Grandmaster by David Klass Page A

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