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this Jorge Keller?”
    Lambertucci gives another grunt, as he studies an apparently dangerous move his opponent has just made. Finally he makes his move, there is a rapid exchange of pieces, and then Tedesco nonchalantly says “checkmate.” Ten seconds later, the captain is putting away the pieces in their box while Lambertucci picks his nose.
    â€œKeller?” he finally remarks. “Very promising. The next world champion, if he defeats the Russian. . . . He’s brilliant and not as eccentric as that other young man, Fischer.”
    â€œIs it true he’s been playing since he was a child?”
    â€œSo I hear. As far as I know, he became a phenomenon after winning four tournaments between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. Lambertucci glances at Tedesco for confirmation and proceeds to enumerate on his fingers: “Mar de Plata, the internationaltournaments at Portoro Ž and Chile, and the challengers’ tournament in Yugoslavia, tremendous . . .”
    â€œHe beat all the big names,” Tedesco adds, equitably.
    â€œMeaning?” says Max.
    Tedesco smiles like someone who knows what he’s talking about.
    â€œMeaning Petrosian, Tal, Sokolov . . . The best players in the world. His consecration came when he beat Tal and Sokolov in a twenty-game tournament.”
    â€œNo mean feat,” adds Lambertucci, who has fetched the carafe and is topping up Max’s glass.
    â€œAll the greats were there,” Tedesco concludes, narrowing his one good eye. “And Keller trounced them all without turning a hair: he won twelve games and drew seven.”
    â€œSo why is he so good?”
    Lambertucci looks quizzically at Max.
    â€œHave you got the whole day?”
    â€œYes. My boss has gone away for a few days.”
    â€œIn that case stay to dinner . . . eggplant parmigiana washed down with a nice little Taurasi.”
    â€œMuch obliged, but I have a few things to do at the villa.”
    â€œThis is the first time I’ve seen you show any interest in chess.”
    â€œWell . . . you know how it is.” Max smiles wistfully. “The Campanella Cup and all that. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
    Tedesco narrows his one good eye again, pensively.
    â€œYou can say that again. Who’ll get their hands on it?”
    â€œWhy is Keller so good?” Max insists.
    â€œHe has a natural talent and is well taught,” replies Lambertucci. Then he shrugs and looks at Tedesco, leaving it to him to fill in the details.
    â€œHe’s a tenacious young fellow,” Tedesco says, mulling it over for a while. “When he was starting out, many of the grand masters played a conservative, defensive game, but Keller changed all that.He defeated them with his spectacular assaults, astonishing sacrifices of his pieces, daring gambits . . .”
    â€œAnd now?”
    â€œThat’s still his style: bold, brilliant, heart-stopping endgames. . . . He plays like someone immune to fear, with terrifying casualness. Occasionally he makes seemingly sloppy, incorrect moves, yet his opponents are confounded by his complex strategies. . . . His ambition is to be world champion, and the contest here in Sorrento is considered a preliminary competition, a warm-up for the championship being held in Dublin five months from now.”
    â€œWill you be attending the games here?”
    â€œWe can’t afford it. The Vittoria is reserved for moneyed folk and journalists. . . . We’ll have to follow the games on the radio and television, with our own chessboard.”
    â€œAnd is it all as important as they say?”
    â€œIt is the most anticipated meeting since the Reshevsky-Fischer head to head in sixty-one,” Tedesco explains. “Sokolov is a hardened veteran, coolheaded and rather dull: his best games usually end in a draw. They call him the Russian Wall, just