be the second largest purse in sporting history (just below the Muhammad Ali—George Foreman “Rumble in the Jungle” in Zaire).
The full FIDE body assembled in March 1975. Now they made one more concession, agreeing to an unlimited number of games. But they refused to countenance Fischer’s nine-to-nine rule. Edmondson went to California to plead with the champion. Meanwhile, FIDE announced that if Fischer did not agree by 1 April, he would be deemed to have forfeited the title. The day came and went. On 2 April, a new champion was proclaimed, Anatoli Karpov. In his acceptance speech, he hinted that he was prepared to meet Fischer in an unofficial match, presumably thinking of Manila and the $5 million. He even met Fischer secretly three times, in Japan, Washington, D.C., and Manila, to discuss terms. Eventually, Sergei Pavlov at the Sports Ministry, backed by the Central Committee, turned down the idea. Chief ideologist Mikhail Suslov himself signed its death warrant. He considered it “inexpedient.”
Fischer had been the most dormant of champions, not playing a single competitive game for three years. Eager to prove himself worthy of the crown, Karpov went on to be the most active, growing in strength over the following years, winning a series of elite grandmaster tournaments, and stamping his authority on the chess world. He beat Korchnoi twice more, in the Philippine city of Baguio in 1978 (just) and in Merano in Italy in 1981 (convincingly). Garry Kasparov, Karpov’s successor as world champion, wrote of Baguio, “It finally erased the memory of Reykjavik and restored the prestige of Soviet chess.”
Where was Fischer? For several years, he lived in the bosom of the Worldwide Church of God in Pasadena, where he was called “a co-worker.” The church fed him, they gave him comfortable accommodation in Mocking Bird Lane, they even flew him around in a private jet. In return, Fischer handed over around a third ($61,200) of his Icelandic prize money. He was befriended by Harry Sneider, a national weight-lifting champion who trained church students. Almost every evening, he and Fischer would take some form of physical exercise—soccer, basketball, racquet-ball, swimming, table football. Fischer was now also spending a lot of time listening to Christian preachers on the radio.
There were other people willing to look after him. One was Claudia Mokarow, also a member of the Worldwide Church of God. International master David Levy visited Fischer in 1976. At the time, his host was staying in a large house with no furniture. Levy and Fischer slept on mattresses on the floor. Fischer used Mokarow as a taxi service, Levy remembers, calling her up to take them to and from the restaurants of his choice.
In 1977 Fischer broke with the church, accusing it of being “satanic,” and vigorously attacking its methods and leadership. From this point on, the subject of so much chess acclaim became a near total recluse. Those acquaintances with whom he kept in contact were sworn to secrecy. Relations with anyone who spoke about him to the outside world were broken off—for good. So as not to be recognized, he grew a beard and mustache. However, a letter from Fischer to an old chess acquaintance, Bernard Zuckerman, dated 13 May 1978, shows that he was still using Claudia Mokarow as his answering service. He gave her telephone number and told Zuckerman that was where he could leave messages.
Fischer’s life now became a fertile ground for rumor, although few rumors could exaggerate the reality. In early 1981, he spent several months in San Francisco playing a series of seventeen speed games against Peter Biyiasas, a Greek-born Canadian grandmaster. (Fischer won them all.) Biyiasas said that Fischer carried around a locked valise full of Chinese and Mexican pills. “If the Commies come to poison me, I don’t want to make it easy for them.” There were reports that Fischer had replaced all his fillings after coming to believe that the Soviets were capable of using the metal in his teeth to beam in malignant waves.
On the afternoon of 26 May 1981, Fischer was picked up by the police, apparently mistaken for a bank robber, and was thrown behind bars for two days. He later published a pamphlet, graphically depicting the indignities he suffered: “I Was Tortured in the Pasadena Jailhouse! by Bobby Fischer, the World Chess Champion.”
It appears that Fischer’s refusal to cooperate with the authorities and his inability to recall the address at which he was staying were at least part of the problem. Fischer wrote that he was “brutally handcuffed” and that the metal tore into his flesh. When he stopped answering their questions, one officer, Fischer wrote, “grabbed my throat with one hand and started choking me by the neck.” Although he never discovered this policeman’s name, he wanted him identified. Fischer described him as “hyper-aggressive, like a little dog who barks and snaps a lot and bares his teeth. He is also quite vicious.” Fischer declared that he was stripped and left naked in a bare, dank, drafty cell. Through the tiny window, he sought help from passersby, screaming that he was being tortured to death. Nobody came to his rescue.
Fischer’s apparent inability to distinguish between the genuinely shocking and the relatively trivial is striking. The hysterical tone remains constant throughout: “Legality is a sham at the jail-house. There are No Smoking signs everywhere, and no smoking is rigidly enforced—for the prisoners. But I noticed a light-skinned colored cop/jailer smoking whenever he pleased.”
The text is signed:
Robert D. James (professionally known as Robert J. Fischer or Bobby Fischer, the World Chess Champion)
After this, “Robert J. Fischer, the World Chess Champion,” became a wanderer. For a time in the mid-1980s, he lived in Germany. Michael Bezold, then just a schoolboy but later a grandmaster, analyzed with him each da
y for three months. Fischer was still a nocturnal animal, rising in the afternoon and often eating a huge breakfast of cereal and eggs and bread at five P.M. He was obsessed with “a game in the 1960s, and the question was whether or not to move the pawn to h6. This was the only question. And he said he’d been analyzing this game for more than thirty years, and he couldn’t figure out whether it’s better to play h6 or not. It was fantastic.”
Then suddenly the recluse resurfaced for all the world to see. In 1992, in the midst of the Yugoslav war, exactly two decades after their encounter in Reykjavik, Spassky and Fischer met in a rematch. It was organized by Jezdimir Vasiljevic, a Serbian financier of dubious repute, who proffered $5 million of his bank’s money (two-thirds to go to the winner, one-third to the loser) to entice the ex-champions back to the board. Once again, the world’s press assembled en masse, tantalized not only by the prospect of a battle between the two old foes, but by a sighting of Fischer. What would he look like after all these years?
The answer was, totally transformed from the lithe, boyish figure he had presented in Reykjavik. Now forty-nine, balding, pudgy, and with a beard mottled the same shade of gray as his suit, he had the air of a university lecturer. Fischer considered this a “World Championship” contest—absurdly, given that he had forfeited the title seventeen years earlier and Spassky was now rated only about one hundredth in the world.
The match, split between Belgrade and the picturesque island resort of Sveti Stefan in Montenegro on the Adriatic Sea, was in many ways a triumph for Fischer’s obduracy (as well as his principles), for the rules were those upon which Fischer had insisted in 1974 in the negotiations with FIDE. But his taking part in the match in the middle of the Yugoslav civil war breached UN sanctions: the U.S. Treasury Department bluntly informed him beforehand that he would be in violation of an executive order (number 12810) if the match went ahead—a serious crime carrying a heavy fine and/or a jail sentence.
Bobby Fischer Goes to War Page 31
