Grandmaster (12 page)

“If I wanted to talk to your father, I would have called
him
. The reason I’m calling you is that I want a full and independent report. Is he enjoying himself?”

“I think so,” I said truthfully. “He won his first two games. And we’re spending more time together than we have in years. When you get him away from work, he’s a pretty good guy.”

“Do you think I would have married a louse?” she joked, but I could tell she was glad that my dad and I were having this time together.

“He’s an incredible chess player. People still remember him from thirty years ago. He finished second in a U.S. Open. That’s a giant chess tournament, open to everyone in the United States.”

“Really? Who knew?” she said in wonder. “So is the secret chess champion I married taking care of himself?”

Just at that moment, a loud lowing came from the bedroom. Dad was doing one of his relaxation exercises, and it sounded like a stressed-out bull trying to escape from a fenced-in pasture.

“He’s trying to,” I hedged, covering the receiver with my hand so she wouldn’t hear the weird sounds. “We’re all doing what we can.”

“Daniel? I’m not asking you if he’s brushing his teeth regularly. I want to know if he’s healthy.”

I paced across the room, away from my dad’s bedroom, holding the phone tightly to my ear. “Mom, these tournaments are a little hectic. What do you want me to say?”

“The full truth and nothing but the truth. I can tell that something’s wrong. What exactly does ‘hectic’ mean? Is he eating, sleeping, and keeping calm?”

“No,” I admitted. “He’s not eating much, but it’s only three days so he’ll lose a little weight and come out fine. And I don’t think he’s sleeping too well. But nobody sleeps in a chess tournament.”

“Why not?” she demanded, sounding more and more worried. “I thought you had a hotel suite. Doesn’t it have big, comfortable beds?”

“Yes, but there’s a lot of pressure.”

My father’s voice floated out from the bedroom. I guess he had finished his exercises. “Daniel, are you ready to go to lunch?”

“In a minute,” I shouted back. “I need to change my shirt.” I headed into my bedroom and closed the door.

“What’s the matter with your shirt?” Mom asked.

“Nothing,” I told her. “Listen, we’re going to lunch. I can’t talk too much more. I think everything’s going to be fine here. We have a doctor on the team. I asked him to keep an eye on Dad.”

“What kind of doctor?”

I had told her to reassure her, but now I regretted it. “He’s a cardiologist,” I admitted.

“Oh my God,” she said. “What’s wrong with his heart?”

“Nothing. I’m just trying to be careful. The doctor said not to worry. He thinks Dad’s fine.”

“Daniel,
what are you not telling me
?”

My father had walked into the living room and he sounded a little impatient as he knocked on my bedroom door. “How much time does it take to change a shirt? We’re going to be late for lunch, and the next round starts right after that.”

“Coming,” I shouted out to him. Then, into the phone, I whispered: “Mom, I’ve really gotta go.”

“Don’t hang up on me,”
she ordered. “We’re not finished yet. I need to know what’s going on…”

I kept my voice low, and gave it to her fast. “Okay, here’s the truth. Years ago when he was a kid he couldn’t handle this kind of pressure. That’s why he gave up chess. Now he thinks he can, and the doctor thinks so, too, so to hell with George Liszt, and I really have to go to lunch.”

“Daniel, who is George Liszt? Why do you have to go to lunch so urgently if your father’s not eating anything?”

“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll call you in a little,” I said and clicked off the phone. I pulled on a new shirt and walked out into the living room. Dad was standing by the window, checking his blood pressure with a little device he carries with him. “How’s the old blood pressure?” I asked.

“Elevated,” he told me. “Who was that on the phone?”

“Liu,” I mumbled.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said. “It was your mother, checking up on me. What did you tell her?”

“That you weren’t eating or sleeping well, but we were having a good time and we would get through this okay.”

He considered and nodded. “That sounds about right. Don’t tell her too much, Daniel. She does tend to worry. And I’m sure you now know some things that would turn her hair white.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant by that, but I suddenly felt very uneasy.

Dad turned from the window. His black eyes were on me suddenly, boring into me. “I happened to glance up from my game with Voorhees and saw you leaving the tournament room with my old friend George Liszt.”

I froze, looked right back at him, and slowly nodded. “It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “He sought me out and said he had to tell me something … critical.”

“I’m not blaming you. But I am curious. Why did you feel like you needed to hear him out?”

“He said he wanted to give me a warning,” I explained softly. “I felt I had to hear it. I just want to make sure you’re going to be okay.” I paused for a second and met his eyes. “I got you into this. I feel responsible.”

“You’re not,” Dad said. “But I wouldn’t make a habit of talking to George. He has his own agenda.”

“He told me that. He said that if you and he meet in the final round he’s going to press all your buttons and do whatever it takes to win.”

Dad nodded. “I have no doubt of that. But it won’t come to that, Daniel. I’ll lose well before that final game. I almost dropped a point to Voorhees.”

“But you didn’t,” I pointed out.

Dad looked back at me and put his hands in his pockets. “True,” he said. “That’s one thing about chess tournaments—you can never tell.” Suddenly I saw a ferocious gleam in his eye. “George always had a strong intuition about these things. He must be sensing something.” Dad’s lips twisted up into a very slight smile, and he threw back his shoulders as if accepting a challenge. “Understand this, Daniel—the only reason he talked to you and tried to scare us away is that he’s starting to feel a little bit nervous. And if it does come to that, I’ll meet him in open combat and I won’t back off.”

20

“So, how do you two know each other?” Britney asked Liu, poking a piece of lettuce around her plate.

“I kicked his butt in the first round, and then I felt sorry for him,” Liu answered, and bit into a double cheeseburger. “Hey, Daniel, stop eating all the french fries.”

“You’re the one wolfing them down two at a time,” I pointed out. We were splitting a large order, and I was positive she had eaten twice as many of them as I had. “Want one?” I asked Britney.

“No thanks,” Britney said. “You guys enjoy them.” For some reason it seemed like she couldn’t stop watching Liu and me.

We were all eating lunch together at a burger joint across from the hotel—the Mind Cripplers, Mariel and Britney, who had finished up at the spa, and Liu and her mom. Liu and her mother had won their first two games, and Liu’s mom was in a grand mood. “Our team is boring,” she explained to Mariel. “It’s no fun eating with chess-nerd vegans. Liu needed a burger to recharge her batteries, so I said, ‘I bet those Mind Cripplers know how to chow down.’ All except for Morris, that is.”

“I don’t eat much during a tournament,” my dad told her. He had seemed in good spirits when he defeated Voorhees, but now he looked like the pressure and the lack of sleep were catching up to him. He hadn’t eaten a crumb for breakfast and he was passing on lunch. His eyes had deep circles under them, and as he sat there he drummed his fingers nervously on the table.

“Well, you’d better work up an appetite for tonight,” Mr. Kinney said. “Chez André doesn’t serve finger food.”

“As a matter of fact,” Dad told him, “Daniel and I are going to pass. We’ve been invited to a karaoke place.”

Mr. Kinney looked back at him. “Tonight is the last evening of the tournament. I really think our team needs to stay together and strategize.”

“And the food at Chez André is divine,” Mariel contributed.

“Divine or not, we’ve made our decision,” my dad told Randolph. “You guys go and have some foie gras for us.”

“Let them go,” Brad said to his father. “There’s no reason we have to do everything together. Britney and I were thinking we might split off after dinner and check out some music.”

Britney looked surprised by this news.

“The night before our last round you’re not going out clubbing, so you can forget that,” Mr. Kinney told his son.

Brad smiled back at his father, but not a very friendly smile. “Thanks for the advice. I will think about it.”

“I said no,”
Randolph told him.

Brad half stood, squared his broad shoulders, and glared back at his father. “I’m eighteen, Dad. My decision, not yours.”

Liu whispered to me, “Boy, your team is
really
more interesting than ours.”

“You’ll do what I say,” Mr. Kinney told Brad, “and right now that means park your butt in your seat and zip your lip, or I guarantee you’ll regret it.”

Brad didn’t sit down. He looked like he wanted to take on his father, who for his part was clearly ready to tussle. Watching them, I wondered if they had ever come to blows in the past, and if so, who had won.

“Hey, everybody.” Dr. Chisolm jumped in. “I have an idea.”

His voice broke the impasse between the Kinneys, and we all turned to look at him. “I love fine French food as much as the next guy,” he said, “but why don’t we save Chez André for another time. If Grandmaster Pratzer doesn’t mind us horning in on his plans, a light Japanese dinner and some karaoke sounds like it might be a little more healthy and relaxing. We could all stay together, the young members of our team could let loose and have a little fun, and I could demonstrate why I went into medicine instead of rock and roll.”

I was a little surprised by his suggestion, and I wondered if it was at least partly spurred by his desire to keep a close eye on my father.

“Sounds good to me,” Brad said. “Anything but a boring French meal.” He sat down and took a big slurp of root beer.

“It’s a shame about Chez André,” Mariel chimed in, “but I love Japanese food, too. And I have a little frock I can wear.”

“It sounds like a plan, then,” Dr. Chisolm said. “Randolph, are you okay with it?”

Mr. Kinney didn’t look particularly happy, but he could tell that the tide had turned against his fancy French restaurant. He hesitated a long beat and then grunted, “Okay, then. If Morris doesn’t mind us barging in on his night out?”

Dad glanced at me and I gave him a covert nod. “It’s fine with me,” he said. “Mabel? This was your idea.”

Liu’s mom looked around the table and opened her arms wide. “The more Mind Cripplers the merrier,” she said, and there was a mischievous twinkle in her eye, as if she knew exactly what she was getting into and welcomed the insanity. “You let my daughter and me join you for lunch. The least we can do is return the favor for dinner. Let’s make a night of it. My only requirement is that we all have to really try to let our hair down and have some fun. Except for you, Morris,” she said with a teasing smile. “I mean the hair part.”

I was a little surprised—I had never seen anyone flirt with my father before.

“Mom!” Liu said.

“It’s okay,” my father replied, smiling back at Liu’s mom. “I may be bald, but wait till you see me do Elvis.”

21

The middle rounds of a chess tournament are a grind. The opening day excitement is over. The final-day glory is yet to come. Sandwiched in between are the middle rounds, when tired minds are stretched to the breaking point.

You could see the pressure taking its toll. Red eyes crawled from boards to score sheets, sore backs slouched in uncomfortable folding chairs, openings were misplayed and middle games squandered as exhausted players blundered away pawns and then slammed chess clocks like they really wanted to slug their opponents.

I kept expecting my father to make a mistake or shout at his opponent and get disqualified. But he hung in there—when it came to chess it was like he had an iron will and reserves of energy. Then again, I think he had a special reason for not wanting to lose to his third-round opponent.

Dad was matched against a guy named Hutchinson, who had a child’s body and an adult’s serious face. He was twelve, but he looked like he was nine. “Prodigy,” people whispered. “Pint-size wrecking ball. Could become the strongest American player in years. He won the New York Elementary Title. He’s jumped five hundred rating points in the last three months. This kid is the real deal.”

When Hutchinson sat down opposite my dad, it was like an older and a younger version of the same person coming face to face. The twelve-year-old propped himself up on a pillow to get a better view of the board, thumped his thin elbows down on the table, and folded his wrists together just the way my dad did.

For all the kid’s chess success, there seemed to me to be something very sad about Hutchinson—he looked so lonely and precocious sitting up on that dais with the adult grandmasters, scrunching up his face in concentration and attacking fury. My father looked back at him and I could tell Dad was remembering how it felt to be a young hotshot, and all the reasons he had given up the game.

It was a battle between age and youth, a former prodigy and the new up-and-comer. Hutchinson threw down the gauntlet and attacked right from the start, and Dad leaned slightly forward in his seat, pushed his glasses up on his nose, and accepted the challenge, defending carefully with the black pieces.

I would have liked to watch more of their game, but my own third-round opponent was the expert who had been intimidated and destroyed by George Liszt in the previous round in just fifteen moves. His name was Owen Burghoff, and he sure wasn’t intimidated by me.

We had each won a game and lost one, but Burghoff clearly felt he didn’t belong so far back, playing such a low-rated opponent. From the moment he sauntered up I could see that he was determined to clobber me quickly and climb back into the upper brackets of this tournament.