Endgame_ Bobby Fischer's Remarkable Rise And Fall Part 13

Bobby also discussed Catholicism with a second person during this time. Richard Vattuone of San Diego, California, was another attorney who was helping out with the case. He visited Bobby in the jail and gave him a copy of The Apostle of Common Sense The Apostle of Common Sense, a book about the writer G. K. Chesterton, which covered various matters of religion and culture. Bobby read some of the book and had conversations with Vattuone about religion. Chesterton was a convert to Catholicism.

When Miyoko came to visit, often she'd have to wait to see Bobby if he had another visitor-such as Suzuki or Bosnitch-since the detention center only allowed one visitor at a time, and visiting hours were limited. Fischer would have to pa.s.s through sixteen locked doors before reaching the visitors' room, and could only talk through a plate-gla.s.s wall, as if he were not just in an immigration detention center but a maximum security prison.

Three members of the RJF Committee-Einarsson, Thorarinsson, and Sverrisson-traveled to j.a.pan at their own expense to see if they could find a way to expedite Fischer's release. No matter what logic they offered to the authorities, such as the fact that Iceland's foreign minister David Oddsson had issued Bobby a foreigner's pa.s.sport-similar to what is called a green card in the United States-the rules-conscious, bureaucratic j.a.panese were not persuaded. They continued to maintain that Bobby would be deported back to the United States once the legal proceedings were concluded.

The RJF members were about to leave j.a.pan, depressed that they'd made little headway, when a call came in from Suzuki that bore potentially good news. A member of the j.a.panese parliament was willing to meet with the committee to see whether there was a way he could help. He'd studied the issues and sided with Bobby.

The meeting was held in secret, and the parliamentarian, who spoke perfect English, having been educated at Oxford, asked for anonymity, which he believed would enable him to better work behind the scenes. After he heard all of the arguments as to why Bobby should be released, and judged that the RJF members were committed to their cause, he went into action. Somehow he ignited the interest of Miszuko f.u.kushima, chairman of the j.a.panese Social Democratic Party. The goal was to get f.u.kushima to pet.i.tion for Bobby's right to be deported to-and accepted by-Iceland. f.u.kushima criticized Chieko Nohno, j.a.pan's minister of justice, for the arrest and detention, and asked him to reconsider the case. Although it was not a watershed moment, the current was beginning to shift, and as Bobby saw the acc.u.mulation of small advantages-a concept in chess described by Wilhelm Steinitz-he became optimistic, although not exhilarated.

When the RJF Committee members returned to Iceland, they worked full-time arousing their parliament's interest in the case, warning that if action weren't taken quickly, it would be too late for Fischer to receive justice. He would be extradited to the United States and probably imprisoned for ten years. Many of them believed, as did Fischer, that he could be murdered while in prison.

The Icelandic Chess Federation took a calculated risk in attempting to add strength to the argument for releasing Bobby. They issued a strong critique condemning Bobby's statements, while hoping that an appeal to the United States' sense of humanitarianism might alleviate the tension in j.a.pan: The Icelandic Chess Federation is, of course, aware of the obscene anti-Semitic and anti-American remarks that Bobby Fischer has made over the last year on different occasions. The Federation is appalled by these remarks, as any civilized body would be, and sees them as signs of a deranged and devastated psyche. In 1992, in Yugoslavia, however, Bobby Fischer's only crime was to play chess again, after years of isolation. The Icelandic Chess Federation urges the President of the United States to pardon Bobby Fischer and let him go free.

The letter was sent to President George W. Bush and received no reply.

Twelve years prior, months after the 1992 indictment had been issued, Bill Clinton had been elected President of the United States. David Oddsson, then the prime minister of Iceland, had visited the White House at the time and made a personal appeal to one of Clinton's senior aides, asking that the president drop the charges against Fischer. Word came back that Clinton would prefer not to make a ruling on the matter, "an unusual decision," according to Oddsson. "When the leader of a country makes a personal plea about a relatively small matter (in the scheme of things) to another leader, it is usually granted."

Back at the time of the sanctions controversy, Spa.s.sky wasn't indicted by the French, and Lothar Schmid wasn't indicted by the Germans. Bobby Fischer was the only person in the world ever known to have faced charges under President Bush's bill.

Trying to prevent Fischer's escape to Iceland, various agencies in the United States accelerated their pursuit of Bobby, putting more pressure on j.a.pan to extradite him. A federal grand jury in Washington began what turned out to be a smoke-screen investigation accusing Fischer of money laundering after his match with Spa.s.sky in 1992. Since there was no evidence of such laundering, it was Fischer's lawyers' belief that the government was attempting to propagandize Fischer's sanctions case by further tarnishing his public image. Nothing came of the investigation and no additional indictment was handed down.

At this time James Gadsen, the U.S. amba.s.sador to Iceland, got involved, suggesting that Iceland drop the offer of sanctuary to Bobby Fischer. David Oddsson, in his foreign minister role, invited Gadsen to his office and then categorically refused to back down, adding that Fischer's alleged crime of a violation of trade sanctions in Yugoslavia had exceeded Iceland's statute of limitations.

Perhaps because of the political pressure exerted on him, j.a.panese justice minister Chieko Nohno told reporters after a cabinet meeting, "If he [Fischer] has Icelandic citizenship it would be legally possible to deport him to that country. The Immigration Bureau must think about the most appropriate place for him to be deported to."

The situation remained unresolved, however, and as Bobby reached his sixty-second birthday in his cell, he was morose. He'd served nine months in prison, and the few people who visited him said he looked wretched. Thorarinsson said that Fischer, locked behind bars, reminded him of Hamlet, and then he quoted a line from Shakespeare's play: I could be bound in a nutsh.e.l.l And count myself a king of infinite s.p.a.ce Were it not that I had bad dreams.

The RJF members called virtually every member of parliament to lobby for citizenship: full, permanent permanent citizenship, not just a temporary permit to live in Iceland. They then met with the General Committee of Althingi. A bill was written asking for approval of citizenship for Bobby Fischer, and an Extraordinary Session of Parliament was called for Sat.u.r.day, March 21, 2005. Three rounds of discussion took place in the s.p.a.ce of twelve minutes, and questions were posed regarding the extent of the emergency. The answers were succinct and forthcoming: Bobby Fischer's improper incarceration was a violation of his rights; all he was really guilty of was moving some wooden pieces across a chessboard; he'd been a friend of Iceland, and had a historical connection to it, and now he needed the country's help. citizenship, not just a temporary permit to live in Iceland. They then met with the General Committee of Althingi. A bill was written asking for approval of citizenship for Bobby Fischer, and an Extraordinary Session of Parliament was called for Sat.u.r.day, March 21, 2005. Three rounds of discussion took place in the s.p.a.ce of twelve minutes, and questions were posed regarding the extent of the emergency. The answers were succinct and forthcoming: Bobby Fischer's improper incarceration was a violation of his rights; all he was really guilty of was moving some wooden pieces across a chessboard; he'd been a friend of Iceland, and had a historical connection to it, and now he needed the country's help.

Once the issues had been dealt with, each member of the Althingi was polled on whether to grant Fischer permanent citizenship. "Ja," "Ja," said forty members, one by one. said forty members, one by one. "Forast," "Forast," said two members who abstained. No one voted said two members who abstained. No one voted "Nei." "Nei."

Bobby smiled for the first time in months when he heard that the Icelandic bill had been enacted, and on March 23, 2005, he was released from his cell. He was picked up by a limousine supplied by the Icelandic emba.s.sy, given his new Icelandic pa.s.sport, and he and Miyoko, hand in hand, sped to Narita Airport.

When Bobby emerged from the limousine at Narita, the scene resembled that moment in A Tale of Two Cities A Tale of Two Cities when Dr. Manette is released from the Bastille, "recalled to life" as it were: white-haired, battered, with a grizzly beard and old clothes. The difference between Bobby and d.i.c.kens's good doctor was the voice: Manette's was faint, "dreadful and pitiable"; Bobby's was booming, ferocious and vengeful. "This was nothing but a kidnapping, pure and simple!" he said to the dozens of reporters and photographers who were following him into the terminal. "Bush and Koizumi [the American and j.a.panese presidents] are criminals. They deserve to be hung!" said bad old Bobby, showing that prison had done nothing to tamp down his denunciatory fervor. But something in him when Dr. Manette is released from the Bastille, "recalled to life" as it were: white-haired, battered, with a grizzly beard and old clothes. The difference between Bobby and d.i.c.kens's good doctor was the voice: Manette's was faint, "dreadful and pitiable"; Bobby's was booming, ferocious and vengeful. "This was nothing but a kidnapping, pure and simple!" he said to the dozens of reporters and photographers who were following him into the terminal. "Bush and Koizumi [the American and j.a.panese presidents] are criminals. They deserve to be hung!" said bad old Bobby, showing that prison had done nothing to tamp down his denunciatory fervor. But something in him had had changed. When Zita, then thirty years old, saw the footage of him on television, she said: "It is not his beard. There is something bothering about his eyes. He is a hopeless, broken man." changed. When Zita, then thirty years old, saw the footage of him on television, she said: "It is not his beard. There is something bothering about his eyes. He is a hopeless, broken man."

When Bobby's plane touched down at Keflavik Airport, and he stepped on the tarmac, he didn't kneel down and kiss the ground-at least, not literally. Metaphorically, however, he genuflected to the land of the Vikings. He was now in a country that really wanted him, and for the first time in thirteen years he felt truly safe. His first order of business was to settle into the Presidential Suite at the Hotel Loftleidir and order one of his Rabelaisian meals, with bowls and bowls of skyr skyr.

15.

Living and Dying in Iceland

FIRST THERE WERE the familiar hazel eyes. They stared at everything furtively, judgmentally, not wanting or permitting eye contact with others. Bobby Fischer's gaze ricocheted from the partially cobble-stoned road of Klappirstigur Street, where he lived, to the slight rise up to the busy thoroughfare of Laugavegur, with its little shops, then back to the BMWs and Volvos parked at meters and the blue-eyed and cherry-cheeked Icelanders heading back to work after lunch. The pa.s.sersby recognized Bobby: He'd become the most famous man in Iceland and was remembered not for his public venom toward America but for putting Iceland on the map in 1972. His frozen glance denied them access, however, and they walked with their heads down, trying to lessen the slight of his disregard as they bent against the bitterly cold wind sweeping down from Mount Esja and off the bay. A crunch of snow seeped slowly into the sides of Bobby's black Birkenstock clogs. the familiar hazel eyes. They stared at everything furtively, judgmentally, not wanting or permitting eye contact with others. Bobby Fischer's gaze ricocheted from the partially cobble-stoned road of Klappirstigur Street, where he lived, to the slight rise up to the busy thoroughfare of Laugavegur, with its little shops, then back to the BMWs and Volvos parked at meters and the blue-eyed and cherry-cheeked Icelanders heading back to work after lunch. The pa.s.sersby recognized Bobby: He'd become the most famous man in Iceland and was remembered not for his public venom toward America but for putting Iceland on the map in 1972. His frozen glance denied them access, however, and they walked with their heads down, trying to lessen the slight of his disregard as they bent against the bitterly cold wind sweeping down from Mount Esja and off the bay. A crunch of snow seeped slowly into the sides of Bobby's black Birkenstock clogs.

Then there was his ineffective signature disguise: blue denim work shirt and pants, a black leather fingertip coat with a leather baseball cap to match, and the obligatory blue fleece sweater, all carefully selected so that he'd appear to fit in, to be seen as just one of the Norse folk who were his new countrymen.

Gone were the elegant handmade suits and carefully knotted ties. The man who'd proudly owned eighteen suits as a teenager, and who'd aspired to own a hundred more, now dressed the same way every day. People, even his friends, thought Bobby only owned one outfit, because his appearance was unvarying, but he owned several copies of the same denim pants and shirt, and he laundered and ironed them himself, often daily, usually late at night, singing as he pressed for perfect creases. As for what people thought about his dress, he was cynical and terse: "That's their problem."

Downtown Reykjavik, a charming city of almost 120,000 people, has the atmosphere of a typical Scandinavian village, although it's somewhat larger. A visitor sees twisting streets, tidy clapboard houses with colored roofs, shops for tourists and locals, and people dressed in boots, parkas, scarves, and woolen hats pulled over their ears. It's not quite Gstaad or Aspen, but the weather is cold enough to ski on the snow-covered mountains looming to the north.

Often, Bobby walked barely two blocks from his apartment to one of his favorite restaurants, Anestu Grosum-"The First Vegetarian"-and climbed the stairway to the pumpkin-painted second-floor eatery. The food was spread out behind a counter, cafeteria style, and he simply pointed to what he wanted. The server behind the counter, who looked something like the actress Sh.e.l.ley Duvall, smiled and handed him a tray with his selected food. The portions were huge.

When Bobby, as was typical, arrived past two o'clock, the restaurant would be spa.r.s.ely filled: perhaps a Danish hippie, two American tourists, and three young local girls preoccupied with what they thought was important gossip. Ever a creature of habit, Bobby moved to his favorite table-one by the window looking out onto a side street, with a few birch and juniper trees not yet in bloom. Before he sat, he'd go to the cooler and help himself to a bottle of organic beer, Oxford Gold, and as he confronted his food, he'd open his latest reading matter. He was particularly taken with a book ent.i.tled The Myth of Progress The Myth of Progress, by Georg Henrik von Wright, a Finnish philosopher and successor to Ludwig Wittgenstein at the University of Cambridge. A moral pessimist, von Wright questioned whether the material and technological advances of modern society could really be considered "progress" at all. Bobby had found an English-language copy of the book at the local bookstore, Bokin ("Book"), and it seemed to mesh with his own philosophy. He was so taken by von Wright's ideas that when he discovered an Icelandic edition of the book at Bokin, he gave it as a gift to his new friend Gardar Sverrisson.

Was this the same Bobby Fischer who supposedly knew only chess, the sullen high school dropout from Brooklyn? He looked something like the Bobby Fischer of decades past, the intelligent eyes, the slight b.u.mpish imperfection on the right side of the nose, the broad shoulders, the loping gait, but this Bobby Fischer was harder, a balding man with a slight paunch, a man at the far end of middle age who looked as if he'd known if not tragedy then at least major reversals. Something about his aura reminded an observer of an ill-treated dog just escaped from his captors. There was a lump the size of a large fingertip above his right eyebrow. He rarely smiled, perhaps because of embarra.s.sment over his broken and missing teeth; he never looked at himself in a mirror because he disapproved of what his appearance had become. The real inconsistency, however, was that this Bobby Fischer-the great chess player who some thought was a cultural dolt, a man who supposedly knew nothing of life except a game game ("Fischer came close to being a moron," Martin Gardner, a writer for ("Fischer came close to being a moron," Martin Gardner, a writer for Scientific American Scientific American, seriously opined)-was reading a philosophical treatise!

Many people who haven't been formally educated awaken later in life with a desire to progress and deepen their view of the world, to go back to school or self-educate themselves. Bobby joined their ranks out of an essential self-awareness. "Larry Evans once said," Bobby commented, "that I didn't know anything about life; all I knew was chess, and he was right!" In a somewhat different mood, Bobby also said at one point that he felt like giving up chess from time to time, "but what else would I do?"

Bobby's lack of traditional inst.i.tutional education was well known and continually reported in the press, but what wasn't common knowledge was that after he won the World Championship at age twenty-nine, he began a systemized regimen of study outside chess. History, government, religion, politics, and current events became his greatest interests, and during the thirty-three-year interval from his first Reykjavik stay to his second he spent most of his spare time reading and ama.s.sing knowledge.

Several Icelanders indicated that there was nothing he couldn't discuss in depth. He could talk about such subjects as the French Revolution and the Siberian gulags, the philosophy of Nietzsche, and the discourses of Disraeli.

After spending close to two hours eating and reading at Anestu Grosum, and finishing off two helpings of skyr skyr with redundant whipped cream, Bobby would invariably walk to Bokin. It was a book lover's dream and delightfully eccentric: A stuffed monkey doll with spectacles sat outside the store with a book in its lap; there were thousands of used books, mainly in Icelandic but a great portion in English, German, and Danish, some on subjects so arcane that only a few could understand or appreciate them, such as the mating habits of the puffin-the national bird-or an a.n.a.lysis of the inscriptions on the churches of Heidelberg. The aisles of bookshelves meandered all over the store, and in the center of the room there was a huge hillock of books more than five feet tall, haphazardly thrown there and cascading to the floor because there was simply no room to put them anywhere else. There were fewer than a dozen chess books for sale. with redundant whipped cream, Bobby would invariably walk to Bokin. It was a book lover's dream and delightfully eccentric: A stuffed monkey doll with spectacles sat outside the store with a book in its lap; there were thousands of used books, mainly in Icelandic but a great portion in English, German, and Danish, some on subjects so arcane that only a few could understand or appreciate them, such as the mating habits of the puffin-the national bird-or an a.n.a.lysis of the inscriptions on the churches of Heidelberg. The aisles of bookshelves meandered all over the store, and in the center of the room there was a huge hillock of books more than five feet tall, haphazardly thrown there and cascading to the floor because there was simply no room to put them anywhere else. There were fewer than a dozen chess books for sale.

Each day Bobby collected his mail at the store, kept for him behind the counter. He'd say a few words to the store's owner, Bragi Kristjonsson, and head to his his spot at the store's farthest reaches, at the end of one of the not quite three-foot-wide corridors, with low stacks of books and old copies of spot at the store's farthest reaches, at the end of one of the not quite three-foot-wide corridors, with low stacks of books and old copies of National Geographic National Geographic lining the edges of the aisle. Perhaps as a gesture of respect toward his famous customer, Bragi placed a battered chair at the end of the corridor, and Bobby sat there next to a small window that looked out at a tattoo parlor (which he disapproved of) across the street, reading and dreaming-and sometimes even falling asleep-often to closing time. It was his home. "It's good to be free," he wrote to a friend. lining the edges of the aisle. Perhaps as a gesture of respect toward his famous customer, Bragi placed a battered chair at the end of the corridor, and Bobby sat there next to a small window that looked out at a tattoo parlor (which he disapproved of) across the street, reading and dreaming-and sometimes even falling asleep-often to closing time. It was his home. "It's good to be free," he wrote to a friend.

The greatest portion of Bobby's reading was devoted to history, everything from The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire to to The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich; The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich; he pored over books on battles from ancient Greece to World War II and conspiracy theories such as he pored over books on battles from ancient Greece to World War II and conspiracy theories such as. .h.i.tler's Secret Bankers: How Switzerland Profited from n.a.z.i Germany Hitler's Secret Bankers: How Switzerland Profited from n.a.z.i Germany, as well as anti-Semitic tracts such as Jewish Ritual Murder Jewish Ritual Murder. It's possible that he was trying to find his own place in history through his voracious reading, but it was more likely a search for understanding, an attempt to comprehend his complicated gestalt-"the whole catastrophe," as the fictional Zorba the Greek perceptively described himself.

Just as Fischer was becoming settled in Iceland, hardly before he had a chance to unpack his bags (which held few possessions: only what clothes and books he owned in j.a.pan), an impending match with his friend Pal Benko was suddenly announced by Janos Kubat, the man who'd helped arrange the Fischer-Spa.s.sky match in 1992. Kubat issued the announcement to RIA, the Russian News Agency, and said the match would take place in the town of Magyarkanizsa on the border of Hungary and Serbia, where Bobby had lived for several months in 1992. Kubat claimed that a financial sponsor had been found and that the venue was already chosen. There was only one problem: Bobby knew nothing of the match. He'd had a falling-out with Kubat in August of 1993 over a moral issue, according to Bobby, and they weren't on speaking terms. Most important, he had no intention of leaving Iceland, because of the threat of extradition to the United States.

Two weeks after being greeted as a hero in Iceland, and after stating that he just wanted to live in peace, Bobby found that his troubles weren't over. He received a letter dated April 7, 2005, from the Union Bank of Switzerland to the effect that the inst.i.tution was closing his account. UBS was holding some $3 million of his a.s.sets, originally deposited there in 1992, and wanted to know to which bank in Iceland Bobby wished his investments transferred.

Bobby had no intention of placing his money in an Icelandic bank (despite being able to receive a potentially higher interest rate there) and demanded to know what was going on. While he and the bank were exchanging intransigent letters, he gave an interview to Morgunbladid Morgunbladid in which he said: "Possibly a third party has had something to do with this as a part of further attacks against me. In fact, I don't know what the directors of UBS are thinking but it seems quite clear that the bank is afraid to keep me as a customer. This is absolutely vicious, illegal and unfair of the UBS." He threatened a lawsuit. The third party he presumed responsible was the United States government. in which he said: "Possibly a third party has had something to do with this as a part of further attacks against me. In fact, I don't know what the directors of UBS are thinking but it seems quite clear that the bank is afraid to keep me as a customer. This is absolutely vicious, illegal and unfair of the UBS." He threatened a lawsuit. The third party he presumed responsible was the United States government.

Bobby turned to Einar Einarsson for advice. Not only was Einarsson a member of the Icelandic committee that had helped secure Bobby's release from imprisonment, he'd also been a leading banker before introducing the Visa credit card to Iceland. Careful and methodical, Einarsson began to coach Bobby through an exchange of long, technical e-mails with UBS. Bobby was impatient. He didn't have a chess tournament to discharge his compet.i.tive energy, so he vented his anger at the Swiss bank, which he insisted was run by Jews. This was a different kind of opponent, though, and Bobby hadn't mastered the techniques of dueling with international financial inst.i.tutions. So he lost. Eventually, UBS liquidated all of his a.s.sets and transferred them to Landsbanki in Reykjavik. Bobby claimed that he lost a sizable amount in the transaction.

In retrospect, it seems quite clear what UBS was doing. Many of its fifty-two thousand accounts were offsh.o.r.e holdings, secretly deposited-many without names, just numbers-as tax havens for American citizens. In Bobby's case, he was broadcasting, some might say boasting boasting-without cover-that he had $3 million at UBS (he may have even given his account number over the air), and since he'd paid no income tax on it, or on any of his other income since 1977, the U.S. Internal Revenue Service was making its displeasure known to UBS.

Within a few years after Bobby's dispute with the UBS, thousands of American tax evaders, most millionaires like Bobby, came forth to avoid prosecution, and others who continued to hide their money at UBS were being pursued and arrested for income tax evasion. UBS wasn't conspiring against Bobby: They just wanted to get rid of one of their most public and foolish clients.

Since Iceland's interest rate at that time was higher than Switzerland's, it's curious why Bobby didn't want the transfer. Some have speculated that he was somehow prescient or had insider or special knowledge that the Icelandic banks would fail (as they did in 2008, in the country's economic collapse). A more likely explanation is that he really didn't see himself staying in Iceland forever. Perhaps he was hoping to gain citizenship in yet another country when the time was right.

The bank battle was an unpleasant interlude, but it didn't interrupt what was becoming the key portion of most of Bobby's days: reading. As the study of chess had been compulsive when he was a boy, so now his mind was captivated by deep, serious study of history, philosophy, and other topics. Prowling the aisles at Bokin, he was sometimes brought up short by the absence of a book he wanted, in which case he'd have the store order it for him. He was continually buying books, usually two or three a day, keeping most, discarding a few, and giving others to friends.

In ambience, although not in content, Bokin reminded him of Dr. Albrecht Buschke's chess bookstore in Greenwich Village, the one he'd visited as a child and as a young man. The books at Buschke's were slapdashedly scattered, but the disarray was nothing compared to the confusion of Bokin. Bobby seriously asked Bragi to hire him to confront and organize "the pile," because he thought there had to be books there, hidden deep within, that would be of interest to him, and also because he just couldn't stand the mess. Finally, he said he'd work for nothing. "But where would we put them?" was Bragi's refusal.

Bobby's aisle was a totally secure spot. With his back to the wall, gangster style, he could see anyone coming down the long, narrow corridor, and if he sensed that the person was an autograph seeker-or worse, a reporter-he would either scowl or feign total absorption in what he was reading and not respond if spoken to. Those ploys proved as effective as hanging a Do Not Disturb sign around his neck.

Often, if he noticed that the time was nearing six o'clock, he'd dash off to Yggdrasil, a health food store-the name refers to the mythological Tree of Life-deliberately arriving there just one minute before closing time. He'd then shop at his leisure, much to the discontent of the shop workers who wanted to quit for the day. By arriving as late as he did, he avoided the stares of other shoppers.

Checking out at the counter one day, he noticed a brand of candy bars called Rapunzel; there were two types available, chocolate-covered halvah and coconut. "Does this come from Israel?" he asked suspiciously. When told that the candy came from Germany-"You know, the fairy tale and the Brothers Grimm," the clerk said-Bobby was rea.s.sured and bought a few bars, his anti-Semitic sensibilities appeased.

Although he was often recognized in the street, few Icelanders intruded on his privacy. Foreigners weren't always so considerate, though, and he usually lashed out at anyone audacious enough to address him. There was one one exception, noteworthy because it was so abnormal for him. An American tourist-a chess player-approached Bobby one day and invited him to dinner. After checking the man's pa.s.sport to make sure he was who he said, and informally interrogating him to make sure he wasn't a reporter, Bobby atypically agreed to dine with the stranger. They went to one of Reykjavik's most expensive and elegant restaurants and were said to have a long conversation, mainly about politics. exception, noteworthy because it was so abnormal for him. An American tourist-a chess player-approached Bobby one day and invited him to dinner. After checking the man's pa.s.sport to make sure he was who he said, and informally interrogating him to make sure he wasn't a reporter, Bobby atypically agreed to dine with the stranger. They went to one of Reykjavik's most expensive and elegant restaurants and were said to have a long conversation, mainly about politics.

Months pa.s.sed placidly until Bobby had been living in Iceland for about a year. When Helgi Olafsson, a grandmaster, asked him how he liked living in the country, Bobby answered in his typical Calvin Coolidge style: "Good." But his sanctuary at Bokin began to become known, and stories appeared in the press about his going there, together with interviews of the store's proprietor, Bragi. A Russian television crew showed up to try to interview Fischer, and he fled. Eventually he tired of the reporters waiting to ambush him outside the bookstore, and he changed his routine. He began to frequent the Reykjavik Public Library, only a few blocks farther from where he lived. The library became the focal point of his life.

On the building's fifth floor, within a few feet of the tall cases of books on history and politics, he'd tuck himself away for hours at a table beside a window. In contrast to the unattractive side street outside the window of Bokin, the library's window provided a view of the fishing trawlers docked in the bay, and the mountains just beyond the water. For all of the days and months that Bobby went to the library, his new routine never leaked to the press. All of the librarians knew who Bobby was, but they never revealed his presence.

Right down the block from the library was an inexpensive Thai restaurant, Krua Thai, where Bobby began dining at least two or three times a week. Not on the normal tourist route, it was clean and cozy, with dark-painted walls, a giant silver-sequined elephant and other decorations from Thailand, and dim lighting, which his eyes preferred. Bobby liked the fish dishes with vegetables and rice. He also liked the owner, an intelligent, vivacious Thai woman named Sonja, and insisted that only she wait on him. "Where's the lady?" he'd demand as soon as he entered, knowing that she'd bring his favorite food and drink without his needing to order. There was only one item he absolutely refused to partake of: Icelandic bottled water. He said it made him sick. He drank only beer or tea. After he'd been going to Krua Thai for about a year, Sonja gently asked if he'd pose for a photo with her. He refused.

Bobby told no one, not even his closest friends, about Krua Thai, since, although he was lonely, he often preferred to dine alone; like Thomas Jefferson in the White House, he enjoyed his own company, the opportunity to read or to contemplate books, ideas, and memories. Paradoxically, it was when he was with others that he felt an uncomfortable solitude.

Bobby was conflicted about his intense desire for privacy, and his need-from his earliest days of childhood-for attention. He demanded constant rea.s.surances of adoration, or at least notice. One day in downtown Reykjavik, he was asked for directions by some American tourists. "Gee, they didn't know who I was," he said disappointedly to Einarsson. "And they were Americans Americans!" Another time, just to give himself a change from the city, he took a bus alone to a small fishing village named Grindavik near the famous Blue Lagoon, an outdoor thermal pool that he liked to bathe in. He stayed at an inn there for a few days. The waitress in the restaurant was friendly, especially since he was one of the only customers. "Are you famous?" she asked, possibly sensing Bobby's fame, or maybe because she'd seen his photo in Morgunbladid Morgunbladid or some other periodical. "Perhaps," Bobby answered coyly. "What are you famous for?" she asked. More coyness: "A board game." The girl thought for a moment and then it came to her: "You're Mr. Bingo!" Bobby was mortified that she couldn't identify him. or some other periodical. "Perhaps," Bobby answered coyly. "What are you famous for?" she asked. More coyness: "A board game." The girl thought for a moment and then it came to her: "You're Mr. Bingo!" Bobby was mortified that she couldn't identify him.

Bobby still ate at Anestu Grosum, but he established a new regimen of taking a long walk around the City Pond, watching children feed ducks, geese, and the lovely whooping swans entwining their necks, and finally working his way to the library. Typically, his walks had no destination: To him they were akin to meditation-a chance to think without thinking-and he rambled about even during the bitterly cold winters. Most of the parks had benches, and if the weather was pleasant, he'd sit, read, think, and just be be, an activity not atypical of many men entering late life.

Some Icelanders said that they spotted Bobby late at night, walking ghostlike down the deserted and windswept streets near the Old Harbor-like Charles d.i.c.kens prowling the docks of London-lost in thought, slightly limping but walking rapidly, as alone as if he'd been roaming the desolate, lava-strewn fields of Iceland's interior. Bobby's nocturnal perambulations were an echo of the late night walks he used to take when he lived in New York or Pasadena, and a continuation of the pattern he'd begun in childhood, staying up until the early morning studying chess, and then sleeping until noon or later.

It's possible that, at this point in his life, a year and a half after landing at Keflavik as a freed man, Bobby began feeling that Iceland was his personal Devil's Island: once there, never to leave. David Oddsson believed that Fischer felt "trapped" in Iceland in general, and Reykjavik in particular. "I'm a city person," Oddsson said of himself. "I spend most of my time in Reykjavik. But if I could never go out to the country, that's precisely where I'd want to go. I would feel trapped in Reykjavik, as Fischer probably feels trapped in Iceland." Gardar Sverrisson said that, to Bobby, Iceland was a "prison."

By the time Fischer was completing his second year as an Icelandic citizen, he'd begun to grumble about the country and its people. He missed Europe and friends there, but he didn't dare leave his ocean-bound haven for fear that he might be captured and extradited. Interpol, the international police organization, had him flagged to be arrested at any one of 368 airports throughout the world.

Finding a permanent place to live in Reykjavik was difficult. Bobby's first apartment, a furnished sublet he rented for six months, had been ideal: It was downtown, had a bit of a view and a terrace, and he could walk quickly to stores and restaurants. Since Bobby ate every meal out-he never cooked-it was important that he live within minutes of a variety of dining establishments. "Eating was very important to him," Zsuzsa Polgar said in describing his life in Hungary. It always always was, wherever he lived, and quiet meals with foods he enjoyed seemed to be even more important in Iceland. was, wherever he lived, and quiet meals with foods he enjoyed seemed to be even more important in Iceland.

When the owner of Bobby's apartment returned from her work abroad, as planned, she notified Bobby that he needed to vacate. Although he realized that he had to move, he didn't want to give up his comfortable residence. Einarsson managed to convince the owner to let Bobby stay an additional six months, but it was obvious that he'd need to arrange a permanent home after that. Einarsson and Sverrisson began escorting Bobby to various condominium apartments, looking for a place for him to buy. As was typical of him, he approached the purchase of his first apartment as he would a chess game: Before he made a move, everything everything had to be perfect. It was no surprise then that, initially, there was something wrong with every place he saw: One apartment was too close to the church and he was afraid that the morning bells would wake him; another had too many windows facing the street and he feared for his privacy; a third was too "high"-it was on the ninth floor-and he didn't want to rely on an elevator. A fourth apartment at first looked ideal, but Bobby detected something "wrong with the air." He claimed that it hurt his lungs to breathe there. While inspecting a fifth apartment, a plane flew overhead, and he immediately vetoed it as being "too noisy." Finally, he thought that one apartment had "possibilities," but his two friends quickly tried to talk him out of buying it because it was right below a tawdry s.e.x shop. That didn't seem to bother Bobby, since the shop opened late in the afternoon, and therefore it would be quiet in the mornings. Einarsson and Sverrisson pointed out, though, that the apartment was in extremely poor condition and would need repairs amounting to tens of thousands of dollars. Bobby grimaced and agreed not to buy it. had to be perfect. It was no surprise then that, initially, there was something wrong with every place he saw: One apartment was too close to the church and he was afraid that the morning bells would wake him; another had too many windows facing the street and he feared for his privacy; a third was too "high"-it was on the ninth floor-and he didn't want to rely on an elevator. A fourth apartment at first looked ideal, but Bobby detected something "wrong with the air." He claimed that it hurt his lungs to breathe there. While inspecting a fifth apartment, a plane flew overhead, and he immediately vetoed it as being "too noisy." Finally, he thought that one apartment had "possibilities," but his two friends quickly tried to talk him out of buying it because it was right below a tawdry s.e.x shop. That didn't seem to bother Bobby, since the shop opened late in the afternoon, and therefore it would be quiet in the mornings. Einarsson and Sverrisson pointed out, though, that the apartment was in extremely poor condition and would need repairs amounting to tens of thousands of dollars. Bobby grimaced and agreed not to buy it.

He finally settled on an apartment in Gardar Sverrisson's building on Espergerdi Street, in a residential section on the east side of Reykjavik, too far to walk downtown, but accessible by two buses. The apartment had two minuses: It was on the ninth floor (which Bobby had previously said was too high), and he'd already rejected this very building because of its "bad air." Voila! Voila! Magically, heights and air quality suddenly didn't bother him anymore-for no explicable reason. He just changed his mind. Magically, heights and air quality suddenly didn't bother him anymore-for no explicable reason. He just changed his mind.

Even though he was continents away from his wife, Bobby and Miyoko were in constant touch through e-mail and the telephone. She came to Reykjavik as much as her job in a pharmaceutical company-and her editorship of a chess journal in Tokyo-would allow. Most of her visits lasted two weeks and according to Gardar were idyllic for both Bobby and her. The Sverissons and the Fischers would go on weekend outings to the countryside, staying at friendly inns and basking in the majestic lunarlike countryside of Iceland. Family dinners were joyous occasions. "They were an affectionate couple, and acted as any husband and wife might: They were in love and showed it in many small ways," said Gardar. Although one can't know what exactly was in Bobby's mind relative to his marriage, it is altogether possible that he hoped to somehow leave Iceland one day and convince Miyoko to live with him permanently in another country.

His chosen apartment was decidedly not luxurious. Bobby could have afforded a place much larger, but this one was sufficient for his needs. It was a small one-bedroom, had an adequate-sized living room with an open kitchen, and a Juliet balcony that faced the sea. He furnished it comfortably but simply. Prints of Matisse graced the walls.

Bobby's purchasing the condominium at a price of 14 million kroner (about $200,000 at that time) may have been unconsciously motivated by the desire to be near a friend. According to Einarsson, Bobby had begun to feel ill, although he denied it not only to others but to himself. Having friends nearby would, as it developed, prove beneficial, especially since Gardar's wife was a nurse.

Once he'd moved into his new apartment, Bobby's daily pattern changed. He still woke up between noon and two p.m., drank his carrot juice, and went out for his first meal of the day. While he was well, he often took a very long walk to Anestu Grosum, the vegetarian restaurant. Bobby didn't drive, and if he had the need to go someplace beyond walking distance, he took a bus. A friend observed: "Despite the fact that he was a millionaire, he thought it idiotic to pay for taxis. He had no [misgivings about] standing and waiting for buses in all kinds of weather. Icelanders, for the most part, wouldn't do it. But he also liked to study people while he was riding." He was skittish about being driven, whether it was in a taxi-when he was forced to use one-or by a friend, and he'd insist that the driver keep both hands on the steering wheel at all times, never drive too fast, and obey every traffic law and signal. He always sat in the middle section of a bus, which he believed was much safer than the front or back.

Bobby couldn't escape chess, although he desperately wanted to. "I hate the old chess and the old chess scene," he wrote to a friend, making reference to his invention of Fischer Random. Nevertheless, there were entrepreneurs flying to Iceland or contacting him from Russia, France, the United States, and elsewhere, who were trying to entice him to play-any kind of chess was acceptable, just to encourage and ease him back into the game. It had been more than thirteen years since the second Fischer-Spa.s.sky match, and people were saying, fearing, he might never play again. They didn't want another twenty-year disappearance.

Another match against Spa.s.sky was discussed (and Spa.s.sky was agreeable to playing Fischer Random), but these talks ended in a matter of days. The potential match organizer, Dr. Alex t.i.tomirov, a Russian scientist who was an expert in DNA transfer technology and CEO of a company called ATEO Holdings Ltd., invited Spa.s.sky to meet him in Reykjavik to help with his negotiations with Bobby. Canadian-born Joel Lautier, the top player in France, was also a part of the group that met Bobby. It became clear, however, that t.i.tomirov had no interest in yet another Fischer-Spa.s.sky contest, but wanted a Fischer-Kramnik match instead. Spa.s.sky was just being used to convince Fischer to "come back to chess." Fischer was open to discussions, but nothing was signed or agreed upon. Spa.s.sky was angered when he learned that he was not being considered for the match with Fischer, and he used insulting language when referring to t.i.tomirov. Bobby chimed in with an equally vicious slur, again using what had happened as typical of Russian machinations.

Other offers proved to be too small or, in a few cases, even spurious. Some of Bobby's Icelandic friends thought certain "match organizers" weren't seriously negotiating, but rather just wanted to meet the mysterious Fischer, an event akin to meeting J. D. Salinger or Greta Garbo-something to boast about for the rest of their lives.

One offer, to play a twelve-game match with Karpov in a variation called Gothic Chess (with an expanded board of eighty squares, three extra p.a.w.ns, and two new pieces-one that would combine the moves of the rook and the knight, and another that would combine the moves of the bishop and the knight), seemed like it had a chance to result in a match of historic significance, especially since the announced prize fund was $14 million: $10 million for the winner and $4 million for the loser. Karpov signed the contract, but when the promoters showed up in Reykjavik, Bobby wanted to be paid in three installments, one per meeting-in amounts of $10,000, $50,000, and $100,000 respectively-just to discuss it. Bobby also wanted proof that the prize fund was actually in a bank, and when that information, or proof of equity, wasn't forthcoming, the entire venture dribbled away.

Next came a proposal for a $2 million "Bobby Fischer Museum," to be housed in Iceland-or maybe it should be Brooklyn, the promoters mused. It appeared and dissolved like a dream almost before anyone had a chance to wake up.

Bobby peered over the chessboard, scanning and evaluating-attempting not just to suggest a Russian conspiracy, but to prove prove it unequivocally. Despite his promotion of Fischer Random and his rejection of and scorn for the "old chess," he still played over games, tempted by the action of contemporary tournaments and matches. A board and set, with pieces in their traditional positions, sat on the coffee table in his apartment, always ready for a session of a.n.a.lysis. On this particular day, Bobby was going over once again, perhaps for the hundredth time, the fourth game of the 1985 World Championship match between the two Russian grandmasters Garry Kasparov and Anatoly Karpov. Bobby's belief in a Russian cabal involving the two Ks had become his crusade, and he'd been airing his views all over the world for several years. He never wavered from claiming that all of the games in the 1985 match were fixed and prearranged move-by-move. "Even Polgar and Spa.s.sky, both World Champions, understand what I'm talking about," he said to no one in particular, becoming more strident as he went on. "These games are fake! Kasparov should answer my charges! He should be put through a lie detector test, and then the whole world will see what a liar he is!" it unequivocally. Despite his promotion of Fischer Random and his rejection of and scorn for the "old chess," he still played over games, tempted by the action of contemporary tournaments and matches. A board and set, with pieces in their traditional positions, sat on the coffee table in his apartment, always ready for a session of a.n.a.lysis. On this particular day, Bobby was going over once again, perhaps for the hundredth time, the fourth game of the 1985 World Championship match between the two Russian grandmasters Garry Kasparov and Anatoly Karpov. Bobby's belief in a Russian cabal involving the two Ks had become his crusade, and he'd been airing his views all over the world for several years. He never wavered from claiming that all of the games in the 1985 match were fixed and prearranged move-by-move. "Even Polgar and Spa.s.sky, both World Champions, understand what I'm talking about," he said to no one in particular, becoming more strident as he went on. "These games are fake! Kasparov should answer my charges! He should be put through a lie detector test, and then the whole world will see what a liar he is!"

The cheating in that 1985 match was obvious obvious, he insisted. In the fourth game Karpov moved his knight on his twenty-first move, which Bobby insisted was the "proof" of the beginning of the staged sequence. He pointed out to anyone who'd listen that Karpov "makes no less than eighteen consecutive moves on the light squares. Incredible!" This was statistically unusual, but not totally improbable, and was certainly not incontrovertible evidence of a plot.

Despite that, no one could talk Bobby out of his belief that Kasparov and Karpov were "crooks." Bobby remained resolute in his views, even though almost all grandmasters and many other members of the chess fraternity insisted that his accusations had no credible foundation. A scientist at the Center for Bioformatics and Molecular Biostatistics of the University of California, Mark Segal, proved mathematically that such a charge was specious and that the moves in the 1985 contest were more statistically likely to have occurred than Fischer's own shutouts of Taimanov and La.r.s.en, and his near total defeat of Petrosian. Segal concluded his scholarly paper by facetiously musing, "Perhaps Fischer's ascent to world champion was part of some conspiracy."

Some people believed that Bobby was still stewing over the fact that he'd refused to play Karpov in 1975, and therefore was trying to belittle Karpov's resulting match with Kasparov. Others held that his accusations were a ploy to promote his new Fischer Random chess. Still others chalked them up to simple paranoia. For his part, Bobby never explained what either Karpov or Kasparov had to gain from prearranging match results, except to keep the t.i.tle in the Russian family. But since both men were Russian that made no sense.

If grat.i.tude is the heart's memory, Bobby's call to remembrance was weak or sometimes nonexistent. Not only did the stouthearted Icelanders on the RJF Committee manage to extricate him from a j.a.panese jail and a looming ten-year prison term, they did everything they could for him once he arrived in their country: finding him a place to live, protecting him from exploiters and prying journalists, advising him on his finances, driving him to the thermal baths, inviting him to dinners and holiday celebrations, taking him fishing and on tours throughout the country, trying to make him feel at home.

Indeed, they created a cultlike following around Bobby, treating him almost as seventeenth-century royalty. Each functionary had his own role to play in granting whatever wishes the king requested. What they didn't expect was that the king would respond to even the smallest failure with an "off with his head!" att.i.tude. Bobby had behaved this way in his teen years, displaying unforgiving impatience toward any of his young followers who chanced, inadvertently, to displease him. Now, in Reykjavik, despite being the recipient of numerous acts of kindness and generosity, Bobby began finding fault, negatively overgeneralizing, and snapping at those who'd shown him the most loyalty.

His first break was with his obsequious bodyguard Saemi Palsson. Palsson had never been paid anything ("not a cent," he complained, although there was a report that Bobby gave him a check for $300 before he went back to Iceland) for the months of bodyguard work he'd provided for Bobby in Reykjavik in 1972 and in the United States after the match. And Palsson had been the initial Icelander to join forces with Bobby in his attempt to get out of jail. Palsson had traveled to j.a.pan at his own expense, and he continued to help when Bobby became an Icelandic citizen. Palsson had ample reason to expect goodwill from Bobby. The seeds of their ultimate break were sown, though, when, even prior to Bobby's departure from j.a.pan, Palsson was approached by an Icelandic filmmaker, Fridrik Gudmundsson, to do a doc.u.mentary for Icelandic television about Bobby's incarceration, the fight to release him, and his escape to freedom. Palsson and Bobby might might see some money, it was suggested, if the film made a profit, although it was highly unlikely for a doc.u.mentary to realize even a slight windfall. see some money, it was suggested, if the film made a profit, although it was highly unlikely for a doc.u.mentary to realize even a slight windfall.

Bobby initially agreed to cooperate, but with the explicit caveat that the film was to be a dissertation on the evils of the United States, not about his personal life or about chess. As Bobby envisioned it, it would be mainly about his "kidnapping" (as he referred to his arrest and detention) and escape.

Filming began the moment Bobby touched down in Copenhagen, with a camera in the sports vehicle that drove him, Miyoko, and Saemi to Sweden, en route to Iceland. Shot using various cinema verite techniques, with low production values, the film was poorly edited and thematically scattered. It was produced for 30 million kronur (about $500,000 dollars). The initial footage was intriguing, however, since it provided the first real glimpse of Bobby since his match with Spa.s.sky in 1992. Bobby was clear-eyed and focused as he forcefully held forth: "I hate America: it's an illegitimate state. It was robbed from the Native Americans and built by black African slaves. It has no right to exist." As he delivered his poison against the Jews, the j.a.panese government, and the United States, he was oddly frisky, as if he'd just become aware that he was free. He and Saemi began to sing "That's Amore" and other familiar old songs, almost as if they were long-lost friends-as they were at that time-taking a ride in the country and singing to pa.s.s the time. There was even laughter on occasion. Miyoko sat quietly, her Mona Lisa smile emerging as she looked with reverence at Bobby.

Continuing to shoot the film in Reykjavik over the next months, Gudmundsson kept trying to pin down Bobby for further interviews and increase his involvement in the project. "What's the t.i.tle of the film going to be?" Bobby asked. When he was told it was My Friend Bobby My Friend Bobby (it was eventually changed to (it was eventually changed to Me and Bobby Fischer) Me and Bobby Fischer), he immediately began to question the whole endeavor. "This is a film that is supposed to be about my kidnapping, not about Saemi," he complained. Then money became an obstacle. Bobby was angry that he was not being given any "up front" money. Gudmundsson offered Bobby 15 percent of the profits, with Saemi, the producer Steinthor Birgisson, and Gudmundsson also getting 15 percent each, the remaining 40 percent to be paid to the coproduction partners. Fischer was furious. Why was Saemi being paid anything? anything? And since the film was about Bobby, why shouldn't he receive more money than the others? "I should be paid at least 30 percent," he argued vehemently, "more than anyone else because I am Bobby Fischer." He repeated this refrain over and over again: " And since the film was about Bobby, why shouldn't he receive more money than the others? "I should be paid at least 30 percent," he argued vehemently, "more than anyone else because I am Bobby Fischer." He repeated this refrain over and over again: "I am Bobby Fischer! am Bobby Fischer! I I am Bobby Fischer! am Bobby Fischer! I I am Bobby Fischer!" am Bobby Fischer!"

Gudmundsson tried to explain what he was doing. He told Bobby that the film had the potential to become a masterpiece: "This will be a postmodernist doc.u.mentary with feature elements."

"Never mind about that," Bobby shouted. "Tell me what the film is going to be about. about."

Gudmundsson mapped it out in writing in an all-inclusive public relations proposal: This film is about the atom bomb.This film is about a retired policeman.This film is about unconditional love.This film is about a world champion of chess.This film is about unconditional hate.This film is about an icon.This film is about victory.This film is about the war on terror.This film is about an international fugitive.This film is about insanity.This film is about rockdancing.

The more of the description Bobby read, the more disgusted he became with the film, with Gudmundsson, and with Saemi. Bobby appealed to the members of the RJF Committee to see if they could help stop the film or get an injunction issued before it was completed. Sympathetic to Bobby's plight, the committee circulated to its members a letter of protest that was ultimately sent to Icelandic Television, other media, and to the financial backers and distributors of the film. Bobby changed some of the wording of the protest before it was mailed, making it much stronger and less diplomatic. It read, in part: Mr. Fischer wishes the group to draw attention to the fact the ma.n.u.script and structure of the aforementioned "doc.u.mentary," of which he is the main subject, are grossly inconsistent with further discussions and that the material was obtained by fraud.The primary theme of the film now, which working t.i.tle is "My Friend Bobby," "My Friend Bobby," is in his opinion, quite contrary to the ideas that were proposed in the year 2005 concerning a possible news program for Icelandic television of the U.S. organized kidnapping and imprisonment of Mr. Fischer in j.a.pan, his being granted Icelandic citizenship and release from prison. is in his opinion, quite contrary to the ideas that were proposed in the year 2005 concerning a possible news program for Icelandic television of the U.S. organized kidnapping and imprisonment of Mr. Fischer in j.a.pan, his being granted Icelandic citizenship and release from prison.For this reason, it is absolutely against his wishes that parties in Iceland and elsewhere should provide financial subsidy for the production of this film or should show it once completed.

Bobby had already stopped talking to Saemi and taking calls from Gudmundsson, and he began referring to his ex-bodyguard as a "Judas" for trying to make a film that was more about Saemi than about Bobby's travails. Bobby wanted the film to be a polemic, not a biography-and he certainly certainly didn't want it to be about his bodyguard. Almost to a man, members of the RJF Committee broke off any further contact with Saemi Palsson. As it turned out, the film was a box office dud, bringing in only $40,000; it did make additional revenue from DVD sales and television licensing. didn't want it to be about his bodyguard. Almost to a man, members of the RJF Committee broke off any further contact with Saemi Palsson. As it turned out, the film was a box office dud, bringing in only $40,000; it did make additional revenue from DVD sales and television licensing.

Then Bobby's royal displeasure was directed at another Icelander, Gudmundur Thorarinsson. "I never received the full amount from the gate receipts from 1972," Bobby suddenly accused Thorarinsson at a party at his house. "I want to see the books. Where are the books?" Bobby demanded. Thorarinsson gasped quietly and explained that Bobby had received his full share of the gate receipts in 1972, that he didn't have the account books at home, but that he'd look for them at the offices of the Icelandic Chess Federation, where he'd been president in 1972 and had been instrumental in initiating the World Championship match. After more than thirty years there was little hope that the records still existed. Bobby was unsatisfied with the answer. The books were never found and Bobby never talked to Thorarinsson again.

Bobby had been using different forms of fallacious logic to accuse and attack whole cla.s.ses of people, such as the Jews. Now he used his spurious logic against benevolent Icelanders. His illogical syllogism went something like this: Saemi cheated and betrayed me.Saemi is an Icelander.Therefore all Icelanders are cheaters and betrayers.

A litany of attacks, suspicions, and far-fetched offenses began erupting in the RJFers' direction after the Saemi incident, and few from the group escaped Bobby's wrath. Even key stalwarts felt his sting: Helgi Olaffson for not tolerating Bobby's anti-Semitic enmity, and for asking too many questions about the "old chess" ("He must be writing a book"); David Oddsson for reasons unknown, even to Oddsson himself; and, surprisingly, Gardar Sverrisson, his closest friend, spokesman, and neighbor, because Gardar didn't inform him about a silly and harmless photograph of Bobby's shoes that appeared in Morgunbladid Morgunbladid. Gardar got off relatively unscathed-Bobby's snit against him lasted only twenty-four hours. The rest of the group became persona non grata.

By the fall of 2007, Bobby's disillusionment with Iceland was fixed. He called it a "G.o.d-forsaken country" and referred to Icelanders as "special but only in the negative sense." If his Icelandic benefactors knew of his expressions of ingrat.i.tude ("I don't owe these [people] anything!" he spitefully proclaimed), they didn't discuss them publicly, a characteristic of many Scandinavians. Those who directly experienced his thanklessness were saddened but stoic. "Well, that's Bobby," one Icelander observed. "We have to take him as he is." It was as if he were a changeling, a troubled child not so secretly adopted by the Icelanders, but with love and without foreboding.

"You are truth. You are love. You are bliss. You are freedom."

Bobby was reading The Rajneesh Bible The Rajneesh Bible, a work by the charismatic and controversial guru Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh. Like Bobby, Bhagwan had also had trouble with the United States Immigration Department, and was arrested and made to leave the country. Bobby identified with him in that respect and especially valued one of his dicta: "Never obey anyone's command unless it is coming from within you."

Bhagwan's philosophy had attracted Bobby ever since he began exploring it during his eight years in Hungary. Although Bobby never practiced meditation, an essential part of Bhagwan's belief system, he became deeply interested in the qualities of the ideal-or "realized"-self being described by Bhagwan. Bobby didn't appear to much consider Bhagwan's endors.e.m.e.nt of such qualities as love, celebration, and humor. Rather, what seemed to appeal was the idea of the individual rising to a higher plateau. Fischer thought of himself as a warrior in all things, not just chess-and living in Iceland, free of incarceration, he made no exceptions. "I am always on the attack," he proudly divulged while he was there-and he wasn't talking about a board game. There was little time for humor or celebration in a time of war. He was poised for battle against the chess establishment, the Union Bank of Switzerland, the Jews, the United States, j.a.pan, Icelanders in general, the media, processed foods, Coca-Cola, noise, pollution, nuclear energy, and circ.u.mcision.