A gentle man, Thorbergsson had lived in Russia and was a rabid anti-Communist. He saw Bobby’s playing for the World Championship as a political act as much as a cultural one; and he used that line of reasoning with Bobby, maintaining that it would be morally wrong to allow the championship to be played within the Soviets’ sphere of influence. In an essay, he’d later write: “The Russians have for decades enslaved other nations and their own nationals. They use their victories in various sports, chess and in other fields to fool people and make them believe their system is the best.” He added that a Fischer victory would “strike at the uplifted propaganda fists of the Communists.”
By the time the Icelander left Grossinger’s the next morning, he felt that Bobby was on the verge of agreeing to play exclusively in Reykjavik.
As the date of the championship match grew closer, Bobby quit Grossinger’s and, assisted by one of his lawyers, Andrew Davis, a Yale University alumnus, checked into the Yale Club in midtown Manhattan, where he stayed for a few weeks.
As summer approached, the reality of the match caused such heightened curiosity that it seemed like Fischer’s every remark, his every action, was recorded around the globe. Even at Grossinger’s, far removed from the business of Manhattan, he’d been besieged by calls, cables, and visits suggesting schemes to make him—and their originators—rich. A “Bobby Fischer Chess Set” was suggested. Endorsements were sought. One Wall Street broker even tried convincing Bobby to become a “corporation,” like the Beatles, so that shares of “Bobby Fischer” could be traded on the New York Stock Exchange. Fischer went his own way, agreeing to little and signing nothing.
Chess players were beginning to regard the forthcoming Fischer-Spassky duel as the most important match ever played by an American. Time magazine was just one of many media outlets beating the geopolitical drum. It dubbed the contest “The Russian Bear vs. the Brooklyn Wolf.” Spassky’s defense of his title became, symbolically, a defense of the Soviet Union, and the Russian’s millstone was a heavy weight to bear. Fischer, completely aware of the encounter’s political and cultural implications, accepted the extra layer of significance as his own responsibility. “I now feel a sense of mission to win the championship,” he declared. Asked if the bout would be a grudge match, he replied: “In a sense. But not personally between me and Spassky … it’s against the Russians.”
The challenger in any contest often has a special advantage in that he’s forced to play “up” in order to win; he’s motivated to compete harder because he must prove that he’s better than the champion. The title holder, secure in the knowledge of his superiority, frequently plays on his own “normal” level, falsely assuming that because he is the champion, the proven quality of his past play is sufficient for current victory. One advantage Spassky enjoyed, though, was a rule stipulation called “draw odds.” If he could draw every game, giving him 12 points, Spassky would retain his title without winning a game. Fischer needed 12 ½ points to dethrone Spassky.
Iceland, the westernmost and one of the smallest countries in Europe, sitting remotely in the North Atlantic just below the Arctic Circle, may have seemed a curious venue for a World Chess Championship. Largely uninhabited except around the coast, the island is a physical contradiction, partly covered with vast ice fields yet home to several active volcanoes that rise in flames from both the land and the sea around it. Virtually treeless, it features frosted picture-book mountains that are interspersed with rugged, lava-strewn terrain, giving the landscape an unnatural, almost lunar appearance: American astronauts trained there before their voyages to the moon. In 1972 the average income for an Icelander was barely $2,000 a year. But it is a spirited country, is pollution-free, and has no urban slums and virtually no crime.
So what made Iceland the ideal country to stage the Fischer-Spassky match? Undoubtedly it was the resoluteness, pride, and enthusiasm of its people, and their love of the game as an intellectual and cultural pursuit. Icelanders are among the most literate in the world and the Icelandic sagas rate among the greatest in literature. Icelanders read more books per capita than any other people on the globe, and—like the Russians—they almost all play chess. In the winter months when there is almost twenty-four hours of darkness, what better way to spend an evening or a weekend than to stay at home or visit a comfortably heated club, play chess for hours, and avoid the chill of the Atlantic winter with its gales, thunderstorms, and biting rain.
Over the years, Icelanders have sponsored many international tournaments and matches, and the possibility of holding what was being billed as the Match of the Century was more than exhilarating to chess players throughout the country. As it developed, the 1972 Fischer-Spassky match was one of the most expertly organized World Championship matches ever conducted, intoxicating for Icelanders as well as the tourists and members of the international press who descended on the capital city of Reykjavik. Photographic blowups of Fischer and Spassky adorned the windows of almost every shop, with black-and-white checkered displays serving as backdrops for huge papier-mâché chess pieces.
Most of the residents started out wishing for Fischer’s victory, but after the numerous false starts, threats, and general difficulties Bobby caused, sympathy began to swing to the gentlemanly Spassky. Fischer wasn’t satisfied with the financial arrangements. The winner was to receive $78,125 and the loser $46,875. Beyond that, each was to be given 30 percent of all television and film rights. Fischer, though, demanded 30 percent of the gate receipts in addition, arguing that paid admissions might amount to $250,000 and that he and Spassky should receive a share.
The Icelandic chess officials—who weren’t at all sure how they were going to fill the three-thousand-seat Laugardalshöll, the site of the match, game after game for as many as twenty-four sessions, not counting adjournments—argued that gate-receipt income should go entirely to them to cover their outlay for the stakes and the arrangements.
Fischer canceled his flight to Iceland at the last minute, on the evening of June 25. The airline had reserved a full row of seats just for him and had stocked the plane’s refrigerator with oranges so that Fischer could have fresh juice “squeezed in front of him,” as he’d requested, during the four-hour trip across the Atlantic. Meanwhile, talks continued between Bobby’s lawyers, Paul Marshall and Andrew Davis, and the Icelandic Chess Federation concerning the matter of the gate receipts. Both sides stood firm. During the ensuing week, additional flights were booked and then canceled by Fischer as headlines began to question whether he’d appear at all. Icelandic papers were asking HVENAER KEMUR HINN DULARFULLI FISCHER? (“WHEN COMETH THE MYSTERIOUS FISCHER?”) A few days after Fischer’s first flight was changed, Bobby and Davis drove to John F. Kennedy International Airport, apparently to board a Pan American flight. But, strangely, Fischer paused to buy an alarm clock and was seen by reporters and photographers (there were more than a hundred members of the press waiting to interview and photograph him). He fled the airline terminal and missed the flight. Later, he was observed at a nearby Howard Johnson’s restaurant, having dinner. When, indeed, would Bobby goeth to Iceland?