Virtually an hour late, at 7:55 P.M., as the band on stage was striking up the chess federation’s anthem, the guest of honor finally appeared, garbed in a violet velvet suit. Harry Golombek wrote that it “must have been made of samite, mystic, wonderful….” A standing ovation greeted the new champion. He took his place to the right of Max Euwe; Spassky was on Euwe’s other side. The FIDE president rose to deliver one of several speeches that night. Fischer promptly shuffled into the vacated seat, reached into his jacket, took out a pocket chess set, and showed Spassky the adjourned position from their final game. It must have been the last thing the weary ex-champion wanted to see, though he maintains today that he was unperturbed by Fischer’s behavior. In any case, he dutifully followed the analysis, from time to time adding comments of his own.
At issue was whether Spassky could have survived with a draw by sealing an alternative move before the adjournment. Fischer thought not.
A crowd gathered around their table. Fischer finally noticed them and turned to his friend and bodyguard. “Hey, Sammy, get these guys outta here.”
It was Thorarinsson’s task to hand over the checks. For the victor, this was a sum of $76,123—two-thirds of $125,000. An equal amount awaited transfer from the United Kingdom—Jim Slater’s money, the donation that had saved the match.
Fischer made no speech of thanks, no graceful comment on the hard work that had gone into the long contest, no tribute to his defeated opponent. Taking his prize, he immediately tore open the envelope and closely scrutinized the contents for several minutes, checking the figure. Satisfied, he then returned to his seat.
Chester Fox came into his own at last, filming everything in sight, probably motivated as much by one-upmanship as profit. There was dancing until one A.M. Fischer boogied awkwardly with two young Icelandic women, Anna Thorsteinsdottir, eighteen, and her friend Inga, seventeen—the papers the next day called them “beautiful Icelandic blondes.” Palsson had arranged their tickets. (He and Fischer had been eating in a restaurant when he had seen them gawking at Fischer and invited them to the banquet. The two women had even been back to the American’s room late at night to listen to rock music.) They denied rumors that there was any romance. “He has been very nice to us, but there is nothing in it. You couldn’t interest him in girls because he’s married to chess.”
To end the formalities, there was still one final reception, given by the government at the president’s official residence. Palsson drove Fischer there: this time, amazingly, they were early. “When Bobby saw that the ministers were arriving after him, he took me to one side and said, ‘Saemi, how did you manage to get me here on time?’” Iceland’s rock ‘n’ roll policeman had cracked it. While Fischer was in the shower, he had put the wall clock, the clock on the table, and the champion’s wristwatch all forward by an hour. “‘Oh,’ Bobby said, ‘that was a great move!’ Sometimes you could say or do anything. But if he’d been in a bad mood, he could have erupted, maybe left, maybe gone straight back to America.”
At that reception, Fischer chatted amiably with officials from the Soviet embassy, and he and Spassky tentatively agreed to go swimming the following day. Spassky later rang to canceclass="underline" He was leaving for home early the next morning and he had to pack and so forth. Fischer was annoyed and told Palsson he would not bid good-bye to his opponent. Palsson recounts how he became angry in turn and told Fischer that he should at least write a farewell letter. The Life photographer Harry Benson had given Fischer a cheap camera. As Fischer did not want it, the Icelander suggested he present it to Spassky. Fischer replied that it was too cheap. “‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not the point, it’s a token.’ So I took it to the Saga to hand it over, and Spassky was so emotional. I’ve never seen a man so pleased. It was one of the best things I did during the match.”
In 2000, looking back at his time as world champion, Spassky remarked to the Irish Times, “I was a king in Russia.” Yet his period of office had been so uneasy that we can imagine his mixed feelings on watching Fischer, whom he had so admired, take his place. David Spanier of The Times sensed “that in some deep and hidden part of himself, he wanted Fischer to win.”
After the debacle of the third game, Spassky had fought hard. When it was all over, he commented that Fischer had started the match as a sprint but instead it had become a marathon; he had expected the American to crack at any time. He met Fischer only once after the closing ceremony, at the presidential reception, and asked the new champion whether they could have a rematch.
“Maybe,” replied Fischer.
“When?”
“Maybe in a year—if the money side is okay.”
The former champion reflected on the fate that awaited his successor: “It will be a hard time for him. Now he feels like a god. He thinks all problems are over—he will have many friends, people will love him, history will obey him. But it is not so. In these high places it is very cold, very lonely. Soon depression will set in. I like him, and I am afraid what will happen to him now.” These somber words were also about himself.
By the end, Spassky was far from the figure of radiant well-being who had arrived in Iceland so full of confident anticipation. Larisa Spasskaia remembers also being affected: the healthy woman who went to Reykjavik returned with stomach pains and was not herself for six months. Boris, she recounts, was in a bad way, drinking more than usual and needing psychotherapy to deal with the trauma of the contest.
Trauma was to be expected. “I do not know which is worse, before the match or after,” Spassky said. “In a long match, a player goes very deep into himself, like a diver. Then he comes up very fast. Every time, whether I win or if I lose, I am so depressed I want to die. I cannot get back in touch with other people. I want the other chess player. I miss him. Only after a year will the pain go away. A year.”
There were material compensations. Spassky had his share of the prize money, $93,750. The USSR chess authorities had made no provision for dealing with such staggering winnings, and Spassky simply kept the money for himself; the authorities never asked for it. In the Soviet Union, it made him at least the equivalent of a millionaire in the West. Tigran Petrosian remarked, “Normally you could buy a car with your winnings, but when you could purchase the whole car park, that was something else.” (In future, Soviet participants in world championship matches would be obliged to hand over half their bounty.) He could also parade around in a new Range Rover four-wheel-drive car, sold to him at cost by his dealer friend, Sigfus Sigfusson, who had arranged for the latest model, in white, well equipped with spares, to be sent to Reykjavik and shipped on to Leningrad. Larisa’s prize possession was a new Icelandic winter coat. (The car was sold after two years of hard labor on Soviet roads; the winter coat lasted much longer.)
After leaving Reykjavik on 7 September, Spassky and his wife stayed in Copenhagen for a few days before returning to Moscow to face the music. Was he not the Soviet who had surrendered the crown to an American, and with it Soviet hegemony? Would he not be seen as having failed to live up to the spirit of the great motherland? Perhaps visions of Taimanov’s reception after his defeat by Fischer haunted his dreams.
In fact, the message had already gone out from Central Committee secretary Piotr Demichev that Spassky was to be received in a civilized manner. At Sheremet’evo Airport, the welcome party included a representative of the Sports Committee, a journalist, and some close friends. Nikolai Krogius remembers that “on the whole, Spassky’s defeat was received calmly in Moscow. It was a pleasant surprise that the sporting leadership and the press did not seek to punish him and his team.”