Spassky also put on a silver sun visor, swinging it as he came and went. In this poisonous atmosphere, with notes of protest and recrimination going back and forth, Spassky addressed an open letter to “chess players,” defending his actions and claiming anarchy had broken out. The match had passed into a phase in which, “expressed by the words of Fedor Dostoyevsky, ‘Everything is allowed.’” Spassky had refused to put his name to a letter condemning Korchnoi’s defection, but after the match he felt it right to attack him in terms of which Pavlov would have approved. Korchnoi “had lost his moral principles, and thus his future both morally and in chess is insignificant.”
Spassky’s defeat did not signal the end of his involvement in world-class chess. He again played in the Candidates round in 1980; this time Portisch had his revenge, beating Spassky on a tie break. Spassky’s last appearance in the world championship cycle was in 1985, and he continued to participate in the Olympiads and the World Cup until 1989.
Settled in France, Spassky seems to have had the best of all his worlds, a happy marriage, as much competitive chess as he desires, and freedom in his daily life from the Soviet system.
Today, he lives among other Russian émigrés in the tranquil eighteenth-century town of Meudon, on the edge of the French capital and famous as the home of the sculptor Rodin. Often asked to serve as an “ambassador” for chess, he travels extensively in Russia as well as other parts of the world. In his apartment, the chessboard is set up, but the tennis racket too is close to hand.
He bears no malice toward Fischer, telling the Irish Times in 2000, “Ever since my youth at about twenty-two, twenty-three years of age, I had a good impression of Bobby. He was always very honest and said exactly what he thought.”
After becoming champion, Fischer stayed put in Iceland for another two weeks, whiling away the days with Palsson, swimming, bowling, and, of course, absorbed in his chessboard. On 15 September, he exchanged the calm of Iceland for the commotion of New York. The following week, there was a lavish reception at City Hall hosted by Republican mayor John Lindsay, who saluted Fischer as “the Grandest Master of them all,” while Sebastian Leone, the president of the borough of Brooklyn, hailed his fellow resident as the world champion of “a truly Brooklyn sport—the sport of intellectuals.” A large poster read WELCOME, BOBBY FISCHER, WORLD CHESS CHAMPION. Displayed among the official plaudits was evidence of local government frugality—the sign’s reverse side greeted earlier conquering heroes, the crew of Apollo 16, who had returned to earth on 27 April, six days after landing on the moon.
The officials had shared a question with chess organizers worldwide: Would Fischer show up at the proceedings at all? According to an anonymous aide quoted in the press, when Fischer had been offered the key to the city he responded, “I live here, what do I need a key for?” In the event, the celebrations found him in an unusually relaxed state of mind. So eager was he to sign autographs that he mistook several hovering journalists for groupies, grabbing their pens. And when he gave his speech, he even made a joke: “I want to deny a vicious rumor that’s been going around—I think it was started by Moscow. It’s not true that Henry Kissinger phoned me during the night to tell me the moves.” Comfortingly for those who relied on Fischer for dinner party horror stories, some things remained constant. He banned cameras from the reception, and only after some discussion was the press allowed in.
His future and the future of world championship chess alike seemed assured. An editorial in The New York Times commented, “The Fischer era of chess has begun, and it promises a brilliance and excitement the ancient game has never known before.” Fischer stated that he would not shrink from defending his title; on the contrary, he would regularly take on challengers. Few expected him to be knocked off his throne for a decade or more. One exception was his former second, Larry Evans: “I just had the feeling he would never play competitive chess again.”
There was a widespread consensus that Fischer would soon enter the multimillionaires’ club. Almost immediately after the match, entrepreneur and bridge fanatic Ira G. Corn, with whose financial backing the U.S. bridge team had won the world championship in 1970 and 1971, proposed a Fischer-Spassky rematch. Talks were held over a possible simultaneous display in London’s Albert Hall. Lucrative tournament offers arrived daily, from Qatar to South Africa, from the Philippine president Ferdinand Marcos to the Shah of Iran.
Promoters and producers, financiers and backers, were soon reminded of Fischer’s allergic reaction to contracts. A frustrated Paul Marshall remembers that megacontracts were drawn up, but “although he wanted the money, he wouldn’t make written commitments, and you can’t get the money without such commitments.”
Warner Brothers had the idea of making a Christmas LP in which Fischer would record some basic chess lessons. Two producers had been dispatched to Iceland during the match to try to agree on terms. Fischer was too busy to grant them an audience. Nevertheless, money was considered no object in the LP’s preparation—the potential spoils were forecast to be massive. Larry Evans was contracted to assist with the script for a handsome fee. He asked the president of Warner Brothers whether Fischer had actually signed a contract and was told no, but this was a mere formality. All the particulars had been agreed to in principle. Said Evans, “In that case, I’d rather be paid in advance.” He was.
A manufacturer offered Fischer over a million dollars to endorse a chess set. Palsson was promised a percentage if he could get his buddy to agree. “I said to Bobby, What’s wrong with the idea? You wanted chess in every home.’ I’m positive I could have persuaded him, but I had to have more time. They needed an answer immediately because it was September and the sets had to be in the shops by Christmas.” In the end, this and every other proposal ran aground.
Fischer, meanwhile, made a few TV appearances, including a show with Bob Hope in which the champion delivered responses to well-meaning questions, sometimes sullenly, sometimes with a shy grin, head rolling to one side, eyes fixed to the ground, words drawling from the side of his mouth. At Fischer’s invitation, Palsson had accompanied him to the States—taking unpaid leave from the Icelandic police force—with the idea of becoming his minder and fixer, and perhaps finding a shop window to display his own dancing talents. His wife and children stayed behind in Iceland. “Maybe my wife was a little jealous of Bobby because he always wanted to speak to me and took up so much of my time.”
Palsson and Fischer stayed with the Marshalls in New York and then moved west to Pasadena. None who knew Fischer would be surprised to hear that Palsson never received a cent in payment. But today, the Icelander has no regrets about going. He was quoted in the press and treated like a star; during the day, while Fischer slept, he was driven around in a limousine lent to them by Bob Hope. At one glamorous reception, the chairman saluted him as Fischer’s bodyguard, “without whom, in Fischer’s own words, he would never have become world champion.” “They all stood up and clapped,” says Palsson. “That was America. It was a great feeling. It was the highlight of my life.”
Fischer had sworn to Palsson that he would even meet the president—that an invitation had arrived from the White House and that both of them would go. In fact, White House files reveal that the question of a presidential invitation threw the administration into a state of tortuous indecision, producing a stream of conflicting recommendations. A year earlier, after Fischer’s victory over Petrosian, a ten-minute photo opportunity had been canvassed. The president should make time, said this first recommendation, as it would “show [his] interest in an intellectual sport for which there are estimated to be, world-wide, 60 million fans.” The idea had originated with Leonard Garment, President Nixon’s acting special counsel and close confidant. Dr. Kissinger and the National Security Council added their stamp of approval to the proposed appointment. But a note from Garment on 18 January 1972 killed it off: