Grandmaster

by Klass, David

  “More like a morning sink,” I told her, wading down the steps and doing a few splashy dog-paddle strokes.

  “If anyone’s sinking here, it’s probably me,” Britney replied in a soft voice.

  I waded over to her. The Palace Royale Hotel had comfortable beds, but I was beginning to think that nobody got much sleep in them. Britney looked tired and sad—as if she had been reliving last night’s fight with Brad over and over for hours. “I thought maybe you went home last night,” I said.

  “It was so late that we thought we might as well stay,” she told me. “But we’re going as soon as my mom wakes up.” She gazed down at the smooth surface of the pool. “It wasn’t a great night.”

  “Yeah…” I hesitated.

  “But it was probably a good thing that it happened,” she whispered. “Now I’m free.”

  “Free from what?”

  “Brad and I split up last night,” Britney said. “I told him I wanted to break up and we got into a huge fight and all of a sudden he just grabbed me. I think the reason he lost control is that he was so angry at me.”

  “No excuse…”

  “No, it sure isn’t,” she agreed in a low voice. She climbed out of the pool and sat down on the side with her legs dangling in the water. I stood awkwardly in front of her. She was silent and motionless beneath the fluorescent lights, and tiny droplets of water fell from her hair and ran down her shoulders. When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and fragile. “I was really afraid. He had this crazy look in his eyes.”

  I was trying so hard to figure out how to say the right thing I probably had a crazy look in my eyes, too. “I guess it’s over now,” I said at last.

  “Yes,” she said. “For sure it’s over. Come sit next to me for a minute.”

  I pulled myself out of the pool and sat next to her on the side. We were alone in the large room. There were yellow tiles on the walls and the ceiling was painted white and had several long cracks. She turned and looked at me and said, “I broke up with him because of you.”

  “What?” I must have looked really freaked out because Britney smiled.

  “Don’t look so scared,” she said. “I’m not after you, lover boy. But you’re such an amazingly nice guy. Spending time with you—and watching you and Liu—has helped me realize that I picked Brad for the wrong reasons. Like, he’s a senior. And he’s so superconfident.”

  “A champion,” I added. “Handsome. Brilliant.”

  “None of that really matters. I think maybe it was because of my dad leaving us. It felt safe … to have a boyfriend who was older and always in control. Anyway, you and Liu are so cute together, you just seem to be … having so much fun … and you’re not trying to control her or tell her what to do … I knew I had to get away from him. So thank you.” She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. It was the second time in my life—and in the last twenty-four hours—that a girl had kissed me.

  I looked into her beautiful blue eyes and I didn’t know what to say, so I mumbled, “Anytime.”

  Britney giggled. “You’re blushing.”

  “Am I? Listen, I better get back up to the room. We have our final round soon and … without Brad and his father—” I broke off.

  “What happened to them?” she asked.

  “Mr. Kinney took Brad home last night,” I told her. “I have a feeling it’s not too pleasant in their house right now.”

  She nodded and gazed down into the water. “It shouldn’t be.” Then she looked back at me. “But you guys are still playing the last round? You’re gonna finish it out?”

  “We’ll take a shot. But we have to win all our games. That will never happen.”

  “Maybe not,” she said, “but what I told you when we were standing in that pond still holds. I think you’re better than you know. Good luck, Daniel.”

  I got up and headed away to check on my father and left her sitting on the edge of the pool alone.

  28

  We held the last team meeting of the Mind Cripplers in our suite, with my mom and sister looking on as mystified observers. “They posted the standings and the final pairings early this morning,” Eric told us. “We’re tied for first in the team championship with the Scarsdale Savants, captained by George Liszt.” Eric turned to my father. “You two are playing on board one in the final round. Even though we’re short a player, if you beat him and all the rest of us win our games, we’ll top them on a head-to-head tiebreaker and win first place and the ten grand!”

  “Ten thousand dollars?” my mother whispered. “Really, Morris?”

  “I’m using my share to buy an iPad,” Kate announced.

  “You don’t have a share,” I pointed out. “You’ve done nothing. Except be a distraction.”

  “My part of the family share will be more than five hundred dollars,” Kate informed me. “And I haven’t done nothing. I sang four songs last night. Now, show me the green!”

  “First we have to beat the Savants,” Dr. Chisolm cautioned. “And none of us have easy games. Your father is playing a top grandmaster.”

  Dad hadn’t slept or eaten or shaved in two days and nights, and he looked beyond run-down—like one of the last two cars weaving around a track at a demolition derby, its doors and wheels and engine hanging together by only a couple of last stubborn screws. “Fitting that it comes down to us,” he said softly. “The two old gunfighters across the board from each other at high noon. No big surprise, really.”

  “I guess the only surprise is that board one won’t actually be in the tournament hall,” Eric told him. “The organizers have heard stories of the history of bad blood between you two, so they’re not taking any chances. They’re moving you guys to a secret private playing area they’ve prepared just for the championship game.”

  This seemed to bother Dad, as if the prospect of being split off from the rest of us and locked in a secret room with George Liszt wasn’t his idea of the best way to spend a Sunday morning. “That’s highly unusual,” he muttered. “Where are they moving us?”

  “No one knows for sure,” Eric admitted. “I heard a rumor that they’ve rented the hotel’s penthouse because it’s quiet and full of light. At least you’ll be comfortable. Anyway, it’ll be just the two of you and a referee, and a couple of closed-circuit cameras filming the action so that we can all watch and cheer you on from downstairs.”

  “I wonder who came up with that idea?” Dad muttered.

  Mom heard the unease and suspicion in his tone and looked concerned. “I don’t understand, Morris. Why won’t you be playing with everyone else?”

  “Special players merit special treatment, Ruth,” he told her with an ironic smile. “I hope they don’t forget the padded walls and the straitjackets.” Dad paused and pressed his fingers together thoughtfully. “George is probably behind this penthouse notion. He knows I don’t like to feel isolated and that too much glare distracts me. He’s already starting to screw with me.” He turned to Eric. “Okay, what about the rest of you?”

  “My dad’s playing an international master named Schmidt,” Eric said. “He came all the way from Munich for this tournament. He’s gonna be real tough.”

  “I’ll send him back to Germany with some unpleasant memories,” Dr. Chisolm promised, but I could see he was worried. International masters are world-class players—one step below grandmasters.

  “I’ve drawn a master from Cincinnati named Vanderkoen,” Eric told us. “He’s got his own Web site on opening traps, so I’d better bring a land mine detector.”

  “What about me?” I asked.

  Eric’s eyes swung in my directon. “Roger Moffatt. He’s kind of a celebrity—I’ve seen him written up in magazines. He’s a software billionaire who’s pledged to use computers to solve chess in the next ten years. In the meantime, he’s trying to make the master rank. He’s hired some of the best players in Russia and America to tutor him, and he’s been climbing toward master for three or four years. Now he’s a top expert, right on the
edge of getting it. So we all have our work cut out for us.” Eric paused, and then added: “But if we all somehow win, then we win it all.”

  My father glanced at his watch. “Team prayer,” he said, and my mom shot him a curious look. But a team tradition is a team tradition, and a moment later we were on our knees, holding hands. “Ruth, Kate, please join us,” Dad invited.

  They both hesitated and then got down next to us. I reached for Kate’s hand. “Did you wash that recently?” she demanded.

  “Do you want your share of the prize money?” Dad asked her sternly.

  Kate took my right hand. My left was already holding Eric’s right. My father said: “Dr. Chisolm, I believe it’s your turn to deliver the team prayer.”

  Dr. Chisolm looked around at us and nodded. “Bow your heads,” he said, and we did. “Moment of silence,” he intoned, and we were all quiet. I hadn’t said a prayer during the whole tournament, but now I silently asked God to protect my father during this last round.

  Dr. Chisolm looked serious, as if he were pondering what this last round meant and choosing his words very carefully. “Lord,” he finally said, “this is the last round and the Mind Cripplers are really up against it. We need your help and guidance. A surgeon probably shouldn’t admit this, but I feel a little like when I’m heading into an operation that I know will be extremely difficult. On one hand I’m confident I’ll perform well and do everything that can possibly be done, but I also know the margin between success and failure in such cases can sometimes be so tiny … so fragile … even so unfair…”

  He broke off for a second and looked across the circle at me. “But far more important things have happened here than just chess. Watching what a son will do for his father has touched me and taught me.” His eyes moved from me to his own son and he kept going. For a moment it was hard to say if he was talking to us or to himself.

  “Sometimes, we want the best for our kids, and we push too hard. We keep aloof from them or we pressure them too much, we hide from them or we grab them with both arms. Either way we run the risk of pushing them out the door, of teaching them the wrong lessons, and of turning them into men we wouldn’t want them to be.” My father nodded very slightly.

  “In our first team prayer,” Dr. Chisolm noted, “Grandmaster Pratzer said that the great blessing of this tournament was that we were able to have this time together. I’ve come to see the wisdom in his words. So instead of asking you for something, Lord, let me close this prayer by just saying thank you”—his usually confident voice broke, but he managed to finish—“for helping us to realize how lucky we are to have such fine sons. Amen.”

  “Amen,” we said around the circle.

  I saw Eric looking back at his father, and for a few moments there was a tenderness in his usually intense black eyes.

  Then we were all standing and trooping out of the suite toward the elevators and the playing hall below. I noticed that my mother walked along with us and stayed very near my father, as if keeping a nervous eye on him. He was grim-faced and silent.

  When we were riding down in the elevator, he put his hand on my shoulder and advised me in a low voice: “Don’t be intimidated. Software billionaires put on their pants one leg at a time like the rest of us.”

  “I’m not sure exactly what that means,” I said.

  “It means that chess is mental combat between two and only two people,” he told me. “When Bobby Fischer took the title from Spassky, all the grandmasters in Russia couldn’t help him. Once the clock starts it will just be the two of you. Play one strong move after another and you’ll do fine. Any man who thinks he’s going to solve chess deserves to be taken down a peg.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. We were nearing the second floor. “For what it’s worth,” I whispered, “I think that deep down George Liszt is scared of you.”

  The elevator pinged at the second floor and the doors started to open. My dad shot me what was meant to be a confident wink, but he was now so tense the twitching of his eye made it look like his cheeks might shatter.

  We stepped out of the elevator and a man in a suit with a TOURNAMENT OFFICIAL badge immediately hurried up to my father and said, “Grandmaster Pratzer? It’s an honor, sir. Right this way, please. A private elevator is waiting…”

  My mother grabbed my father’s arm and said his name.

  He gave her a tense smile back and said, “Don’t worry, Ruth, everything will be fine,” turned, and followed the tournament official to a small private elevator that was waiting for them. He faced out at me as the doors closed, our eyes met one last time, and then he was gone.

  29

  Moffatt was a short man in his late thirties with a nose like a hawk’s beak and the bossy manners of someone who’s used to being obeyed by everyone around him. He wasn’t dressed extravagantly—just black jeans and a nice button-down striped shirt—but his entourage was very intimidating.

  When I got to our table, he was already seated, surrounded by his people. An intense Indian assistant who didn’t seem to know or care about chess stood near him listening to two cell phones at the same time and giving Moffatt a running report on some kind of business deal. The assistant glowered at me, as if to ask: “Don’t you realize my business with my boss is a lot more important than your stupid chess game?”

  A solidly built middle-aged woman wearing a brightly colored kerchief stood behind my opponent, giving him a neck and shoulder massage and urging him to relax. On Moffatt’s right side, a man with graying hair, who I guessed was a high-priced chess tutor, whispered some last-minute chess advice in Russian-accented English, moving the pieces around the board at lightning speed to demonstrate his points.

  “Daniel Pratzer? Sit down. That’s your chair,” Moffatt said when I walked up, holding out his hand and motioning me to the seat opposite him, as if I was late for a business interview but he was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt. “You’ve had quite a tournament, haven’t you? And your father—my God, I saw his last game against Sanchez. A gem, wasn’t it, Fyodor?” The Russian chess tutor didn’t say anything but his bushy eyebrows rose as if in grudging salute. “Sit, fill out your score sheet. I have something I need to attend to,” Moffatt said, and then he started talking to his assistant about buying an imaging company while I tried to find a pencil with a good point.

  The final round began a few minutes late, so once they banished all nonplayers from the tournament hall Moffatt and I had a brief time to chat. “What exactly does it mean to ‘solve’ chess?” I asked him.

  He looked pleased that I had heard of him and his work. “All games can be solved,” he told me. “Checkers was solved—we know the optimal order of moves that will generate a successful result every time, and the correct responses to deviations. Chess is far more complicated than checkers, but in the next ten or fifteen years we should have it licked.”

  “Won’t that kill the game?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “If it does, it does. My passion is solving puzzles. Then I move on to the next challenge.”

  I looked back at him. This little man was dismissing with a careless shrug the potential responsibility for ruining an ancient and beautiful game that had given pleasure to millions. The chess gods my father had conjured up in our hotel suite the night before weren’t going to put up with this. I looked back at Moffatt—at the smirk on his controlling face—and I surprised myself by saying in a low voice: “I’m going to beat you.”

  For a moment he appeared thrown by this, and then his gray eyes swirled angrily and he said, “No you’re not. I’m just a few points away from becoming a master. Do you have any idea of the time and expense it’s taken to achieve this? If I lose to a beginner like you, I’ll shed hundreds of rating points. That’s not going to happen.”

  A loud buzzer sounded at the front of the hall, and a man with a microphone walked out onto the dais. “On behalf of the organizers, I’d like to thank you all for playing in our tournament. Before we begin the final rou
nd, Former World Champion Contender Arkady Shuvalovitch will say a few final words. Arkady?” He paused and looked around. “Has anyone seen Arkady?”

  There were several awkward seconds. Then a heavily accented voice rang out: “Yes, I am here!” The schlubby-looking man who had opened the tournament reappeared in what I think was the same ill-fitting suit. He ran forward from the wings, took the microphone, and—in his eagerness—tripped and fell off the dais. He got up, dusted himself off, and looked out at us. “Fathers, sons, mothers, daughters, thank you for playing so well and trying so hard. Always remember, chess is like a camel. It is burdened with a hump, but that also keeps it alive in the middle of the desert. Good luck to you all.”

  He walked off the stage as a voice boomed over the PA system: “START YOUR CLOCKS.”

  30

  The final round of a chess tournament, I discovered, has its own grim intensity, as players who have labored long and hard collect themselves for one last surge. At the front of the hall, the contenders know they’re close to prize money, trophies, and rating points but that a loss now will turn triumph into tragedy. In the middle, strong players who have made a few mistakes and dropped a game or two sit down with tight, combative faces, determined to win their last one and salvage a decent result. At the back of the hall, weaker players who have struggled and lost many games tap their last reserves of stamina and self-respect to try to avoid a complete debacle.

  I was in the exact middle of the hall, surrounded by strong players who had won as many games as they had lost and were intent on finishing with a victory. I could feel their concentration surging around me, a silent electrical buzz that crackled in the air.

  I had the black pieces against Moffatt, and when he slammed his king pawn down and stared across at me, I was surprised to find that I wasn’t at all nervous. Opening jitters had unsettled me throughout the tournament, but in this final round my mind remained crystal clear.