Endgame (35 page)

All details had been checked and double-checked in the playing hall to ensure maximum comfort for the players. Laugardalshöll was a cavernous, dome-shaped stadium (someone described it as a large Icelandic mushroom), with white-covered sound baffles on the ceiling that resembled mammoth albino bats. The entire first floor was covered with carpeting to muffle the noise made by spectators, and the folding seats had been replaced with upholstered and consequently “soundless” chairs. The two film towers had
been pushed back, at Fischer’s request, and the lighting intensity on stage increased. A handsome Eames-designed executive swivel chair, an exact duplicate of the one Fischer had sat in while playing Petrosian in Buenos Aires, was flown in from the United States.

Fischer rushed through the backstage corridor onto the subtly flower-bedecked stage and was greeted by the polite applause of an audience of twenty-three hundred. Spassky had made his first move precisely at five, and Schmid had started Fischer’s clock. Fischer, dressed in a white shirt and blue business suit, sped to the table; the two opponents shook hands while Fischer kept his eyes on the board. Then he sat down in his black leather chair, considered his move for ninety-five seconds, and played his knight to his king bishop’s third square.

It was a unique moment in the life of a charismatic prodigy in that, to arrive where he was, he’d somehow overcome his objections to how he’d been treated by the Soviets over the years. Everyone knew it, not only in Laugardalshöll but all over the world. As grandmaster Isaac Kashdan said: “It was the single most important chess event [ever].” A lone American from Brooklyn, equipped with just a single stone—his brilliance—was about to fling it against the hegemony of the Soviet Union.

Fischer left the stage twice during the game (pre-adjournment), once complaining that the orange juice left in his dressing room backstage wasn’t cold enough. Ice cubes were provided. He also asked for a bottle of cold water and a dish of
skyr
, an Icelandic yogurt-type dessert. This last request caused confusion in the stadium’s cafeteria, as they were unable to supply the
skyr
. Fortunately, a local restaurant could, and did.

As moves were made on the board, they were simultaneously shown on forty closed-circuit television monitors, in all points of the stadium. In the cafeteria, where spectators wolfed down the local variety of lamb-based hot dogs and gurgled bottles of 2 percent Icelandic beer, the action on the stage was discussed vociferously. In the basement, Icelandic masters more quietly explained and analyzed the moves on a demonstration board, while in the press rooms, lordly grandmasters surveyed the television screens and analyzed in their heads, to the confusion and awe of most of the journalists. In the playing hall itself, decorum and quiet reigned. When it didn’t, Lothar Schmid would activate a white electrical sign that commanded, in both English and Icelandic:

As the first game progressed, most experts began predicting a draw. And then, on the twenty-ninth move, with the position equal, Fischer engaged in one of the most dangerous gambles of his career. Without consuming much time on his clock (he’d equalized on the seventeenth move and was now ahead of Spassky on time), Fischer sacrificed his bishop for two pawns in a move that thoroughly electrified the audience and sent Spassky’s eyebrows arching. The trade of pieces looked like a schoolboy’s blunder. Grandmaster Edmar Mednis said in retrospect: “
I couldn’t believe that Fischer was capable of such an error. How is such an error possible from a top master, or from
any
master?”

At first impression, it appeared that Fischer, overly eager to gain the psychological momentum of winning the first game, had overextended himself. But on closer inspection, the game still looked as though it could possibly end in a draw. Next, Fischer complained to Schmid that one of the cameras, which was poking through a hole in the blue-and-white FIDE sign located at the back of the stage, was disturbing him. No change was made, however.

On his forty-first move Spassky decided to adjourn the game: This would enable him to take advantage of overnight analysis. Since five hours—the official adjournment time—hadn’t yet been reached, he took a loss of thirty-five minutes on his clock. Spassky had a bishop and three pawns against Fischer’s five pawns. He sealed his move and handed the large brown envelope to Schmid.

Fischer analyzed the position through the night and appeared at the hall looking tired and worried, just two minutes before Schmid opened the sealed-move envelope. Following FIDE tradition, Schmid made Spassky’s adjourned move for him on the board, showed Fischer the score sheet so he could check that the correct move had been made, and activated Fischer’s clock. Fischer responded within seconds, prepared by his night-long study of the game, and a few moves were exchanged.

Fischer then pointed to the camera aperture he’d complained about the previous day, and quickly left the stage with his clock running. Backstage, he vehemently complained about the camera and said he wanted it dismantled before he continued. ICF officials quickly conferred with Chester Fox, owner of the film and television rights, who agreed to remove the camera. All of this
took time, and Fischer’s clock continued running while the dismantling went on. When Fischer returned to the stage, thirty-five minutes had elapsed on his clock.

Fischer began fighting for a draw, but Spassky’s moves were a study in precision and his position got stronger. Eventually, it became clear that Spassky could queen a pawn. Instead of making his fifty-sixth move, Fischer stopped the clock and offered his hand in resignation. He wasn’t smiling. Spassky didn’t look him in the eye as they shook hands—rather, he continued to study the position. Fischer signed his score sheet, made a helpless gesture as if to say “What am I supposed to do now?” and left the stage. It wasn’t difficult to guess his emotional state.

Though there have been a number of World Championship matches in which the loser of the first game went on to win, there’s no question that Fischer considered the loss of the first game almost tantamount to losing the match itself. Not only had he lost, but he’d been unable to prove to himself—and the public—that he could win a single game against Spassky. Their lifetime record against each other now stood at four wins for Spassky, two draws, and no wins for Fischer. In the next several hours Bobby descended into self-doubt and uncertainty, but eventually his psyche shifted to rationalization: Since there could be no defect in his calculation and no question of his being the lesser player, the distracting camera was to blame for the loss.

The next morning, Thursday, July 13, the American delegation announced that Fischer wouldn’t play the next game unless
all
cameras were removed from the hall. Fischer insisted—and rightly so—that only he could say what disturbed him. But he refused to go to the hall to inspect the new conditions and decide whether they’d been sufficiently improved.

Schmid declared that the second game would start at five p.m., and if Fischer didn’t appear after one hour of official play had elapsed, he’d be forfeited. To complicate matters, one of the Soviets leaked to the press that if Fischer failed to come for the second game, Spassky would probably return to Moscow.

Spassky appeared on stage at two minutes to five, to a round of applause. At precisely 5:00, Schmid started Fischer’s clock, since Bobby was to play the white pieces. Back at the Hotel Loftleidir, Lombardy and officials of the U.S. Chess Federation futilely appealed to Fischer to go to the hall. A police car, with its
motor running, was stationed outside the hotel to whisk him down Suderlansbraut Boulevard to the hall, should he change his mind. At 5:30 p.m., with Fischer’s clock still running, Chester Fox’s lawyer in Reykjavik agreed to the suggestion that the cameras be removed just for the one game, pending further discussion. When this solution was relayed to Fischer, he demanded that his clock be set back to its original time. Schmid wouldn’t agree, claiming that there had to be some limits. Fischer, in his underwear, sat in his hotel room, the door bolted and telephone unplugged, a picture in stony resistance. His mind was made up: “If I ask for one thing and they don’t give it to me, I don’t play.”

The spectators continued to gaze hypnotically at the two empty chairs (Spassky had retreated to his dressing room backstage) and a chessboard of thirty-two pieces, none of which had been moved. The only motion was the minute hand and the agitated red star-shaped time indicator on Fischer’s clock. It was a lonely tableau.

At exactly 6:00 p.m., Schmid stopped the clock, walked to the front of the stage, and announced the first forfeiture of any game in World Championship history. “Ladies and gentlemen, according to Rule 5 of the regulations, Robert Fischer has lost the game. He has not turned up within the stipulated hour of time.”

Spassky was given a standing ovation. He said to Schmid, “It’s a pity,” while someone from the audience, angry at Fischer, yelled: “Send him back to the United States!”

Fischer lodged a formal protest less than six hours after the forfeiture. It was overruled by the match committee on the grounds that he’d failed to appear at the game. The committee upheld the forfeit, but not without some trepidation and soul-searching. Everyone knew that Fischer wouldn’t accept it lightly. And he didn’t. His instant reaction was to make a reservation to fly home immediately. He was dissuaded by Lombardy, but it seemed likely that he’d refuse to continue the match unless the forfeit was removed. Schmid himself voiced his sincere concern regarding the danger to Fischer’s career if he walked out of the match: “
What will happen to Bobby? What city would ever host a match for him?”

Bobby had his supporters, though. Grandmaster Svetozar Gligoric suggested that the cameras, staring constantly at him, may have signified human eyes peering at Bobby and distracted his attention. Vladimir Nabokov, the
Russian-born novelist who’d written
The Defense
(about a genius who lives only for chess), also spoke up for Bobby, saying that he was “quite right” in objecting to the use of cameras in the match: “
He can’t be subject to the clicks and flashes of those machines [on their tall tripods] above him.”

Notified of the decision and realizing its implications, Dr. Euwe, who’d returned to the Netherlands, cabled his own decision to Schmid in case Fischer refused to appear at the next game:

Fischer began receiving thousands of letters and cables urging him to continue the match, and Henry Kissinger called him once again, this time from California, to appeal to his patriotism.
The New York Times
even issued an open plea urging Fischer to continue his challenge.
In an editorial entitled “Bobby Fischer’s Tragedy,” the paper wrote:

Perhaps as a result of Kissinger’s interest in the match and his two conversations with Bobby,
President Nixon also relayed an invitation to Fischer,
through
Life’s
photographer Harry Benson, to visit the White House after the match was over, win or lose. Nixon said that he liked Bobby “because he is a fighter.”

In an effort to ease the situation and encourage Fischer to continue the match, Schmid announced that according to the rules, he had the right to move the match from the stage of the hall to a backstage room. Speaking privately to Spassky, Schmid appealed to him “as a sportsman” to agree to this new attempt to enable the match to continue.
Spassky, ever a gentleman, was willing. By the time Fischer was notified of the new arrangement, he’d already made reservations on all three flights going back to New York on the day of the third game. He took a few hours to consider the offer, and ninety minutes before the start of play he said he’d be willing to give it a try if he was assured complete privacy and no cameras.

Why
did
Fischer continue to play? Probably a combination of genuine nationalism, faith in his ability to overcome the odds of a two-point deficit, a desire to get paid (even if he lost the match, he was to receive $91,875 in prize money, in addition to an estimated $30,000 from television and movie rights), and an overwhelming need to do what he’d always vowed to do, almost from his first official match: prove that he was the most gifted chess player on earth.

Spassky appeared on time at the backstage location; at first he sat in Fischer’s chair and, perhaps unaware that he was on camera, smiled and swiveled around several times as a child might do. Then he moved to his own chair, and waited. Fischer arrived eight minutes late, looking very pale, and the two men shook hands. Spassky, playing white, made his first move and Fischer replied. Suddenly, Fischer pointed to a camera and began shouting.

Spassky was now on his feet. “I am leaving!” he announced curtly, with the bearing of a Russian count, informing Fischer and Schmid that he was going to the stage to play the game there.

Schmid recalled later that “for a second, I didn’t know what to do. Then I stopped Spassky’s clock, breaking the rules. But somehow I had to get that incredible situation under control.”

The men continued talking, but their voices became subdued. Schmid put his arms around Spassky’s shoulders, saying: “Boris, you promised me you would play this game here. Are you breaking that promise?” Then turning to Fischer, Schmid said: “Bobby, please be kind.”