Bitterness and Brilliance in Moscow

By J.D. Reed

Not surprisingly, a musical titled Chess is already in the works for next year in London. The tunes may be catchy, but the story, based on this year's championship confrontations in Moscow, can hardly be better theater than the real thing. Last weekend, on the stage of the opulent Tchaikovsky Hall, after two months of acrimony and audacity on and off the board, after jitterily watching his obdurate foe almost come from behind and after being driven all the way to the final game in the series, Gary Kasparov at 22 became the sport's youngest world champion. He rang down the curtain on Anatoli Karpov's decade-long top billing with a decisive, 42-move victory, to the obvious delight of a capacity crowd of 1,500.

From the first act the histrionics of the protagonists seemed at least as tailored for the theatrical boards as for the chessboard: the cool and politically well-connected Karpov, 34, defending his crown in his hometown, vs. the crowd-pleasing, passionate young provincial up for a title shot. Intensifying the tension was old-fashioned human loathing. Long before the end of the match, the contestants were barely speaking to each other, and shook hands perfunctorily. "The best part," a chess master told the Chicago Tribune, "is that these guys hate each other!"

The animosity began in a controversial and inconclusive match that was halted last February. Karpov was leading 5 games to 3, but Kasparov appeared to be closing on him fast after a draining record of 40 draws. Then World Chess Federation President Florencio Campomanes, a close friend of Karpov's, abruptly stopped play because, he said, players, officials and organizers were exhausted. The real reason, many insiders charged, was that the champion was physically and psychologically frazzled, ripe for a humiliating defeat. An enraged Kasparov shook his fist: "They are trying to deprive me of my chance!" Later he sneeringly told the German magazine Der Spiegel: "Karpov views the title 'world champion' as a natural prefix to his family name."

The only similarity between the contestants is that each plays with a red Soviet flag on his side of the table. The darkly handsome Kasparov is a long-distance runner, pop-music buff and sharp dresser who regularly dates a striking blond stage actress, Marina Neolova. But another woman in his life has long been more important. After the death of his Jewish father Kim Wehistein, Kasparov took the maiden name of his Armenian mother Clara; she has ruled his career ever since. At the championships she sat motionless each day in the same third-row seat, watching intensely. Though he now wears the crown, Kasparov, raised in the republic of Azerbaijan, 1,200 miles south of Moscow, remains an outsider to Moscow's powerful chess establishment. "My relationship with the federation," he concedes, "couldn't be worse."

Karpov, on the other hand, is what a Swiss newspaper called Homo sovieticus: a culture hero with close ties to the late leader Leonid Brezhnev, recipient of the Order of Lenin and a strong voice in the inner circle of Soviet chess. Owner of an impressive collection of rare stamps, the chilly and distant Muscovite is a well-known ruble millionaire who is rumored to be a dollar one as well. Although he enjoys rare Soviet amenities like a mobile telephone in his car, Karpov does not ignite the imagination. "Style?" he once puzzled. "I have no style."

He does have a well-developed playing style, however, a lethal, creeping strategy that has crushed the world's best, including Soviet Defector Victor Korchnoi in both 1978 and 1981. Using that same measured approach, Karpov had built a lead of 5.5 to 4.5 over Kasparov following the tenth game. For this match a limit of 24 games was imposed, with a draw counting half a point each; a final tie would leave Karpov as champion. His start looked promising. But in the eleventh game, Kasparov's aggressive and innovative openings began to take a toll. The increasingly confident challenger developed an almost arrogant swagger in his play. He won the 16th game by unexpectedly moving a knight into the heart of the champion's pieces, a placement that British Grand Master Raymond Keene described as "a giant octopus with tentacles spreading everywhere."

Kasparov was so sure of victory in the 19th game as it adjourned for the night that he dismissively made his next move public, instead of sealing it in the usual manner so that Karpov could not contemplate alternatives during the overnight recess. It was an unprecedented act in championship play, and it brought the audience to its feet in pandemonium. Grand masters hung over the balcony railing like prizefight fans. Spectators shouted, "Gary! Gary!" Karpov resigned his hopeless position without resuming the next day. With only four games left, Kasparov was leading 11 to 9.

Then the challenger lost his elan. Despite what appeared to some experts to be a promising position in the 21st game, Kasparov offered a draw, sending the audience out of the hall with looks of incomprehension. Karpov won the next game, and they drew the 23rd encounter, leaving Kasparov ahead by just 12-11. His sudden caution had brought him to the final game, but his lead meant he needed only a draw. In the last game, Kasparov regained his aggressive form. Unveiling a brilliant trap, he forced Karpov to resign. The dramatic finale ignited Kasparov's fans, who joyously chanted the new titleholder's name as he marched off the stage. While Kasparov enjoys the accolades and the official cash prize of nearly $500,000 for the championship, his mind will not be far from the board. For there is still a third act to come. A rematch between the avowed enemies has already been set for some time in the next six months. --By J.D. Reed. Reported by David Goodman/Moscow

With reporting by Reported by David Goodman/Moscow