McConnor asked again, ‘King g8 to h7, then?’

‘Yes, yes! Evasive action, that’s the thing!’

McConnor complied, and we tapped the glass. Czentovic returned to our table with his usual regular tread, and took in the counter-move at a single glance. Then he moved the pawn from h2 to h4 on the king’s flank, just as our unknown helper had predicted. The man was already whispering urgently:

‘Rook forward, rook forward, c8 to c4, then he’ll have to cover his pawn first. But that won’t help him! Ignore his passed pawn, move your knight d3 to e5, and the balance will be restored. Keep the pressure on, advance instead of defending!’

We didn’t understand what he meant. As far as we were concerned he might have been speaking Chinese. But once under his spell McConnor moved as he advised without stopping to think about it. We tapped the glass again to call Czentovic back. For the first time he did not decide on his next move at once, but looked at the board intently. Involuntarily, he drew his brows together. Then he made exactly the move that the stranger had predicted, and turned to walk away. But before he did so, something new and unexpected happened. Czentovic looked up and studied our ranks; he obviously wanted to find out who was putting up such energetic resistance all of a sudden.

From that moment on our excitement knew no bounds. Up till this moment we had played without any serious hope, but now the idea of breaking through Czentovic’s cold pride sent fire flying through all our veins. And our new friend had already told us the next move, so we were able – my fingers shook as I tapped the glass with the spoon – to call Czentovic back. Now came our first triumph. Czentovic, who until this point had made his moves standing, hesitated – hesitated and finally sat down. He sat slowly and ponderously, but from the purely physical viewpoint the action cancelled out his condescending attitude towards us so far. We had forced him to come down to our level, at least in spatial terms. He thought for a long time, eyes lowered and intent on the board, so that you could hardly see his pupils under his dark lids, and in his meditations his mouth gradually dropped open, giving his round face a rather simple expression. Czentovic thought for several minutes, then made his move and stood up. And our friend was already whispering:

‘Delaying tactics! Good thinking! But don’t fall for it! Force an exchange, you must force an exchange, and then we can get a draw and no god will be able to help him.’

McConnor did as he said. In the next few moves between the two of them – the rest of us had long since sunk to the status of mere extras – a back-and-forth procedure that meant nothing at all to us ensued. After about seven moves Czentovic thought for some time, then looked up and said, ‘Game drawn.’

For a moment there was total silence. We suddenly heard the sound of the waves and the jazz music playing in the saloon, we could hear every step on the promenade deck and the quiet, soft blowing of the wind as it came through the cracks around the portholes. We were hardly breathing; it had happened too suddenly, and all of us were left in shock by the improbable way in which this unknown had forced his will on the world champion, in a game that was half lost already. McConnor leaned back with a sudden movement, the breath he had been holding emerged audibly from his lips in a contented ‘Ah!’ Myself, I was watching Czentovic. It seemed to me that during the last few moves he had turned paler. But he was good at keeping control over himself.