Grandmaster

by Klass, David

  I knew what was coming and almost couldn’t bear to watch. He thrust his head slightly forward on his neck like a turtle poking out of its shell, tilted his chin up so that his bald pate gleamed under the one ceiling light, and concentrated.

  “What the hell’s he doing?” Eric asked. “Is he trying to levitate?”

  “No, he’s wiggling his ear,” Brad snorted.

  “Both ears,” Dad said proudly. “And watch this.” He took off his glasses, and one of his eyebrows cocked up while the other one arched downward. “Pretty nifty, huh?”

  “Morris, as one Mind Crippler to another, you need some new material,” Randolph Kinney told him, and the four of them burst into laughter.

  I found myself on my feet, speaking a little too loudly. “My father’s the only grandmaster at this table, and he just won today with a brilliant rook sacrifice, so maybe all of you should shut your mouths.”

  They stopped laughing. “Looks like Patzer-face is ready to take us all on,” Brad said with a grin.

  “Yeah, well we probably shouldn’t laugh at a team member,” Eric said. “Even an ear-wiggling one.”

  “We weren’t laughing at you, Morry,” Randolph chimed in. “Is it okay if I call you that? And I did hear about that rook sacrifice today. I’d love to see the game. But now that we’ve had a couple of glasses of wine I’ve gotta ask you something.” He lowered a glass of expensive Rhone wine and said: “Why on earth did you give up chess for the last thirty years?”

  The table suddenly quieted.

  “Personal reasons,” my father said, looking straight ahead.

  “What possible personal reason could there be for giving up what you’re best at?” Dr. Chisolm followed up, his cheeks red. He had drunk too much too quickly, and it seemed to bring out the aggressive, nasty side of his character. “No offense, but you work for Howdy Doody, and you wiggle your ears and move your eyes like Mr. Potato Head…”

  Eric and Brad howled with laughter.

  “But you were a monster at chess,” the heart surgeon admitted. “I googled you and some of your games won brilliancy prizes and are posted online with grandmaster commentary. I played through a couple and they’re amazing. And I saw that you came in second at the U.S. Open one year—back when you were still a teenager. So what possible personal reason could make you quit…?”

  I glanced at my father. It was news to me that he had finished second in a U.S. Open.

  Dad stood up. “Daniel, I’ve finished my steak and I think we should go,” he said with quiet dignity. I stood up next to him, without a word.

  “Don’t storm off, Morry,” Mr. Kinney said. “We didn’t mean anything. Sit back down. We were just naturally curious about why you gave up something you were so good at. Stay and have dessert. They make a mean cheesecake, and I was going to order a special port.”

  “I don’t need your special port,” my father told him, looking him in the eye. “Thanks for dinner. Come on, Daniel.”

  We started to walk away.

  “Morry,” Randolph Kinney called again, louder. “We apologize if we offended you. You don’t want the lesson you teach your son to be to walk away from his own team, do you?”

  Dad whirled around. “Let’s get this out in the open. The only reason you invited Daniel to be on this team was so that I would help you guys win. But what’s even worse is that your two sons have made my boy feel like crud since the moment we showed up.” My father’s eyes swung to Dr. Chisolm. “And just so you know—one reason I quit chess was that I couldn’t control my temper, and that included nearly killing a rude asshole with my bare hands.”

  Dad said this softly, his face deadpan, but for a moment his eyes flashed with such a maniacal gleam that Dr. Chisolm cringed.

  “Let’s go, Daniel,” my dad said.

  We headed away from the table. “Morry, come back,” Randolph called after us, and there was a note of pleading in his voice. Suddenly he barked out what sounded like a military order. “Get back here now, Morris. I’ve spent significant money putting this team together. Damn it, nobody walks out on me.”

  But we left the Patagonia Steakhouse without a backward glance and the cool outside air felt good. “I think you scared the pants off Dr. Chisolm,” I told my father.

  “He’s a piece of work,” Dad said. “I feel a little sorry for his son.”

  “You put him in his place. You did great. Except for wiggling your ears.”

  Dad took my arm as we crossed a street. “Okay, son. I’ll get some new material. Want to walk back? It’s a couple of miles.”

  “Lead on,” I said. “The night is still young.”

  14

  We headed uptown on an avenue that was mostly empty, except for the steady stream of cars. Their lights swept the sidewalks and lit up the apartment lobbies where doormen stood as still as statues. Every now and then we would pass a bar or a restaurant, and knots of people would emerge, hail taxis, and disappear.

  “I shouldn’t have said what I said,” Dad muttered. “It must have sounded like I was threatening Chisolm.”

  “He provoked you,” I told him. “He called you Mr. Potato Head. I think he was drunk.”

  “Still,” he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked half a block in silence. He finally took a deep breath and said, “Daniel, I want you to hear this from me.”

  “You really don’t owe me any kind of explanation. You’re doing this for me. That’s enough.”

  “It’s not enough,” he said. “I lied to my son about who I really am. And the hell of it is that you’ve never seen me really good at anything before…”

  “You’re good at plenty of things,” I protested. “Anyway, what does it matter?”

  He waved me into silence. “It matters. Every son wants his father to shine at something. Chisolm’s right, you’ve got to be wondering why I gave up the thing I was best at … and in many ways loved the most.” We reached an intersection and waited for the light to change. When it flashed green, he took my arm and we headed across. “You’re going to hear it anyway, from George Liszt or some gossip in a bathroom who doesn’t know the real story. I’d prefer you hear my version first.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to keep from sounding too curious. “What’s the real story of Grandmaster Pratzer?”

  We walked side by side, our feet rising and falling together. “Do you know who Bobby Fischer and Paul Morphy were?”

  “Fischer, sure. He was a great chess player. Some say the greatest who ever lived. He won the world championship back in the eighties.”

  “The seventies,” Dad corrected me. “He obliterated three top grandmasters to get to face Boris Spassky, the world champion. Then he destroyed Spassky to take away the title from the Russians. It was a great Cold War victory, and an incredible chess feat, given how much the Russians valued chess and worked together to try to stop him. Do you know what happened to Fischer after that?”

  “He cracked up,” I said. “And I read that he died a little while ago.”

  “Cracked up is a kind word for it. He became a recluse. Grew bitter. Paranoid. Irrational. Turned his back on all his friends, his country, and the chess world that had created his celebrity. He made anti-American comments, anti-Semitic comments—he said that he was glad that 9/11 happened. He served months in a Japanese jail. He died alone, despised, and ridiculed. You couldn’t find a more miserable end to such a promising life.” Dad was quiet for a few seconds and then whispered, “Unless you look at Paul Morphy.”

  “I’ve heard the name,” I said. “But all I know is he was an early chess player.”

  “Morphy was the greatest,” my father told me softly. “Even Fischer acknowledged that. Morphy was from a leading New Orleans family, back in the nineteenth century. His uncle was one of the strongest players in America, nicknamed the ‘Chess King of New Orleans,’ but by the time Morphy was twelve he could beat his uncle blindfolded. He lived and played before the great advances in modern chess theory, but if he’
d been able to study them, he would have destroyed anyone around today. It wouldn’t have even been close.”

  There was a peculiar tone in my father’s voice—both hero worship and a kind of closeness or kinship. I guessed that Dad had spent a lot of time playing through Morphy’s games and thinking about the man’s life. “He went to Europe to play the strongest players of his day and test himself. He destroyed all of them, except Staunton, who refused to play him. Everyone acknowledged Morphy as the most brilliant world champion the world had ever seen. If you play through his games, their clarity of thought and inventiveness is breathtaking. It’s like … listening to Mozart.”

  “What happened to him?” I asked.

  “He wanted to be a lawyer. He had an incredible memory so he memorized the entire Louisiana legal code. But then he started spending more and more time by himself, in his parents’ house. He became a recluse. Gave way to depression and extreme paranoia. Lost all his friends. Never had a career. Never got married or had kids. He stayed in his room. He would only eat the food his mother cooked him. He died of brain congestion after going for a walk in midday heat and then climbing into a cold bath, a famous, lonely eccentric … or you could call him a depressed and paranoid wacko.”

  I looked back at him. “Just like Fischer.”

  “Peas in a pod.” Dad nodded. “The two great giants of American chess, with the two saddest and loneliest ends you could script for them.”

  “You think it was the chess?” I asked.

  “Who knows why they both melted down,” my father said. “Psychologists would say they were predisposed to it, that both men had underlying conditions. I’m sure that’s true. But, Daniel, chess on that level can take you to a very dark place. The level of concentration and aggression you need to bring to bear is frightening. Some people can handle it, and others can’t.”

  I sensed he was done with Fischer and Morphy, and was now talking about Pratzer. “And you couldn’t?” I asked.

  Suddenly there was a tremendous peal of thunder. Lightning flashed, and the skies opened up with a torrent of cold rain. We ran for it up the avenue and were soon soaked to our skin. There were no taxis, and no places to take shelter. “There,” Dad said and pointed.

  A sign for a tavern flashed at the next corner. It was a bar called the Clover Leaf, and we hurried in through the heavy wooden door. There was a basketball game on the TV, and a dozen or so men and two women sipping drinks at the bar. We found a booth and looked at each other and laughed as water dripped off us onto the table.

  I went into the bathroom and wiped myself down with a paper towel, and when I came back my dad was sitting with his elbows on the old wooden table. He had ordered two drinks—a ginger ale for me and a whiskey for himself. He almost never drank alcohol, but I saw him take a sip of the whiskey and it seemed to warm and relax him. “You okay?” he asked.

  “That was some rain. I thought we might drown.”

  “We were lucky to find this place,” Dad said. And then he set his whiskey down and picked up the story right where he had left off. “I told you about Fischer and Morphy. Not that I would ever put myself in their company, but you might as well hear about me.”

  He leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. “There was an attic room in my parents’ house in Hoboken where I used to study chess when everyone had gone to bed. It was very quiet. One small window. A bare overhead lightbulb. Sometimes I spent whole nights there, and then showered and went to school. I replayed the games of the old masters and climbed into Capablanca’s mind, and went to war side by side with Morphy. I was a lonely kid with no friends. That became my real life. And I loved it for a while. But it was taking me to a dangerous and solitary place.”

  He broke off, took a sip of his whiskey, and then finished his tale. “It further isolated me. It unhinged me, and destabilized me. My whole source of pride and self-esteem became chess. I absolutely had to win, to go to war and kill, so badly that … the worst parts of me were taking over … and I couldn’t control it. Everyone was telling me how great I was, and I was starting to travel to international matches … and deep down … I was afraid of what was happening. I could feel myself unraveling…”

  “So you quit to save yourself?” I asked.

  “There were some incidents,” he admitted. “One in particular … that was really bad. I ended up being hospitalized and on medication. When I got out, I quit chess. Cold turkey. The doctors didn’t tell me to do it—I did it myself. I cut the head off the beast. I was never good at sports, but I started speed-walking, and I tried to take better care of my health. I forced myself to come out of my shell, and I finally made a friend or two. I went off to college and majored in business, and met your mother, and I never told her about chess. My parents understood some of what I had gone through and respected my decision to quit, and they never talked about it either.”

  “Okay,” I said, “I understand now. I think you made a wise choice.”

  “I’ve wondered over the years,” he admitted. “I was very strong, Daniel. I could have been a serious chess player. Maybe not a Fischer or a Morphy, but one of the top players of my generation. Instead, I went into a career where things are very steady and there aren’t major surprises. Everybody jokes about accountants being boring, but steady sounded good to me. Plus it pays the bills, and I get to work with people I like. So I never went to that dark place again. Instead I have a wife and a family, and a relatively happy home.” He managed a smile.

  I smiled back at him. “It is a happy home. Except for my nutty sister.”

  “Paul Morphy and Bobby Fischer never experienced that kind of happiness,” he said. “I’ll take what I’ve got…” And his voice trailed off. He turned away, and I saw that he was trembling. I got up and went over to his side of the booth, and I’m not sure how it happened but I kind of put my arms around him and he hugged me back.

  “Sorry I haven’t been a father you could be more proud of,” he whispered. “Someone more involved in your life. One effect of what I went through—I know I’m a little distant, and self-absorbed in my work. It helps me stay on an even keel, but I’m aware of it and I feel bad about it. It’s not because I don’t love you.”

  “This is starting to sound like a soap opera,” I told him. “And I’m really sorry I made you come here and dig this all up again. Anytime you want to quit and go back home, just say the word.”

  The bartender strolled over with a slightly concerned look and asked, “Everything okay here, gentlemen?”

  We released each other and sat there a little awkwardly. “Fine,” Dad said. “We’re just having a father-son moment. We’ll take the check.”

  “Coming right up,” the bartender told us, and walked away.

  “I’m sure I can handle it for two more days,” Dad said. “But it does amaze me after all these years how the darkness starts to take hold of me again. Anyway, now you know, Daniel. We should get back to the hotel. I’ll spring for a cab. Tomorrow’s first round starts at nine.”

  He paid the check and we left the bar and waited on the curb for a taxi with its light on. “Thanks for telling me what happened,” I said. “But for what it’s worth, I bet Paul Morphy would have been proud of the way you played today.”

  Grandmaster Pratzer smiled and gave me a wink and then hailed a cab.

  15

  The phone rang in our suite at exactly eight-thirty to the second. I knew before I answered it that it was Randolph Kinney, punctual as always. My father came out of his bedroom and I held my hand over the receiver and pointed next door. “Team meeting,” I said softly. “Do we go?”

  I had slept well after our steak dinner and long stroll through lower Manhattan, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t slept a wink. I had been dimly aware of him pacing around during the night, and he had deep circles under his eyes that made him look a little like a hooded owl. “We go,” he said. “But on our own terms.”

  “We’ll be there in a few minutes,” I told Mr. Kinney.
“We’ve got some stuff to do first.” I hung up.

  Ten minutes later we knocked on the door, and the hedge fund titan himself greeted us. He looked impatient, but he was clearly trying to mend fences. “How are you, Daniel?” he asked. “Morris, come on in.” We hadn’t gotten more than ten feet inside the door when he said: “Pratzers, we want to extend a sincere apology for what happened last night, put it behind us, and make a fresh start. And this doesn’t just come from me. It comes from all of us.”

  Dr. Chisolm stepped forward. “I had a little too much to drink last night and said some things I shouldn’t have. Morris, will you shake my hand?” He held out his right hand, and for a long moment it dangled in empty air.

  My father took it and they shook. “I said a few things I shouldn’t have, too,” Dad admitted. “And I’m not planning to wiggle my ears in public again anytime soon.”

  Dr. Chisolm gave an appreciative chuckle and Mr. Kinney threw a look at Brad and Eric. They both stepped toward me. “Hey, bro,” Brad said, and it seemed strange to hear him calling me anything but Patzer-face. “I’m glad you’re on this team and … sorry for being such a hard-ass.”

  “We think you can make a real contribution,” Eric added, and then his voice trailed off as if he couldn’t quite figure out exactly how or to what.

  They held out their hands, and—feeling a little foolish—I shook them.

  “I’d like to further atone for any lingering hard feelings by inviting everyone to Chez André tonight,” Mr. Kinney announced magnanimously. “It’s one of the finest French restaurants in this whole damn city. Let’s have a great second day of chess and then a haute cuisine feast. It’s all on me. What do you say?”

  “Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m ready for another big dinner,” my father told him.

  “No pressure. Think it over,” Randolph said. “It’s the least I can do. And now that we’ve put that behind us … let’s talk about today. We have our work cut out for us,” he noted, looking just a little worried.