Endgame_ Bobby Fischer's Remarkable Rise And Fall Part 10

FIDE agreed to the ten-game-win idea but voted against the 99 rule. Also, instead of approving the idea of an unlimited number of games, it narrowed the number to thirty-six-which struck Bobby as an outrageously small number if draws weren't going to count. This was hardly a compromise. Bobby claimed that his system would actually reduce the number of draws, that it would produce games in which the players would take more chances, trying to achieve wins rather than half points.

Fischer cabled the FIDE Extraordinary Council in the Netherlands that his match condition proposals were "non-negotiable." He also pointed out in Chess Life & Review Chess Life & Review that his demands weren't unprecedented and had been used in many great champions.h.i.+p matches: "Steinitz, Tchigorin, Lasker (too), Gunsberg, Zukertort...all played under the ten-win system (and some matches with the 99 clause). The whole idea is to make the players draw blood and give the spectators their money's worth." that his demands weren't unprecedented and had been used in many great champions.h.i.+p matches: "Steinitz, Tchigorin, Lasker (too), Gunsberg, Zukertort...all played under the ten-win system (and some matches with the 99 clause). The whole idea is to make the players draw blood and give the spectators their money's worth."

Colonel Edmund B. Edmondson, the executive director of the U.S. Chess Federation, attempted in vain to get FIDE to change its vote, or get Bobby to change his mind. The story of the machinations employed to enable the Fischer-Karpov World Champions.h.i.+p match to take place are enough to fill a separate book-and have!-but the details are hardly dramatic in retrospect.

Fischer continued his intransigence: FIDE must must change the rules to meet his demands or he simply wouldn't play. He began making G.o.d-like p.r.o.nouncements about the match to his friends: "I will change the rules to meet his demands or he simply wouldn't play. He began making G.o.d-like p.r.o.nouncements about the match to his friends: "I will punish punish them and not play," as if retribution was his sovereign right to dispense. The deadline for moving ahead or abandoning the match was looming, and then it came...and went, with no further word from the champion. FIDE gave Bobby one more day to change his mind. Euwe finally cabled him: them and not play," as if retribution was his sovereign right to dispense. The deadline for moving ahead or abandoning the match was looming, and then it came...and went, with no further word from the champion. FIDE gave Bobby one more day to change his mind. Euwe finally cabled him: YOUR PROFESSIONALISM, COMPEt.i.tIVE SPIRIT, AND OUTSTANDING SKILL HAVE THRILLED ALL DURING THE YEAR YOU FOUGHT TO ATTAIN THE WORLD CHAMPIONs.h.i.+P. FIDE GENERAL a.s.sEMBLY ASKS THAT YOU RECONSIDER POSSIBLITY OF DEFENDING t.i.tLE.

When Bobby didn't answer and the press interviewed Euwe about it, he issued an apt reply: "At the moment we are in a complete stalemate." Bobby was about to checkmate himself, however.

The next day he sent the following cable (in part) to Euwe: FIDE HAS DECIDED AGAINST MY PARTIc.i.p.aTION IN THE 1975 WORLD CHESS CHAMPIONs.h.i.+P. THEREFORE, I RESIGN MY FIDE WORLD CHESS CHAMPIONs.h.i.+P t.i.tLE. SINCERELY, BOBBY FISCHER.

His echo of resolve was heard around the world.

The New York Times ran a story by international grandmaster Robert Byrne, "Bobby Fischer's Fear of Failing," which opined that Bobby's fears had always kept him out of certain tournaments because he thought if he lost a game or two at the beginning of an event, he was practically eliminated as a prizewinner. The main fear of every top notch chess player, the story went on, "is the inexplicable error from which no one is immune," the chance blunder. Even Paul Marshall, Bobby's lawyer, addressed Bobby's "dread": "Bobby fears the unknown, whatever lies beyond his control. He tries to eliminate any element of chance from his life and his chess." What everyone seemed to overlook was that at the board Bobby feared no one. He did show nervousness before a game, as certain great actors show stage fright before a demanding performance, but this state of anxiety shouldn't be confused with fear. This anxiety was the mother of Bobby's foresight, it kept him on edge and gave him an advantage. Ultimately, it was his supreme confidence in himself that made him a great player. ran a story by international grandmaster Robert Byrne, "Bobby Fischer's Fear of Failing," which opined that Bobby's fears had always kept him out of certain tournaments because he thought if he lost a game or two at the beginning of an event, he was practically eliminated as a prizewinner. The main fear of every top notch chess player, the story went on, "is the inexplicable error from which no one is immune," the chance blunder. Even Paul Marshall, Bobby's lawyer, addressed Bobby's "dread": "Bobby fears the unknown, whatever lies beyond his control. He tries to eliminate any element of chance from his life and his chess." What everyone seemed to overlook was that at the board Bobby feared no one. He did show nervousness before a game, as certain great actors show stage fright before a demanding performance, but this state of anxiety shouldn't be confused with fear. This anxiety was the mother of Bobby's foresight, it kept him on edge and gave him an advantage. Ultimately, it was his supreme confidence in himself that made him a great player.

A psychoa.n.a.lyst, M. Barrie Richmond, M.D., wrote a dissertation t.i.tled "The Meaning of Bobby Fischer's Decision" that took issue with Robert Byrne and held that Fischer should be thought of as a profound artist, a phenomenon on the order of a Pica.s.so. Richmond maintained that Bobby's failure to defend his t.i.tle bespoke a responsibility he felt to himself as the World Champion: His attempt to shape, create, and alter his own universe of rules addressed that burden and had nothing to do with fear.

Without moving a p.a.w.n, on April 3, 1975, Anatoly Karpov was declared the twelfth World Champion by Dr. Max Euwe, president of FIDE. And on that day, Bobby Fischer became the first-ever champion to willingly relinquish the t.i.tle and along with it the chance to compete for the winner's share of a $5 million purse...five million dollars! It was the largest refusal of a prize fund in sports history. The winner would have received $3.5 million, and the loser would have walked away with $1.5 million, guaranteed. It was all declined, and over a mere rules dispute. It was the largest refusal of a prize fund in sports history. The winner would have received $3.5 million, and the loser would have walked away with $1.5 million, guaranteed. It was all declined, and over a mere rules dispute.

"I had no idea why Fischer refused to defend his t.i.tle," Karpov later said, somewhat coldly. Although he was champion, he was without a convincing portfolio, his right to wear the crown left in doubt by Bobby's shadow. He was also bereft of the millions of dollars he would have received had the two men played. He huffed: "It is an unprecedented instance in chess history."

Just to get away from it all-the World Champions.h.i.+p imbroglio and the constant stalking of him by reporters and photographers-Bobby took a two-month cruise by himself around the world. His boat trips in the past-to and from Europe, and from the Philippines to the United States via Hong Kong-had been thoroughly relaxing: no telephone contact, no mail, no people bothering him, and magnificent meals served all day long. It was heaven. Now that he'd grown a beard, most people didn't recognize him, and he recaptured the peace and incognito of his earlier trips. It eased him into a placid mood, at least for the trip's duration. He was still p.r.o.ne to ruminate on race and religion, however, and at one point he wrote to Ethel Collins that he liked Indonesia, where he stayed on a farm for a few days while the boat docked at Bali. Noting that most of the people were Muslims, Bobby seemed pleased that they'd retained their "cultural purity." At New Delhi, he bought for $15 a peg-in travel chess set with a beautifully detailed design that was made of fragrant sandalwood-but he felt guilty about paying so little for it. He realized that the artisan who carved it probably received only a fraction of the sale price for his labor.

Bobby was content in his bas.e.m.e.nt apartment on Mockingbird Lane in South Pasadena, a small, quiet place out of sight from the world, and he lived there for several years. His friends from the Church, Arthur and Claudia Mokarow, owned the house, and Claudia became a kind of buffer for Bobby, answering queries, shooing away reporters, and serving as his majordomo and resident Gorgon, even to the point of considering offers (and rejecting them) without even discussing them with Bobby.

Bobby's support came from unexpected sources. New York City's mayor Edward I. Koch wrote him a letter trying to convince him to come back to the chessboard. "Your extraordinary skill and genius at the most difficult of games is a source of pride to me and to all who stand in the light of your remarkable accomplishments."

Often, photographers or reporters staked out the front of the house, attempting to get Bobby's photograph or interview him. He once said that the only thing he feared was a journalist, and slipping in and out of the house without being confronted by the press took the ingenuity of a Houdini and the dexterity of a gymnast. Sometimes it sent Bobby into a panic.

If a friend wanted to reach him, he or she would call Claudia first, and she'd run downstairs and either give Bobby the message or leave it for him, and then Bobby would call back if he so chose. Bobby never accepted calls directly unless he'd initiated them. Claudia would also drive him to and from certain out-of-the-way Los Angeles destinations; otherwise he was quite adept at traveling by bus to wherever he wanted to go. He became a man of routine: up and out by four p.m., and into Los Angeles or downtown Pasadena for his first meal of the day, followed by his hunt through the bookstores, searching, searching, searching. He loved Indian and Chinese food and consumed what seemed like barrelsful of salads whenever they were available.

When he was finished with that day's pursuit of books, he returned to South Pasadena in the early evening for a workout at the gym, forty-five minutes of swimming, and then a sauna; by nightfall he was back at Mockingbird Lane, settling into his world of reading, and studying chess: peace peace. Unless a friend was visiting, he rarely went out at night, enjoying the comfort and safety of his home.

The apartment was strewn with books, magazines, and piles of clothing and had the smell of fresh oranges: Bobby would buy them and other fruits and vegetables by the bagful. Every day, he'd drink one or two pint gla.s.ses of carrot juice, one right after the other. Dozens of bottles of vitamin pills, Indian herbal medicines, Mexican rattlesnake pills, lotions, and exotic teas were piled on tables and ledges everywhere, all to help keep him on what he believed was a strict, healthful diet-and to treat some ailments he had from time to time. Often he'd take his hand-cranked juicer to a restaurant with him, order breakfast, ask for an empty gla.s.s, and break out a half dozen oranges, cut them in half, and squeeze them at his table while customers and waiters looked on in either puzzlement or amus.e.m.e.nt. He began to put on bulk and muscle and he seemed to be in perfect physical shape.

He'd collected hundreds of chess magazines in five or six languages, and all genres of chess books, the majority of which were sent to him by his mother. Now living in Jena, East Germany, behind the Iron Curtain, where she was completing her medical degree, Regina could purchase the latest Soviet chess literature quite inexpensively, and she regularly made s.h.i.+pments to her son, either at random or by request. At one point Bobby had to tell her to stop sending chess books because he was running out of room.

Far into the night he'd play over the latest games by himself-from tournaments in places ranging from England to Latvia to Yugoslavia to Bulgaria-and he'd hiss and scream as he followed the moves. So loudly did he exclaim "Yes!", "Absurd!", "It's the knight!", or "Always the rook on that rank!" that his p.r.o.nouncements could be heard on the quiet lane where he lived. Bobby's outbursts would startle the infrequent pa.s.sersby and sometimes produce complaints from neighbors.

By the late 1970s, Fischer hadn't played a single game of chess in public since Iceland. He was continuing to study the game, but he spent more time exploring his theories on religion. At one point, he was spotted in a parking lot with an armful of anti-Semitic flyers that promulgated the superiority of the Aryan race. In between handing out the flyers to those who walked by, he placed his declarations on winds.h.i.+elds. Gradually, his savings were evaporating, and other than biannual royalty checks from his books, Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess Bobby Fischer Teaches Chess and and My 60 Memorable Games My 60 Memorable Games-which netted him roughly $6,000 a year in total-he had no other source of income.

Either by choice or necessity, Bobby moved out of the Mokarow house and settled in Los Angeles, in a small, dingy, dark, and inexpensive furnished room on Orange Avenue, one block off Wils.h.i.+re Boulevard. Within a short while, though, the rent for the room became too much of a financial burden to carry. So he wrote to his mother, who was living in Nicaragua doing pro bono medical work for the poor, to see if she could help out. She immediately instructed his sister, Joan, to send the entire amount of her monthly Social Security check to Bobby to a.s.sist him with his rent. Joan had been collecting Regina's checks and then banking them for her so that she'd have a small nest egg when she returned to the United States. Bobby continued to accept the proceeds of his mother's Social Security checks for years.

His settlement on Orange Avenue wasn't permanent, however, and he eventually began renting in the skid row section of L.A. near MacArthur Park, taking rooms in what might be called flophouses, sometimes just for the night or by the week.

In time, judging from his uncombed and disheveled physical appearance, it was difficult to differentiate Bobby from the down-and-outers of the area. His ten $400 suits were in storage somewhere, but he just didn't seem to care to dress well anymore. He stopped regularly working out, started developing a paunch, began dressing in whatever clothes he happened to have handy, rarely had his hair or beard cut professionally, and even had the fillings of his teeth removed.

This last piece of physical business has been so distorted by the press over the years that it has entered the "Bobby Fischer Urban Legend Storybook" as proof proof of his "insanity." Somewhere he was quoted as saying that he'd had his fillings removed because he feared that the Soviets could affect his mind by sending harmful radio signals through the metal in his teeth-and virtually every profile and book written about Bobby since has mentioned it. Either the quote was spurious or misremembered, or Bobby was jos.h.i.+ng the reporter who recorded it, because the truth is that he had the fillings removed for what he believed was a legitimate health reason. He was solicitous toward Ethel Collins about this, since she'd been suffering with a chronic gum problem for years. of his "insanity." Somewhere he was quoted as saying that he'd had his fillings removed because he feared that the Soviets could affect his mind by sending harmful radio signals through the metal in his teeth-and virtually every profile and book written about Bobby since has mentioned it. Either the quote was spurious or misremembered, or Bobby was jos.h.i.+ng the reporter who recorded it, because the truth is that he had the fillings removed for what he believed was a legitimate health reason. He was solicitous toward Ethel Collins about this, since she'd been suffering with a chronic gum problem for years.

Bobby believed that false teeth and metal fillings (especially silver) were detrimental to periodontal health because they irritated the gums. He was also convinced that mercury in most fillings has a toxic effect on the body.

Consequently, Bobby had all of his fillings removed by a dentist in a quick procedure (it only took a few minutes), and he recommended that Ethel do so too. He admitted that eating without fillings was "uncomfortable," but it was better than the alternative of losing all of one's teeth, which he predicted would happen if the fillings remained.

Years later in Iceland, he told his closest friend Gardar Sverrisson that the "radio signal" story about the fillings was bogus: The reason he'd had them removed was because he felt that fillings caused more problems than they cured.

The problem for Bobby became that, since his teeth no longer had fillings, they also no longer had any support and became more fragile. They were also open to decay, and therefore began to chip away. The result: over time he lost a number of teeth. Since he no longer believed in going to a dentist (nor could he afford it) for crowns, implants, or replacements, his broken and missing teeth added to his vagrant look.

Despite his cordial exchanges with the Collinses, and his attempt at proselytizing them into accepting his conspiracy theories, he hurt Jack Collins deeply when he refused to write the introduction to Jack's book My Seven Chess Prodigies My Seven Chess Prodigies (1974). Jack had told him that if he would just write a short introduction, it would mean a sizable advance from the publisher. Collins needed the extra money; although not indigent, he was always short of income since he was living off Ethel's salary as a part-time nurse. His request of Bobby was couched in cordial, nonpleading terms, but Bobby heartlessly never answered him, and Lombardy stepped in to do the job. (1974). Jack had told him that if he would just write a short introduction, it would mean a sizable advance from the publisher. Collins needed the extra money; although not indigent, he was always short of income since he was living off Ethel's salary as a part-time nurse. His request of Bobby was couched in cordial, nonpleading terms, but Bobby heartlessly never answered him, and Lombardy stepped in to do the job.

When Bobby became unbearably lonely for companions.h.i.+p, he would often head up north to Palo Alto and stay with his sister and her husband, Russell Targ, a Stanford University scientist who was an authority on extrasensory perception. Joan was Jewish, as were Russell and their three children, and after hearing Bobby's rants time and again against Jews, the family asked their houseguest to leave.

Living not too far from his sister was Bobby's friend, grandmaster Peter Biyiasas and his wife Ruth, so Bobby stayed there for weeks on end. Over a period of four months Fischer and Biyiasas played seventeen five-minute games and Bobby won them all, with Biyiasis claiming that he never got into an endgame once: Bobby would just wipe him off the board in short order every time.

On three occasions, Bobby went to Berkeley in the San Francis...o...b..y Area to visit Walter Browne, an Australian-American grandmaster. They went over some of the games from Browne's recent tournaments, although they didn't play chess, and once took a long walk at sunset to enjoy the spectacular views of the city across the Bay. During the walk, Bobby kept up a continuous spiel about the Jewish World Conspiracy and made various anti-Semitic remarks, but when they returned to the house and sat down for dinner with Browne's family he ceased his outre comments. On his third visit with Browne, Bobby was to stay overnight. After dinner he asked to use the phone and talked long distance for the rest of the evening-"perhaps for four hours," Browne later recalled. Finally Browne said, "You know, Bobby, you'll really have to get off the phone. I can't afford this." Bobby hung up and immediately said he had to leave and couldn't spend the night with the Brownes. They never talked again.

Back in Los Angeles, Bobby wrote to his mother, asking her when she could visit him, hoping it would be "soon," and advising her to sail from England instead of flying, telling her that his boat trips in the past had been "a real experience." At the end of the letter he included instructions: "Write to me at the Post Office box and do not put my name on the address. It's not necessary."

He simply did not want contact from anyone he didn't know, and he made it quite clear, peremptorily, to Jack Collins that no mail no mail-even important, flattering, or personal messages-should be forwarded to him. Possibly, he was worried that that a letter might contain poison or that a package could contain an explosive.

Chess colleagues of Bobby's-including grandmaster Robert Byrne-have said that the real reason he was so private, and didn't want anyone to know where he was at any given time, was that he feared a KGB a.s.sa.s.sination plot. Bobby believed, they said, that the Soviets were so enraged by his winning the crown from Spa.s.sky and thereby diminis.h.i.+ng their greatest cultural achievement that they wanted him murdered. Of course, Bobby's fears were thought by some to be incipient paranoia, and although it was highly unlikely that the KGB was plotting against him, even paranoids can have real enemies. At restaurants Bobby always carried with him a virtual pharmacy of remedies and potions to immediately counteract any poisons that the Soviets might slip into his food or drink. Hans Ree, a Dutch grandmaster and an accomplished journalist, summed it up this way: "It is undeniable that Fischer had real enemies and that they were extremely powerful ones." He then went on to indicate that Mikhail Suslov, one of the most influential Soviet leaders, became involved in issuing instructions on how to subvert (not murder) Bobby, by creating a situation "unfavorable to R. Fischer." Ree concludes: "There is nothing in the [KGB] doc.u.ments that there ever were any plans to kill him. But that doesn't mean there weren't any." The important point is that Bobby was convinced it was so and acted accordingly.

Part of his desire for privacy may have been attributable to his readings. Nietzsche said that solitude makes us tougher toward ourselves and more tender toward others. He held that in both ways it improves one's character. It's possible that since Bobby was influenced by Nietzsche to some extent, he was following this course to the extreme. By refusing to read letters that might have been laudatory or complimentary, or those that would have been for his own good, such as a letter from an old friend or an invitation to be a guest of honor at West Point, he was deliberately maintaining his isolation.

It was clear, though, that Bobby had a very difficult time considering anything that wasn't on his own agenda. He was so focused on his path of righteousness and giving free rein to his different-drummer sensibilities that he refused to be distracted by trivia-as he saw it-entering his mailbox from a possibly unknown or unwelcome source.

Because Jack Collins was known as Bobby's teacher, and he was readily available for contact-his telephone number was listed in the Manhattan telephone directory-he received calls and messages on a daily basis from people who for various reasons wanted to reach Bobby. Unfortunately for them, and even sadder for Bobby, after Collins received the letter warning him against forwarding anything, that conduit was cut off and the requests for contact drifted down into wastebasket oblivion.

Generally, Bobby was depressed, but he still managed to get up and out every day. He was attentive to his surroundings and hardly limited in his physical activity. But in retrospect, he was upset at having pa.s.sed on the chance to acquire a portion of that $5 million purse in 1975. Who knew, after all, when the next opportunity to earn significant money would come along? The truth was, having to make ends meet was wearing on him. Also preying on his mind were his failure to find romantic love, and his constant religious doubts. This c.u.mulative sadness contributed to his not wanting to be with people...unless he felt highly secure and comfortable with them. So he walked and walked for miles every day, lost in his dreams, or dwelling in a meditative state.

A sportswriter once wrote that Fischer was the fastest walker he ever saw outside of an Olympian. He took great strides, creating a slight wind in his wake, his left arm swinging high with his left leg, his right with his right, in an unusual cadence. Another journalist, Brad Darrach-who Fischer was suing-said that when he walked with Fischer, he felt as if he were Dopey, one of the Seven Dwarfs, trying to keep up with the big folks. Fischer's erstwhile friend Walter Browne talked about walking with Bobby-very fast-from the Manhattan Chess Club all the way down to Greenwich Village on the West Side of Manhattan-over three miles-having dinner at a Mediterranean restaurant, and then walking all the way back uptown on the East Side, another three miles. Walking gave Bobby time to think-or to lose himself-and it kept him trim. He listed it, along with sports and reading, among his favorite pastimes.

After visiting Harry Sneider at the gym one day-he'd continued his friends.h.i.+p with the trainer even after severing his relations.h.i.+p with the Worldwide Church of G.o.d-Bobby chose to take one of his mammoth treks around the city of Pasadena. He walked alongside the Foothill Freeway and then walked back and turned at Lake Avenue, pa.s.sing the Kaiser Permanente medical facility. A police cruiser stopped him. Apparently there had been a bank robbery in the area, and Bobby fit the description of the robber. He was asked for his name, address, age, type of work, etc., and although Bobby claimed that he answered the questions dutifully, there was something suspicious about him, according to the police interrogator. His appearance didn't help, untidy as he was and carrying a soiled shopping bag containing a juicer and a number of hate books. The more questions that were asked, the more Bobby became belligerent. Perhaps because he was nervous, or perhaps because he kept moving from one flophouse to another, he couldn't remember his address. Eventually, he was brought to the station and booked for vagrancy (since the bank robber had already been caught), although he did have $9 and some change on him at the time. He was stripped of his clothing, put in a cell, and not allowed a phone call to enlist help. Moreover, he later claimed that the guards brutalized him and deprived him of food.

Just so the world would know what he'd gone through those two days, when Bobby was finally released he wrote a punch-by-punch description of his ordeal, an eighty-five-hundred-word essay t.i.tled "I Was Tortured Tortured in the Pasadena Jailhouse!" Although not reaching the virtuosic literary heights of incarceration essays penned by writers such as Th.o.r.eau or Martin Luther King Jr., the doc.u.ment was an oddly compelling account of the execrable details of his experience. Described by some as incoherent ranting and too melodramatic, Bobby's story, if it could be trusted on the basics, in the Pasadena Jailhouse!" Although not reaching the virtuosic literary heights of incarceration essays penned by writers such as Th.o.r.eau or Martin Luther King Jr., the doc.u.ment was an oddly compelling account of the execrable details of his experience. Described by some as incoherent ranting and too melodramatic, Bobby's story, if it could be trusted on the basics, was was truly horrifying. He was innocent, he claimed, and yet he was made to parade through the halls naked and threatened with being put in a mental inst.i.tution. truly horrifying. He was innocent, he claimed, and yet he was made to parade through the halls naked and threatened with being put in a mental inst.i.tution.

Bobby self-published the essay in a fourteen-page booklet, with red-and-white stripes on the front to resemble cell bars, and signed it "Robert D. James (professionally known as Robert J. Fischer or Bobby Fischer, The World Chess Champion)." He had ten thousand copies printed, which cost him $3,257. How in his near dest.i.tute state he was able to obtain the needed money is not known. He sold his essay for $1 a copy, and Claudia Mokarow handled the distribution and sales. Breaking his own privacy rules, Bobby even included a PO box number that he could be written to in care of so that the reader could order "additional copies." Ironically, he ended up making money from the project-after the printing, s.h.i.+pping, and advertising costs were deducted. Twenty-five years later, an original copy of I Was Tortured... I Was Tortured... was selling as a collector's item for upward of $500. A collector asked Pal Benko to see if Bobby would autograph a copy of his was selling as a collector's item for upward of $500. A collector asked Pal Benko to see if Bobby would autograph a copy of his j'accuse j'accuse. Benko requested and Bobby refused: "Yes, I wrote it, but I had a terrible time in that jail. I want to forget about it. No, I don't want to sign it."

The pamphlet is important in offering a glimpse of Bobby's state of mind at that time (May 1981): It shows his utter outrage in being manhandled and falsely accused; his refusal to bend to authority; his use of a pseudonym (even Regina had begun to address her letters to him as "Robert D. James," the "D" standing for "Dallas") for self-protection; and his designation of himself as "The World Chess Champion." Regarding this self-description, Bobby explained to a friend that he had never been defeated. He resigned the FIDE World Champions.h.i.+p, but he believed the true World Champion's t.i.tle was still rightfully his. Further, he claimed that he had not won the World Champions.h.i.+p in Iceland in 1972; he already was was the World Champion: His t.i.tle was stolen, he said, by the Russians. the World Champion: His t.i.tle was stolen, he said, by the Russians.

Bobby's life, post-Reykjavik, has been referred to by the press as his "Wilderness Years," as indeed they were: living in the seamy underside of Los Angeles for the most part, twenty years out of view, refusing offers of money, on the edge of vagrancy, attempting to evaporate into anonymity so as to be s.h.i.+elded from perceived threats.

Money, however, was still available if he chose to avail himself of it. But the complications in getting it to him, or having him accept it, were enormous. First, those who had offers had to find find him, not an easy task because he kept changing his address, gave his telephone number to virtually no one, and didn't have an answering machine. His use of an alias also increased the difficulty of tracking him down. The mailbox at one of his apartments read "R. D. James." Second, if contact him, not an easy task because he kept changing his address, gave his telephone number to virtually no one, and didn't have an answering machine. His use of an alias also increased the difficulty of tracking him down. The mailbox at one of his apartments read "R. D. James." Second, if contact was was made, he'd never accept the first offer, and he usually named an amount that was double or triple-or more-pricing himself out of the market. Third, he refused to sign any contracts, making it impossible for most corporations or individuals to proceed with any kind of legally binding arrangement. Stories were told, unconfirmed by this writer, that when he was flat broke, he'd accept short telephone calls from chess players at a charge of $2,500 each, and would also give lessons over the phone for $10,000. If the stories were true, how these calls were arranged, how long they lasted, and who made them aren't known. made, he'd never accept the first offer, and he usually named an amount that was double or triple-or more-pricing himself out of the market. Third, he refused to sign any contracts, making it impossible for most corporations or individuals to proceed with any kind of legally binding arrangement. Stories were told, unconfirmed by this writer, that when he was flat broke, he'd accept short telephone calls from chess players at a charge of $2,500 each, and would also give lessons over the phone for $10,000. If the stories were true, how these calls were arranged, how long they lasted, and who made them aren't known.

It is is known that the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation wanted to interview Bobby for a doc.u.mentary: He demanded $5,000 just to discuss it over the phone, with no promises of anything else. The network refused. A reporter from known that the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation wanted to interview Bobby for a doc.u.mentary: He demanded $5,000 just to discuss it over the phone, with no promises of anything else. The network refused. A reporter from Newsday Newsday, which had one of the largest circulations of any daily tabloid in the United States, sought an interview with Bobby and was told by Claudia Mokarow to "go back to your publisher and ask for a million dollars, and then we'll talk about whether Bobby will grant you an interview." Carol J. Williams, a reporter for the Los Angeles Times Los Angeles Times, approached Bobby for an interview and was told his required fee was $200,000. His request was refused "on principle." Freelance photographers were willing to pay $5,000 to anyone who could arrange just to locate Bobby so they could take a single photograph, and perhaps pay $10,000 to Bobby if he'd allow allow the picture to be taken. It never happened. Edward Fox, a freelance journalist for the British the picture to be taken. It never happened. Edward Fox, a freelance journalist for the British Independent Independent newspaper, wrote of Bobby: "The years pa.s.sed, and the last extant photographs were growing more and more out of date. No one knew what Bobby Fischer looked like any more. Into the vacuum of his non-presence rushed a fog of rumors and fragmentary information. He existed as a vortex of recycled facts and second-hand quotes. Every now and then there would be a 'sighting' of a forlorn, bearded figure." newspaper, wrote of Bobby: "The years pa.s.sed, and the last extant photographs were growing more and more out of date. No one knew what Bobby Fischer looked like any more. Into the vacuum of his non-presence rushed a fog of rumors and fragmentary information. He existed as a vortex of recycled facts and second-hand quotes. Every now and then there would be a 'sighting' of a forlorn, bearded figure."

A sensationalistic television show, Now It Can Be Told Now It Can Be Told, spent weeks in the early 1990s trying to capture the reclusive Bobby for their broadcast, and managed to film him for a few seconds in a parking lot, getting out of an automobile, en route to a restaurant with Claudia Mokarow and her husband.

Bobby Fischer! It was the first time he'd been seen by the public in almost two decades. His pants and jacket were wrinkled, but he didn't look as derelict as some of the press accounts had indicated. Aside from the fact that his hair was thinning and he'd put on weight and grown a beard, he was the unmistakable, broad-shouldered, swaggering Bobby Fischer. It was the first time he'd been seen by the public in almost two decades. His pants and jacket were wrinkled, but he didn't look as derelict as some of the press accounts had indicated. Aside from the fact that his hair was thinning and he'd put on weight and grown a beard, he was the unmistakable, broad-shouldered, swaggering Bobby Fischer.

12.

Fischer-Spa.s.sky Redux

BOBBY'S CHESS DRAGON was not only stirring in the cave, it was las.h.i.+ng its tail. Perhaps because he could no longer tolerate his downtrodden life, living off his mother's checks and receiving just an occasional trickle of cash from here or there, Bobby wanted to get back to the game...desperately. But his urge to rejoin the fray wasn't all about remuneration-it was the call to battle, the game itself, that he missed: the prestige; the silence (hopefully) of the tournament room; the sibilant buzz of the kibitzers (d.a.m.n them); the was not only stirring in the cave, it was las.h.i.+ng its tail. Perhaps because he could no longer tolerate his downtrodden life, living off his mother's checks and receiving just an occasional trickle of cash from here or there, Bobby wanted to get back to the game...desperately. But his urge to rejoin the fray wasn't all about remuneration-it was the call to battle, the game itself, that he missed: the prestige; the silence (hopefully) of the tournament room; the sibilant buzz of the kibitzers (d.a.m.n them); the life life of chess. Jonathan Swift defined war as "that mad game the world loves to play." Fischer felt exactly the same way about chess. But could he find his way, existentially, back to the board? Hermann Hesse, in his masterful novel of chess. Jonathan Swift defined war as "that mad game the world loves to play." Fischer felt exactly the same way about chess. But could he find his way, existentially, back to the board? Hermann Hesse, in his masterful novel Magister Ludi (The Gla.s.s Bead Game) Magister Ludi (The Gla.s.s Bead Game), told of someone whose knowledge of "the game" was Fischer-like: "One who had experienced the ultimate meaning of the game within himself would no longer be a player; he would no longer dwell in the world of multiplicity and would no longer delight in invention, construction, and combination, since he would know altogether different joys and raptures." The difference is that the joys and raptures away from the board weren't really there for Bobby.

Spa.s.sky provided a way back to the board. He contacted Bobby in 1990 and informed him that Bessel Kok, the man who was running for the presidency of FIDE that year (1990), was interested in organizing a Fischer-Spa.s.sky rematch, and there might be millions-although not the $5 million he'd pa.s.sed up in 1975 for a match with Karpov-available for the prize fund.

Kok, a Dutch businessman of extreme wealth, was president of a Belgium-based banking company, SWIFT, and was responsible for organizing several international tournaments. Kok had a n.o.ble agenda: He wanted Bobby to continue his career, and he wanted to be a privileged witness to his games, as did almost all chess players.

A meeting was planned to discuss the match, with Kok agreeing to pay all the expenses for Bobby to fly, first cla.s.s, to Belgium and be lodged at the five-star Sheraton Brussels Hotel. To avoid journalists, Bobby checked in under the name of Brown. He mentioned to Kok that he'd need some cash for pocket money upon arrival. Twenty-five hundred dollars in cash was waiting for him at the hotel.

In addition to Bobby, Kok also invited Spa.s.sky and his wife Marina to Brussels. For four days, the trio spent mostly all of their time at Kok's suburban mansion, but it wasn't all a discussion of the possible match. At one point, Fischer and Kok joined the Spa.s.skys in a doubles tennis match; there were elegant, candlelit dinners and postprandial conversations, and a few outings into Brussels itself. Kok's wife, Pierette Broodhaers, an attorney, said that she had a "normal and friendly" conversation with Bobby, not at all about chess. Nor, according to her, did he show any signs of the eccentricities the press kept referring to, with the exception of his speaking too loudly. "Maybe he is used to living alone so n.o.body listens to him," she said, sensing his loneliness. He forbade her to take a photograph of him.

One evening, the men, who were joined by Jan Timman from Holland, the number threeranked chess player in the world, went off to what Broodhaers described as a "raunchy" nightclub in downtown Brussels. Timman recalled meeting Fischer for the first time: "The most interesting thing was that I had once dreamed of meeting Fischer in a nightclub. Funny I had never entertained the hope of [actually] meeting him. When I broke through internationally, he had just stopped [playing]." Talking about who might be considered the greatest player of all time, he said, "As far as I am concerned, Fischer is the best ever."

The amount being mentioned as the purse for the rematch was $2,500,000. Although Bobby was in want financially, this prize fund was not acceptable to him. Spa.s.sky wanted to go through with it, but no deal could be arranged. Little did either of them know, but Kok had already decided not to pursue the possible match. He found Fischer's neo-n.a.z.i remarks about Jews to be "beyond the abhorrent" and concluded that any large-scale match involving him would spell trouble. Spa.s.sky flew back to Paris, and Bobby boarded a train for Germany.

Since he was in Europe-his first time there in almost twenty years-Bobby felt he should stay awhile. Gerhardt Fischer, the man listed on Bobby's birth certificate as his father, was living in Berlin, and at eighty-two he was not in good health. The press had learned that Gerhardt was somewhere in Germany-and that Bobby was in the country-and they were trying to track down the father so they could interview his famous son. Reporters believed that it was possible Bobby visited him, but there's no proof he did.

In the late 1980s, during the Chess Bundesliga compet.i.tion in Germany, Boris Spa.s.sky had met a young woman named Petra Stadler. He felt paternal toward her and thought Bobby might be interested in meeting her, so he gave her Fischer's address in Los Angeles and suggested she write to him and send him her photograph. In 1988 she did just that, and to her surprise Fischer phoned her from California. Near the beginning of their conversation, he asked her if she was an Aryan. Recollecting the incident years later, she claims she replied: "I think so."

Fischer invited her to visit him in Los Angeles, where she stayed in a hotel, and the two spent the next few weeks getting to know each other. Then Petra returned to her home in Seeheim, Germany. At that time, Fischer was impoverished, so it was impossible for him to fly to Germany with her. Now that he was in Europe in 1990, courtesy of Bessel Kok, Bobby visited Petra, and with the "pocket money" Kok had given him, his mother's Social Security income, and some small royalty checks for his books, he lived for almost a year in Seeheim and in nearby towns, moving from hotel to hotel to avoid reporters, and spending time with Petra for as long as their relations.h.i.+p lasted.

Petra married Russian grandmaster Rustem Dautov in 1992, and in 1995 she wrote a book t.i.tled Bobby Fischer-Wie er wirklich ist-Ein Jahr mit dem Schachgenie Bobby Fischer-Wie er wirklich ist-Ein Jahr mit dem Schachgenie (Fischer as He Really Is: A Year with a Chess Genius). Boris Spa.s.sky saw a copy and wrote Bobby a letter of apology for having introduced him to Petra. It was dated March 23, 1995. (Fischer as He Really Is: A Year with a Chess Genius). Boris Spa.s.sky saw a copy and wrote Bobby a letter of apology for having introduced him to Petra. It was dated March 23, 1995.

He told Bobby that when he introduced Petra to him he meant well, but shortly after they met "she started to talk too much about you to other people." Sensing that Petra would reveal secrets, Spa.s.sky warned Bobby to "be careful."

After Petra's revealing book was published, Spa.s.sky was very upset, primarily because he didn't want the woman or her book to come between him and Bobby and ruin their good relations.h.i.+p. As a result of Spa.s.sky's letter, Bobby never spoke to Petra again, but he accepted his friend's apology and maintained cordial relations with Spa.s.sky.

While he was in Germany, Bobby went to Bamberg to visit Lothar Schmid, who'd served as arbiter in the 1972 match with Spa.s.sky. Schmid's castle housed the largest known privately owned chess library in the world. Bobby wanted to scrutinize the library and view Schmid's chess art masterpieces. While there, they also a.n.a.lyzed a number of games together, an experience that indicated to Schmid that Bobby's command of the game hadn't waned in his years away from public compet.i.tion; Schmid claimed that Bobby's a.n.a.lysis was still remarkably brilliant.

After having been Schmid's houseguest, Bobby moved to an inn in Pulvermuhle, close to Bamberg, located in a valley between Nuremberg and Bayreuth. The inn was known to be friendly to those who played the game and was family-run by Kaspar Bezold, an amateur chess player. Petrosian was a guest there when he played in the international tournament in Bamberg in 1968, and players from throughout Europe often stayed there on holiday.

Schmid made the arrangements for Bobby to stay in Pulvermuhle and, to keep journalists at bay, had him register under an a.s.sumed name. Staying at a friendly Bavarian inn in the countryside is usually a pleasant affair and can be a chance for renewal, offering long walks in the pastoral countryside, succulent German cooking, decadent desserts, and steins of Rauchbier Rauchbier, the smoked malt and hops from Bamberg that is famous throughout the Free State of Bavaria. But what Bobby liked most was that n.o.body at the inn, other than Bezold and his son Michael, an up-and-coming chess player, knew who he was. Bobby gave Michael lessons, and the young man went on to become an international grandmaster some eight years later, perhaps inspired by his meeting with the world's greatest player.

Bobby studied and practiced his German and was becoming semi-fluent after three months. He might have stayed in Pulvermuhle much longer, or at least as long as his money held out, but he was spotted by a journalist from the German magazine Stern Stern, who'd tracked him down. Bobby checked out immediately and was never seen in Pulvermuhle again.

When Bobby returned from Europe and collected his months of acc.u.mulated mail from Claudia Mokarow, there was an unusual letter waiting for him. It would change his life.

I WOULD LIKE TO SELL YOU THE WORLD'S BEST VACUUM CLEANER!

That was how the letter started off. Beneath that headline was a hand-drawn picture of a vacuum cleaner, rendered in color. Why had this been mailed to Fischer and how had the sender found his address? The odd doc.u.ment continued: NOW THAT I HAVE YOUR INTEREST, TURN THE PAGE.

It was, in fact, a letter from a seventeen-year-old girl, Zita Rajcsanyi, one of Hungary's most promising women chess players. She had sent the letter to the U.S. Chess Federation, and asked them to forward it to Bobby. "Now that I have your interest," the letter stated, "I want to tell you the real reason why I wrote to you." Why did you stop playing? Why did you disappear? she went on to ask. She wrote that she'd been intrigued by Bobby ever since she'd read about him in a book on the history of World Chess Champions. Bobby noticed that the postmark on the letter's envelope was many months past, and there was actually another another letter from Zita in his pile of unopened mail. She was persistent and wanted an answer. letter from Zita in his pile of unopened mail. She was persistent and wanted an answer.

Thus it was that one morning, at about six a.m. Hungarian time, Zita's phone rang. Zita's father, an official of FIDE, answered and immediately woke her. "Hi, this is Bobby." He told her that the reason he was responding was that her letters were so "weird" and quite different from the average fan letters he received, but he thanked her for them. He told her that the reason he wasn't playing was because the Russians cheat, and over the course of future letters and phone calls he elaborated on his theory regarding how the games played by Kasparov and Karpov had all been prearranged and that he believed that Kasparov and Karpov were actually agents of the Russian regime. He asked if she was Jewish. "Everyone who is a Soviet, and everyone who is Jewish, cannot be trusted," he affirmed. When she objected to his ranting, he broke off the conversation and didn't call back for months. More phone calls eventually followed, however, often in the middle of the night, and they also started a pen pal correspondence.

Eventually, he asked Zita whether she'd like to visit him. He told her he'd send her an airline ticket and that she could stay with a friend of his, since his room was too small and it wouldn't be appropriate for her to stay with him in any event. He was right: After Regina had visited him once, she wrote to him about his cramped quarters: "You can hardly turn around."

Zita applied for a visa immediately in the summer of 1992 and after many weeks of bureaucratic processing, she arrived in Los Angeles. Bobby met her at the airport. She did not recognize him because of his beard. Although he'd paid for the round-trip ticket, when Zita met him she discovered that he was practically penniless. She lent him a few hundred dollars, virtually all of her spending money. Some of it was paid back immediately because he agreed to be interviewed by a foreign journalist for a fee of $300. Bobby's having consented to be interviewed for such a relatively small amount of money showed his financial desperation. It's not known where, or if, the intended story ever appeared.

Zita remained in Los Angeles for six weeks and stayed at the home of Robert Ellsworth, an attorney who helped Bobby with various legal matters. She was with Bobby every day. They enjoyed each other's company and, despite the May-December age gap (she was 17, he was 47), found common ground in their respective backgrounds. Both had started playing chess seriously at the age of eight and had dropped out of high school to be able to play chess full-time. Both loved the game and were highly intelligent and argumentative by nature. Bobby loved languages and, in addition to being fluent in Spanish, was becoming adept at Russian and German. Zita spoke German and English with hardly a trace of an accent. Bobby was World Champion-or so he still claimed-and she aspired to be. In an interview later on, Zita claimed that the real reason Bobby was interested in her was "because I didn't want anything from him."

When Bobby embarra.s.sedly showed her his room, she couldn't believe the way he lived. Barely thirty-five square feet, the living s.p.a.ce included a small bathroom and a single bed. "He was ashamed of his poverty," she later recalled. Books, boxes, and tapes were piled high. The content of the tapes? According to to Zita, they contained Bobby's conspiracy theories. He told her he was planning to write a book that would prove prove how the Soviet players cheated in chess, and the tapes contained his thoughts on the matter. how the Soviet players cheated in chess, and the tapes contained his thoughts on the matter.

Bobby and Zita played one game of chess: his new variation, called Fischer Random. She claims that she won and then became frightened. Perhaps he'd become violent toward her, she thought, because she was a woman and, also, not yet even a master. They never played again, but they did a.n.a.lyze together.

One evening when he picked her up to go out to dinner, he spotted some repairmen on the roof of a low-rise building across the street. They were probably Mossad (Israeli intelligence agents) spying on him, he said, part of his continued litany of "constant obsessions" as Zita observed.

Bobby explained that the reason he hadn't competed in almost twenty years was that he was still waiting for the right offer, though he didn't define what "right" meant. The right prize fund? Venue? Opponent? Number of games? It was probably all of those things and many more. He was also furious that although President Nixon had said he'd be invited to the White House in 1972, the invitation never arrived; Bobby had been fuming about it for two decades. In the interview Zita later gave to Tivadar Farkashazy, she claimed that Bobby was still waiting for the American government to apologize for the White House snub.

Zita couldn't figure out who was paying his rent, minimal though it was. Somehow she knew that it wasn't Claudia Mokarow. Zita thought it could be Bessel Kok; she was unaware that Kok no longer had any interest in backing Fischer for anything. In fact, Bobby's rent and other basic needs were being paid for by his mother's Social Security checks.

Regina had moved back to California from Nicaragua after having dizzy spells, a result of heart problems. She was seventy-seven and thinking of having an operation, and she wanted it performed in the United States. When Bobby heard about his mother's impending surgery, he and Zita, both out of money, used the cheapest transportation they could find-an uncomfortable Greyhound bus-to travel north along the Pacific coast for three hundred miles, to Palo Alto. Besides offering Regina support, Bobby wanted to introduce her to Zita.

Regina was about to have a pacemaker implanted. Bobby, distrustful of doctors, tried to talk her out of the procedure, and they argued about it for hours. As a medical doctor, Regina knew more about the risks than he did, but Bobby was afraid of a foreign object being implanted in his mother's body and what it might do to her. Regina remained adamant and had the operation anyway. She lived until the age of eighty-four.

In going to the United States and meeting Bobby, Zita had accomplished at least part of what she'd set out to do. She'd found out why Bobby Fischer wouldn't play: It had to be the right offer, and it had to be (echoes of the Philippines and the Karpov match) $5 million.

Although Zita denied that there was any s.e.xual intimacy with Bobby in the six weeks she stayed in Los Angeles-"I wasn't thinking of that," she said-he was falling in love. He referred to Zita as his girlfriend, and at another point he called her his fiancee. He knew that to proceed further-for example, to get married once she was no longer a minor-he'd have to have some money, which gave him further impetus to seek a chess match that would make him financially secure.

Zita's father was a diplomat and an official of FIDE, and Zita had other contacts in the chess world who might help her find a sponsor for a Fischer-Spa.s.sky rematch. If Bobby would give her a letter saying that he was interested in playing a match, she told him she'd see whether she could secure backing. Bobby wrote out such a letter by hand. Remarkably, the man who rarely signed a letter of financial importance gave this seventeen-year-old the right, in this case, to speak for him. In mid-May Zita flew home.

It took almost a year, but she finally located someone-Janos Kubat, an internationally known chess organizer-who knew people who could raise the money for a $5 million match. When she first visited Kubat at his office, she couldn't get past his secretary to see him. Then, at an airport, she heard his name being announced over the loudspeaker, and she tracked him down. He was at first skeptical of the teenager's a.s.sertions, but when she showed him Bobby's letter and gave him Bobby's top secret telephone number, Kubat recognized that she was an authentic representative. He agreed to help.

About a month later, in July 1992, Kubat, Zita, and two officials of Jugoskandic Bank were in Los Angeles to talk to Bobby about a possible "revenge" match between Fischer and Spa.s.sky. The president of the bank, Jezdimir Vasiljevic, had given his executives the authority to offer a purse of $5 million with one stipulation: The match had to commence in three weeks in Yugoslavia. Bobby had no idea, really, who Vasiljevic was. He'd later learn that the banker was one of the most powerful men in Serbia, was involved in currency speculation, was suspected of illegally trafficking arms, and was also supposedly promoting a Ponzi scheme. He was six years younger than Bobby but acted in a fatherly way toward him.

The negotiations went back and forth, but Fischer's current demands were minor compared to the 132 conditions he'd stipulated in 1975 in order for him to play Karpov. In this proposed Fischer-Spa.s.sky match, he asked for the winner to receive $3.35 million, the loser $1.65 million. The match would continue, indefinitely, until one player achieved ten wins, draws not counting. If each player acquired nine wins, the match would be considered a draw, and the prize money would be shared equally, but Fischer would retain his t.i.tle as undisputed Chess Champion of the World. He insisted that in all publicity and advertising the match be called The World Chess Champions.h.i.+p. And last of all, he wanted the new clock that he'd invented to be used in all games.

Bobby also wanted $500,000 to be brought to him in advance-before he ventured from California to Yugoslavia. It was a delicate time. Kubat was afraid that Vasiljevic wouldn't release the advance payment unless Bobby first signed the contract, which had been translated into English by Zita. In the past, Bobby had often backed out of projects before they began. For the match to become a reality, he had to overcome the impulses of his nature. Just before Kubat was to leave for Belgrade to try to collect the down payment, Bobby amazed everyone: He signed the contract without complaint. In a matter of days, Kubat was back in California with the money, and Bobby made arrangements to abandon his tiny room. Because he would be entering a controversial war zone, there was a possibility he might not soon be coming back to California. he ventured from California to Yugoslavia. It was a delicate time. Kubat was afraid that Vasiljevic wouldn't release the advance payment unless Bobby first signed the contract, which had been translated into English by Zita. In the past, Bobby had often backed out of projects before they began. For the match to become a reality, he had to overcome the impulses of his nature. Just before Kubat was to leave for Belgrade to try to collect the down payment, Bobby amazed everyone: He signed the contract without complaint. In a matter of days, Kubat was back in California with the money, and Bobby made arrangements to abandon his tiny room. Because he would be entering a controversial war zone, there was a possibility he might not soon be coming back to California.