David Edmonds - Bobby Fischer Goes to War

The big man was the key to Cramer’s frenetic activities. In Don Schultz’s phrase, “He was a 100 percent ‘yes-man’ for Bobby: Cramer did not want to be fired, like his predecessor, Edmondson. So he did literally everything Fischer wanted. Whatever Fischer would say, he would respond, ‘Yes, sir. I agree with that, let’s do it.’” It is easy at this distance to mock Cramer’s submis-siveness to Fischer’s every wish. But he was far from alone: most of those serving Fischer accepted that there was a line not to be crossed if his wrath was to be avoided.

Cramer’s press conferences were his—often desperate—means of proving to Fischer that he was faithfully executing orders. Schultz believes it was not the most effective strategy. “A better way would have been to go to the authorities behind the scenes. Instead, Bobby would say something and there would be a press release.” Frank Skoff, who became president of the U.S. Chess Federation in August 1972 and was one of Fischer’s aides in Reykjavik, is more generous: “Fred would have been a good guy if he’d just tempered himself a bit, but he was one of these people who bubble over, and when he gets going he shoots in all directions.”

Fischer’s bodyguard in Iceland, and one of the few to achieve some sort of rapport with the challenger, Saemundur—“Saemi-rock”—Palsson recalls how if Fischer needed to be woken up for a game, Cramer would “knock on the door and then say to me, ‘You stay there.’ Then he would run off.”

The close relationship that developed between Fischer and Saemundur Palsson, between the chess megastar and an Icelandic policeman, is one of the curiosities of the match.

In Iceland, the thirty-five-year-old Palsson was as much a celebrity as Fischer. An avuncular, regular-guy, he had won the gold medal in the Icelandic Judo Championship (middleweight), had taken first place in a Reykjavik rock-dancing tournament, and was the ex-goalkeeper for the national handball team. He had one other fateful attribute that put him on guard outside Fischer’s house the evening the contender finally arrived: His superiors knew he spoke some English, enough to communicate with the challenger.

On that night, at around midnight, Fischer poked his head out of the window to check whether the road was clear. When he saw that it was, he went out, asked Palsson, who was sitting in his police car, for directions to the city center, declined a lift, and loped off into the night. Palsson radioed his headquarters for instructions. “Don’t let him out of your sight,” he was ordered.

The chess player was now heading due west—away from the city. They pulled up alongside him. “Good evening, Mr. Fischer,” Palsson said. “How about coming with us? If you like, we can show you around and escape this jungle of much concrete.” The American agreed to an excursion. The night was chilly; Fischer had ventured out without a sweater. After picking up some warmer clothing, they took off for the mountains. Palsson contacted headquarters again, naturally briefing them in Icelandic. Sharply, Fischer demanded to know what they were talking about. Palsson was suitably mollifying.

In the country, they found a flock of sheep and chased them “like children.” It was the beginning of a firm friendship—some say Palsson was the only real friend Fischer ever had. “I need a tailor,” Fischer said that night. “Do you know where I can find one?” Palsson knew everybody in town—he promised to introduce Bobby to the finest tailor in Reykjavik, Colin Porter, an Englishman married to an Icelander. “My TV aerial is broken. Do you know anyone who can repair it?” “I’ll make sure it’s fixed,” said Palsson.

For the next two months, Palsson and Fischer were nearly inseparable. Fischer always called him “Sammy.” The policeman became the dependable elder brother that Fischer never had. They played tennis, they swam (“I was a little faster than him, but to keep him in a good mood I would lose”). Palsson would take Fischer to his house by the sea, where Bobby would lounge on the sofa while Mrs. Palsson cooked up colossal helpings of Icelandic cuisine. Fischer grew attached to Palssons son, Asgeir, then seven years old. Bobby could not understand why, when they went out in the middle of the night, Mrs. Palsson would not let her son accompany them.

Palsson even looked after Fischer’s finances. He remembers Fischer as being naive to the point of ignorance on issues of money, and especially on the foreign checks he received from various sources in Reykjavik. “He only wanted green [cash]. I said, ‘I can prove to you that these checks are real money.’ And I took a check for six or seven thousand kronur and we went down to the bank, where I said, ‘I need to change this check.’ And Bobby signed and got his money. Thank God he didn’t throw all those checks in the wastebasket.”

Meeting Palsson today, one understands instantly why Fischer found him easy to get along with. The Icelandic police inspector is immensely likable, transparently trustworthy, and unaffected. In Iceland, he is a national icon. “Oh, you must meet ‘Saemi-Rock,’ people say when talking about Fischer, and their eyes twinkle as they tell you about his exploits and how close he was to the strange American. The tone is affectionate, if a touch mocking.

His reputation for irrepressible amiability was enhanced a few years ago in an episode with which everyone in Reykjavik seems familiar. At a drunken and rowdy party, a brawl had broken out and neighbors called in the police. Palsson duly arrived, and within a few minutes he had deflated the situation and was teaching the partygoers how to dance. “I said, ‘Hey, everybody, let’s all be in a good mood. Shall we try a few steps?’”

During Fischer’s two months in Reykjavik, Paissons devoted attendance on the challenger was rewarded with shabby treatment from the police, the ICF, and particularly Fischer himself. Paid for a shift of eight hours, sometimes he worked eighteen. For the first fortnight, he had obligations during the day, and then, because of Fischer’s unorthodox sleeping habits, he would be on duty half the night as well. Later he was released by the Icelandic police force to be with Fischer full-time—but this still involved long hours. When Palsson complained, the Icelandic Chess Federation promised him some overtime, which he never received. Paul Marshall suggested to Fischer that they recompense Palsson, to which Fischer replied, “Offer Sammy money? He’s my friend. He would be offended.” “Whether he was very clever or very mean, you never knew,” says Palsson. “I would never have asked, but if he had offered, I would not have said no.”

Financial rewards might have been lacking, but Palsson had privileged access to the entire drama, even to the games themselves. Fischer wanted Palsson to stay backstage, to bring him orange juice and provisions; as Spassky did not protest, he was there for almost every match. At least once he served Spassky as well, not wanting to leave him out.

Palsson confesses to not being the brightest star in the firmament. But he has an emotional intelligence that allowed him to read Fischer’s moods. “You had to play Bobby like a violin. Sometimes it was best not to talk at all.” His attachment to Fischer remains touching, though he badly overrated Fischer’s attachment to him.

By late July, a diurnal rhythm has taken hold of the match. The games are supposed to begin at five in the afternoon on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays, but Fischer is always tardy, at times by just a few minutes, at other times by up to half an hour. Palsson is under strict instructions not to rouse him too early from his slumber. It is a short drive from the hotel Loftleidir to the coastal road and then to the Laugardalur, the municipal sports center consisting of an open-air athletic stadium, a swimming pool, and the giant fungus-shaped exhibition hall where the match is taking place.