David Edmonds - Bobby Fischer Goes to War

This moment of inspired casuistry immediately terminated the forfeit debate but was not enough to rescue the match; there were still the required expressions of contrition. On 5 July, the Soviet delegation issued a statement, read by Geller at a press conference. Hastily translated, it complained that “an unprecedented in the history of chess situation [sic]” had arisen when the world champion was made to wait. This was also the infringement of FIDE rules. The absence of the challenger at the opening and his three-day delay were insulting. This breach had been “taken under the protection” of Euwe. There followed a proposition with which few could quarrel: “All that have [sic] happened were enough to B. Spasski [sic] to discontinue the negotiations and leave for home. The only thing that is keeping him hitherto from taking this step is his understanding of the match meaning [sic] for the world of chess and for hospitable Iceland.”

Decoded, the statement added an extra condition for the survival of the match. As well as Fischer’s apology, the Soviets now required Euwe’s condemnation of Fischer’s behavior and an admission by the president that he had violated FIDE rules by postponing the match.

Earlier, Fischer’s team had gone a short way down the apology route, offering a terse handout written by Marshall: “We are sorry that the world championship was delayed…. If Grandmaster Spassky or the Soviet people were inconvenienced or discomforted, I am indeed unhappy, for I had not the slightest intention of this occurring.” Geller rejected it at the press conference as entirely inadequate—it had been mimeographed and was unsigned.

Euwe was in the audience, which had now gone quiet. In what Lothar Schmid called “a great gesture by a great man, saving the match,” he immediately rose to do his part in meeting the Soviet conditions. The USSR embassy interpreter, Valeri Chamanin, jotted down Euwe’s words on his own copy of Geller’s statement. The president admitted breaking FIDE rules “for special reasons,” for which he apologized; he condemned Fischer’s behavior, and he accepted that Spassky could not be expected to play within the next four days.

The press conference spontaneously erupted in applause, although they also greeted with ridicule Euwe’s assertion that Fischer did not intend to cause trouble. The Washington Post commented that everybody thought Fischer and his companions were the villains. A Los Angeles Times article filed from Iceland was headlined BOBBY FISCHER AS THE UGLY AMERICAN. However, the Soviets too came in for criticism. The British papers reported an attack by Ed Edmondson. If the Soviets claimed victory because of Fischer’s failure to appear, they would be “showing themselves in their true colours as grasping, greedy, deceitful nonsportsmen.” Edmondson added, “I do not intend this to be a personal attack on Spassky because we all know that he is being guided—I should say misguided—by the Russian Ministry of Sport.”

Immediately after Geller’s press conference, Fred Cramer called one of his own. Concessions were out of the question. If any apologizing was to be done, Cramer said, Dr. Euwe should apologize to the Americans. He had broken the rules in favor of the Russians. As for Fischer, he “felt he hadn’t violated the rules.”

Meanwhile, Tremblay had met Lombardy and Marshall for what the chargé called a strategy session “aimed at getting the contestants to the chessboard and reversing the propaganda trend that had been heavily pro-Spassky.” The Washington Post depicted Fischer’s entourage as part of the problem: Lombardy and the lawyers were professionally closemouthed, Cramer the opposite. The Post remarked: “All in all, the Americans add up to a great team—for Spassky.”

The outcome of the meeting was a new letter of apology by Fischer to Spassky. Fischer, in one of those sudden, unexpected, and inexplicable U-turns that had dotted his career, now decided on an act of abnegation. He scrawled a note in which he proposed giving up every cent of the prize money and competing simply for the love of chess. Horrified, Marshall and Darrach worked on the text through the night, finally persuading Fischer to delete any reference to relinquishing the prize. Marshall was quoted as having described his task as “feeling like a cop trying to talk a jump case off a ledge.”

The letter was delivered to Spassky’s hotel room in the early morning while he slept. Fischer offered “sincere apologies” to Spassky and apologies to Euwe and millions of chess fans for his “disrespectful behavior in not attending the opening ceremony.” He also confessed that he had been carried away by his petty dispute over money. However, the hand of the lawyer is plain. After the opening paragraph of soft soap, the next paragraph carefully argues the case against a forfeit of the first game, casting doubt on the Soviets’ motive in demanding it, especially when they had apparently accepted a postponement. Anyway, the apology goes on, surely Spassky would not want an unfair advantage? Then, following best public relations practice, it concluded with an appeal to Spassky’s honor: “I know you to be a sportsman and a gentleman, and I am looking forward to some exciting chess games with you.” In the circumstances, it was a psychological masterstroke. How could the champion not be disarmed? The U.S. embassy released the letter to the press before the Soviets had a chance to react.

It worked. Opinion swung toward the American challenger for the first time. The match was back on.

On 7 July, lots were drawn. Again Fischer was late, leaving the Russian to sweat it out once more. When the American arrived at the playing hall, according to Darrach “bursting out of the cab in a glitter-green slubbed silk suit with wide pointy shoulders,” he at first failed to notice Spassky. The world champion “stood staring at the broad green back, his smile crumpled and his tan two shades lighter. Big and vital and overdressed, Fischer looked every inch the arrogant superstar. In a sweater that had lost its casual flair, Spassky looked like a guy who had asked for an autograph and been told to buzz off.” The Moscow evening paper Vecherniaia Moskva recorded the draw:

Spassky did what even a chess beginner would do: he squeezed a pawn in each hand, made several loops around the stage with them, then approached his rival and stretched his hands in front of him. Fischer pointed at the hand containing the black pawn.

Spassky would start with the white pieces.

There is now an interval in the drama, a breathing space for the harried actors. The first game has been rescheduled at the Soviets’ request (or ultimatum) for 11 July. Spassky relaxes over a salmon fishing expedition. Gudmundur Thorarinsson rests. Paul Marshall returns to his less troublesome clients in New York. Lothar Schmid has to fly back to Germany briefly to tend to his son, who has fallen off a bicycle while pedaling downhill and is suffering from a head injury. Fischer can slip into his routine of sleeping by day and bowling and eating U.S. steaks by night at the Keflavik military base.

When the curtain goes up again, Fischer is in the playing hall. But a new character is on stage and in frustrated turmoil: Chester Fox, an ambitious, young, would-be filmmaker with bushy sideburns, tightly curled red hair, and dressed to impress in a wide-lapeled trench coat. He speaks some Russian. When he smokes in times of trouble (from this point, almost continuously), he forgets to puff and the cigarette burns until it melts the filter between his fingers. Fox is agitated. “Tell me, do I look like a rapist?” he asks a journalist. “Am I in here to rape somebody? All I want to do is make a deal.” Fox’s lawyer, Richard Stein, does his best to curb his client’s outbursts.