Grandmaster (9 page)

“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” Dad muttered. “It must have sounded like I was threatening Chisolm.”

“He provoked you,” I told him. “He called you Mr. Potato Head. I think he was drunk.”

“Still,” he said. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked half a block in silence. He finally took a deep breath and said, “Daniel, I want you to hear this from me.”

“You really don’t owe me any kind of explanation. You’re doing this for me. That’s enough.”

“It’s not enough,” he said. “I lied to my son about who I really am. And the hell of it is that you’ve never seen me really good at anything before…”

“You’re good at plenty of things,” I protested. “Anyway, what does it matter?”

He waved me into silence. “It matters. Every son wants his father to shine at something. Chisolm’s right, you’ve got to be wondering why I gave up the thing I was best at … and in many ways loved the most.” We reached an intersection and waited for the light to change. When it flashed green, he took my arm and we headed across. “You’re going to hear it anyway, from George Liszt or some gossip in a bathroom who doesn’t know the real story. I’d prefer you hear my version first.”

“Okay,” I said, trying to keep from sounding too curious. “What’s the real story of Grandmaster Pratzer?”

We walked side by side, our feet rising and falling together. “Do you know who Bobby Fischer and Paul Morphy were?”

“Fischer, sure. He was a great chess player. Some say the greatest who ever lived. He won the world championship back in the eighties.”

“The seventies,” Dad corrected me. “He obliterated three top grandmasters to get to face Boris Spassky, the world champion. Then he destroyed Spassky to take away the title from the Russians. It was a great Cold War victory, and an incredible chess feat, given how much the Russians valued chess and worked together to try to stop him. Do you know what happened to Fischer after that?”

“He cracked up,” I said. “And I read that he died a little while ago.”

“Cracked up is a kind word for it. He became a recluse. Grew bitter. Paranoid. Irrational. Turned his back on all his friends, his country, and the chess world that had created his celebrity. He made anti-American comments, anti-Semitic comments—he said that he was glad that 9/11 happened. He served months in a Japanese jail. He died alone, despised, and ridiculed. You couldn’t find a more miserable end to such a promising life.” Dad was quiet for a few seconds and then whispered, “Unless you look at Paul Morphy.”

“I’ve heard the name,” I said. “But all I know is he was an early chess player.”

“Morphy was the greatest,” my father told me softly. “Even Fischer acknowledged that. Morphy was from a leading New Orleans family, back in the nineteenth century. His uncle was one of the strongest players in America, nicknamed the ‘Chess King of New Orleans,’ but by the time Morphy was twelve he could beat his uncle blindfolded. He lived and played before the great advances in modern chess theory, but if he’d been able to study them, he would have destroyed anyone around today. It wouldn’t have even been close.”

There was a peculiar tone in my father’s voice—both hero worship and a kind of closeness or kinship. I guessed that Dad had spent a lot of time playing through Morphy’s games and thinking about the man’s life. “He went to Europe to play the strongest players of his day and test himself. He destroyed all of them, except Staunton, who refused to play him. Everyone acknowledged Morphy as the most brilliant world champion the world had ever seen. If you play through his games, their clarity of thought and inventiveness is breathtaking. It’s like … listening to Mozart.”

“What happened to him?” I asked.

“He wanted to be a lawyer. He had an incredible memory so he memorized the entire Louisiana legal code. But then he started spending more and more time by himself, in his parents’ house. He became a recluse. Gave way to depression and extreme paranoia. Lost all his friends. Never had a career. Never got married or had kids. He stayed in his room. He would only eat the food his mother cooked him. He died of brain congestion after going for a walk in midday heat and then climbing into a cold bath, a famous, lonely eccentric … or you could call him a depressed and paranoid wacko.”

I looked back at him. “Just like Fischer.”

“Peas in a pod.” Dad nodded. “The two great giants of American chess, with the two saddest and loneliest ends you could script for them.”

“You think it was the chess?” I asked.

“Who knows why they both melted down,” my father said. “Psychologists would say they were predisposed to it, that both men had underlying conditions. I’m sure that’s true. But, Daniel, chess on that level can take you to a very dark place. The level of concentration and aggression you need to bring to bear is frightening. Some people can handle it, and others can’t.”

I sensed he was done with Fischer and Morphy, and was now talking about Pratzer. “And you couldn’t?” I asked.

Suddenly there was a tremendous peal of thunder. Lightning flashed, and the skies opened up with a torrent of cold rain. We ran for it up the avenue and were soon soaked to our skin. There were no taxis, and no places to take shelter. “There,” Dad said and pointed.

A sign for a tavern flashed at the next corner. It was a bar called the Clover Leaf, and we hurried in through the heavy wooden door. There was a basketball game on the TV, and a dozen or so men and two women sipping drinks at the bar. We found a booth and looked at each other and laughed as water dripped off us onto the table.

I went into the bathroom and wiped myself down with a paper towel, and when I came back my dad was sitting with his elbows on the old wooden table. He had ordered two drinks—a ginger ale for me and a whiskey for himself. He almost never drank alcohol, but I saw him take a sip of the whiskey and it seemed to warm and relax him. “You okay?” he asked.

“That was some rain. I thought we might drown.”

“We were lucky to find this place,” Dad said. And then he set his whiskey down and picked up the story right where he had left off. “I told you about Fischer and Morphy. Not that I would ever put myself in their company, but you might as well hear about me.”

He leaned slightly forward and lowered his voice. “There was an attic room in my parents’ house in Hoboken where I used to study chess when everyone had gone to bed. It was very quiet. One small window. A bare overhead lightbulb. Sometimes I spent whole nights there, and then showered and went to school. I replayed the games of the old masters and climbed into Capablanca’s mind, and went to war side by side with Morphy. I was a lonely kid with no friends. That became my real life. And I loved it for a while. But it was taking me to a dangerous and solitary place.”

He broke off, took a sip of his whiskey, and then finished his tale. “It further isolated me. It unhinged me, and destabilized me. My whole source of pride and self-esteem became chess. I absolutely had to win, to go to war and kill, so badly that … the worst parts of me were taking over … and I couldn’t control it. Everyone was telling me how great I was, and I was starting to travel to international matches … and deep down … I was afraid of what was happening. I could feel myself unraveling…”

“So you quit to save yourself?” I asked.

“There were some incidents,” he admitted. “One in particular … that was really bad. I ended up being hospitalized and on medication. When I got out, I quit chess. Cold turkey. The doctors didn’t tell me to do it—I did it myself. I cut the head off the beast. I was never good at sports, but I started speed-walking, and I tried to take better care of my health. I forced myself to come out of my shell, and I finally made a friend or two. I went off to college and majored in business, and met your mother, and I never told her about chess. My parents understood some of what I had gone through and respected my decision to quit, and they never talked about it either.”

“Okay,” I said, “I understand now. I think you made a wise choice.”

“I’ve wondered over the years,” he admitted. “I was very strong, Daniel. I could have been a serious chess player. Maybe not a Fischer or a Morphy, but one of the top players of my generation. Instead, I went into a career where things are very steady and there aren’t major surprises. Everybody jokes about accountants being boring, but steady sounded good to me. Plus it pays the bills, and I get to work with people I like. So I never went to that dark place again. Instead I have a wife and a family, and a relatively happy home.” He managed a smile.

I smiled back at him. “It
is
a happy home. Except for my nutty sister.”

“Paul Morphy and Bobby Fischer never experienced that kind of happiness,” he said. “I’ll take what I’ve got…” And his voice trailed off. He turned away, and I saw that he was trembling. I got up and went over to his side of the booth, and I’m not sure how it happened but I kind of put my arms around him and he hugged me back.

“Sorry I haven’t been a father you could be more proud of,” he whispered. “Someone more involved in your life. One effect of what I went through—I know I’m a little distant, and self-absorbed in my work. It helps me stay on an even keel, but I’m aware of it and I feel bad about it. It’s not because I don’t love you.”

“This is starting to sound like a soap opera,” I told him. “And I’m really sorry I made you come here and dig this all up again. Anytime you want to quit and go back home, just say the word.”

The bartender strolled over with a slightly concerned look and asked, “Everything okay here, gentlemen?”

We released each other and sat there a little awkwardly. “Fine,” Dad said. “We’re just having a father-son moment. We’ll take the check.”

“Coming right up,” the bartender told us, and walked away.

“I’m sure I can handle it for two more days,” Dad said. “But it does amaze me after all these years how the darkness starts to take hold of me again. Anyway, now you know, Daniel. We should get back to the hotel. I’ll spring for a cab. Tomorrow’s first round starts at nine.”

He paid the check and we left the bar and waited on the curb for a taxi with its light on. “Thanks for telling me what happened,” I said. “But for what it’s worth, I bet Paul Morphy would have been proud of the way you played today.”

Grandmaster Pratzer smiled and gave me a wink and then hailed a cab.

15

The phone rang in our suite at exactly eight-thirty to the second. I knew before I answered it that it was Randolph Kinney, punctual as always. My father came out of his bedroom and I held my hand over the receiver and pointed next door. “Team meeting,” I said softly. “Do we go?”

I had slept well after our steak dinner and long stroll through lower Manhattan, but I was pretty sure he hadn’t slept a wink. I had been dimly aware of him pacing around during the night, and he had deep circles under his eyes that made him look a little like a hooded owl. “We go,” he said. “But on our own terms.”

“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” I told Mr. Kinney. “We’ve got some stuff to do first.” I hung up.

Ten minutes later we knocked on the door, and the hedge fund titan himself greeted us. He looked impatient, but he was clearly trying to mend fences. “How are you, Daniel?” he asked. “Morris, come on in.” We hadn’t gotten more than ten feet inside the door when he said: “Pratzers, we want to extend a sincere apology for what happened last night, put it behind us, and make a fresh start. And this doesn’t just come from me. It comes from all of us.”

Dr. Chisolm stepped forward. “I had a little too much to drink last night and said some things I shouldn’t have. Morris, will you shake my hand?” He held out his right hand, and for a long moment it dangled in empty air.

My father took it and they shook. “I said a few things I shouldn’t have, too,” Dad admitted. “And I’m not planning to wiggle my ears in public again anytime soon.”

Dr. Chisolm gave an appreciative chuckle and Mr. Kinney threw a look at Brad and Eric. They both stepped toward me. “Hey, bro,” Brad said, and it seemed strange to hear him calling me anything but Patzer-face. “I’m glad you’re on this team and … sorry for being such a hard-ass.”

“We think you can make a real contribution,” Eric added, and then his voice trailed off as if he couldn’t quite figure out exactly how or to what.

They held out their hands, and—feeling a little foolish—I shook them.

“I’d like to further atone for any lingering hard feelings by inviting everyone to Chez André tonight,” Mr. Kinney announced magnanimously. “It’s one of the finest French restaurants in this whole damn city. Let’s have a great second day of chess and then a haute cuisine feast. It’s all on me. What do you say?”

“Thanks, but I’m not sure I’m ready for another big dinner,” my father told him.

“No pressure. Think it over,” Randolph said. “It’s the least I can do. And now that we’ve put that behind us … let’s talk about today. We have our work cut out for us,” he noted, looking just a little worried.

“They posted the next round pairings,” Eric explained. “Mr. Pratzer, you’re playing a tough master named Voorhees. We know him from Jersey tournaments, and he’s a shark. Daniel, you’ve got an unrated named Lowery. The rest of us all drew opponents rated higher than we are.”

“To hell with ratings,” Mr. Kinney muttered. “We just have to play smart.”

“I agree,” my dad told him. “Ratings are overrated.”

“There you go!” Mr. Kinney said, clapping his hands. “I want five points out of this next round.” He glanced at his watch. “Now, if everyone’s agreeable, I’ll deliver the team prayer. One knee, gentlemen.”

Silly as it was, we all got down.

“Moment of silence,” Randolph commanded, and we were quiet. I saw my dad bring his arms together and thought for a moment that he might be clasping his hands to pray. Then I saw that the fingers of his right hand were on his left wrist, and I realized that he was taking his pulse.

“Let us pray,” the hedge fund king said. “Lord, watch over the Mind Cripplers and keep us tight—” Before he got through any more of the prayer, a loud and insistent tapping sounded on the door.

“Who could that be?” Mr. Kinney asked, annoyed.