Decoded

1

Endings are also beginnings.

For this fifth section — a following-up report as it were — I want to provide some supplementary details about Rong Jinzhen’s life. I feel this current section functions much like a pair of hands behind the scenes, one touching upon the past of the story, the other stretching out towards the future. Both hands have been extremely industrious; they have stretched out very far and very wide. They have been fortunate, they have touched upon something very real, very exciting — something akin to finally catching hold of a long sought-after answer to a rather troublesome riddle. In fact, all the various mysteries and secrets included in the previous four sections, even though they might have lacked a certain splendour, will have their true brilliance revealed in what follows.

What is more, this division purposefully disregards plot and narrative conventions; it disregards literary mood. I make no attempt to present a unified coherent story. My intention has been rather skewed and varied. It may seem that this chapter endeavours to challenge traditional literary norms, but in truth I am only surrendering to the vicissitudes of Rong Jinzhen’s story. What’s strange, however, is that after I decided to surrender to his tale, to set myself at its mercy, I felt profoundly at ease, terribly satisfied, as though I had won some victory in battle.

But surrender is not the same as giving up! Upon reading this entire section, I hope you will come to realize that the revelations presented herein were provided by the creator of BLACK. Ah, but perhaps I’ve said too much. Still, to be honest, this is how it is: the pages that follow pulled me this way and that — and they will do the same to you. It’s as though by witnessing Rong Jinzhen fall into madness, I too have gone mad.

Back to business. .

In fact, there have been some people who have raised suspicions about the veracity of this story. Their suspicions provoked me to write this final part.

I used to think that lulling the reader into believing that a story was actually real wasn’t the most essential aim in writing fiction; it was something you could do without. But this story. . this particular tale, well, it requires this belief, it hungers to be trusted. That’s because, in the end, it is unquestionably a real story. In order to preserve this original essence, I’ve had to take many risks, most notably with the plot. Oh, I could have relied on my imagination and spun an elaborate tale to tie up all the loose ends, or even employed some convenient narrative sleight of hand to finish things up. But an intense desire — a passion — to protect the spirit of the story prevented me from taking this route. Therefore I can say that, if the story seems to suffer from some chronic malaise, the roots of this disease do not emanate from this lowly narrator, but rather from the characters and the lives they lived. This of course is not wholly beyond the realm of imagination. After all, logically speaking — or, let’s say, to speak from experience — the possibility that one will encounter some altogether unforeseeable chronic illness is a very real one. There is really nothing one can do.

I must stress, therefore, that this story is historical; it is not some imaginary tale. What I have written has been gleaned from the taped transcripts I have obtained; the factual core remains intact. You can understand — and I hope forgive me — for adding some narrative framing and fictional elements such as personal names and places, and of course the descriptions of the skies, the landscapes. There may be some errors regarding the exact times when events took place; of course, certain parts of the story that are still classified have been omitted; at times I may have overdone things with respect to the inner thoughts of the characters. But I had no choice in this matter. After all, Rong Jinzhen was a man thoroughly absorbed in a fantasy world:

he did nothing but crack various ciphers, and because this work was top-secret, the general public couldn’t know about it. That’s how it is. Additionally, I must admit that it wasn’t Vasili who ultimately discovered Rong Jinzhen at the paper mill, or printing works, or wherever it was in M county. Rather it was the Director of Unit 701 who personally saw to the matter: he brought Rong Jinzhen home. Vasili, over the course of those few days and because of the strain of what had happened, had actually fallen dreadfully ill and could do very little. The Director, however, died ten years ago. Furthermore, even before he passed away, he would, by all accounts, refrain from raising the issue of what had happened then, almost as if he felt sorry for Rong Jinzhen. Some people said it was because he felt guilty about how he had treated Rong Jinzhen’s madness, and as death drew near, he blamed himself very much. I’m not sure if he was right to feel guilty or not, all I know is that his self-recrimination made me feel even more regret for how things turned out for Rong Jinzhen. Getting back to our story, there was one other person who had accompanied the Director on that fateful day: his chauffeur. People said that he was a very accomplished driver but functionally illiterate.

Hence we can’t be sure if it was a ‘printing works’ or a ‘paper mill’ where they found Rong Jinzhen. From the exterior, they both look very much the same, and for an illiterate person who had only seen things in passing, failing to distinguish between the two is quite to be expected. In my discussions with him, I was initially at great pains to help him understand that there are distinct differences between a paper mill and a printing works. For instance, the former would have several towering smokestacks whereas the latter would not. With respect to smells, a printing works would have the distinct odour of printing ink hanging in the air, whereas a paper mill would simply have turbid water spewing forth; there would be a decided lack of any pungent odour. Despite this explanation, however, the driver still could not provide me with precise details. Instead, his speech remained consistently evasive and unclear. Sometimes I thought that his equivocation was probably due to the difference between those who are educated and those who are not. For those less educated, judging what is real and what is not, what is right and what is wrong, must be fraught with difficulties and obstacles. And for this doddering, senile old man, whose love of tobacco and drink had eaten away at his memory — a decrepitude that would terrify the stoutest individual — speaking about something that had happened decades back was extremely difficult. But he was adamant that the incident took place in 1967 and not in 1969. Needless to say, this mistake made me doubt him all the more. As a result, for the ending, I decided I might as well take some liberties and have Vasili be the one who made his way to M county to find Rong Jinzhen and bring him home. I have given you these details as I felt the episode needed clarification.

I have to accept that the ending is the most unreal part of the entire story.

I sometimes feel regret for having fabricated it so.

The second reason for me to write this final section was that some people have shown great interest in finding out about what happened to Rong Jinzhen after he returned to Unit 701. This has served as encouragement for me.

This concern also implies that you, my reader, would like me to tell you how I understand Rong Jinzhen’s story. How I appreciate his tale.

I couldn’t be happier to tell you.

To tell you the truth, I came to learn of this story because of my father’s medical condition. In the spring of 1990, my then 75-year-old father suffered a paralysing stroke and had to be admitted to hospital.

Because treatment proved ineffective, he was transferred to a nursing home in Lingshan County in Guangxi. You could say that this wasn’t really a nursing home, but rather a hospice where the only concern was for the patients to quietly and peacefully wait for death. That winter, I paid a visit to my poor father and discovered that the pain and torment of his condition over the last year had mellowed him enormously. He was much kinder and more loving towards me, and much given to entertaining conversation. It was plain to see that he was hoping that repetition would convince me of his fatherly affection. In all honesty, it wasn’t necessary for him to act in this manner. Both of us already knew that the time for him to show this sort of affection had passed. When I had needed him, he wasn’t there — perhaps he never thought that this day would come, or perhaps there was some other reason: whatever the case may be, I have to admit that he never really loved me as a father should. It did not matter though. I wouldn’t hold it against him now and try to exact some form of revenge. I wouldn’t let it influence my sense of duty concerning how I should love and respect him in his final days. To be honest, I was greatly opposed to having him transferred to this particular nursing home in the first place, but my father had insisted on it most vociferously. I simply couldn’t change his mind. I understood, too, why he was adamant about coming here. He was worried that my wife and I would soon grow to hate having to take care of him day in and day out had he remained closer to home. It was a humiliation that he could do without. Of course, the possibility of this happening was not altogether remote — long-term sickness can weaken the resolve of even the most filial son. Nevertheless, I thought that there could be other possibilities; seeing him bedridden, perhaps we would have sympathized more, become even more filial.

But in all honesty, it was hard to endure listening to my father prattle on about his past embarrassments and regrets. Only when the conversation shifted to the bizarre and odd stories he had heard the other patients tell did I became attentive and eager to hear more. I was especially enthralled by the story of Rong Jinzhen. By the time I visited him, my father was quite familiar with the tale. After all, they shared the same ward — they were practically neighbours. My father told me that Rong Jinzhen had already been a resident of the Lingshan County nursing home for several decades. Without exception, everyone knew him and understood who he was. Upon arrival, every new patient received a special welcoming gift: Rong Jinzhen’s story. Discussing his great talents, the highs and lows of his life, had become the order of the day. Everyone enjoyed talking about him out of reverence and because he was so truly exceptional.

I soon realized that all the patients in the nursing home had the highest regard for Rong Jinzhen. In each and every place he appeared, it didn’t matter where, the people who saw him would immediately stop what they were doing, their gaze fixed upon him. If necessary, they would give way, smiling at him ever so slightly. But in spite of all of this, it is quite likely that Rong Jinzhen was completely oblivious to what happened round him. When the doctors and nurses were with him, the other patients couldn’t help but notice how they would treat him as though he were a member of their own family, or perhaps some senior official. And so it was in this reverential manner that Rong Jinzhen, this clearly mentally handicapped man, lived out his days. In all my life I have never seen anything like it. Only once on television did I see something similar, and that was the care given to Einstein’s British heir, Stephen Hawking.

I spent three days at the nursing home. While I was there, I discovered that during the day the patients were all given some free time to do as they pleased. Some would congregate together and play chess or cards. Some would stroll about, or just sit and chat. The doctors and nurses would eventually appear to perform check-ups or administer medicine. They would, as a rule, blow sharply on their whistles to urge the patients to return to their rooms. Only Rong Jinzhen would always remain in his room, speechless and uncommunicative.

Even for meals and for exercise someone had to go and call on him, otherwise he wouldn’t venture beyond his door. He behaved just as he had in those early days working in Unit 701, holed up in the cryptography room. For this reason, the day-shift nurses were given an additional responsibility: they had to be sure to go and collect Rong Jinzhen for his three daily meals and accompany him for thirty-minute walks after each repast. My father told me that in the beginning, when Rong Jinzhen first arrived at the nursing home, no one knew about his past and so some of the nurses resented giving him this special treatment. As a result, they wouldn’t always perform their duties, and Rong Jinzhen would often go hungry. Later, a very senior official paid a visit to the nursing home and happened to discover the poor treatment he was receiving. He summarily called all the doctors and nurses together and warned them: ‘If you have elderly parents at home, then how you would treat them is how you should treat him; if you have only children at home, then how you would treat your own children is how you should treat him; if you have no family, then treat him exactly as you would treat me.’

Afterwards, the glories and misfortunes of Rong Jinzhen’s life slowly came out, and at the same time the manner in which he was cared for changed. He was now treated as someone to be treasured; no one dared to slight him — they all handled him with the utmost care and respect. My father said that he was sure that if it were not for the nature of the work that he had done, he would have already become a household name, a hero. His miraculous achievements would be eulogized for generation after generation.

I replied, ‘But why should someone’s former profession dictate how he is to be treated at hospital? He should receive that kind of treatment anyway, shouldn’t he?’

‘There is that,’ my father said. ‘But as his outstanding service to the nation was slowly but surely revealed, everyone began to show him greater respect. They all began to dedicate a place in their hearts for him: the man they first saw had disappeared; he was now something so much more.’

In spite of this — in spite of everyone doing as much as possible to look after him — I felt that his life was intolerably difficult, and intolerably sad. At times I would see him through the window, squatting down on a sofa, his face completely blank, his eyes without a glimmer of light — completely unmoving, like a statue. Except for his hands: they never stopped trembling, as if they were being worked upon by some unknown force. In the evenings, through the pale white tranquil walls of the home, I would often hear his old man’s wheeze. It felt as though something or someone was pounding on him unremittingly. Then there were the nights when the stillness of people sleeping would occasionally be interrupted by what sounded like a Chinese oboe weeping ever so mournfully, the sound drifting through the walls. My father told me that Jinzhen made that heartwrenching wailing noise when he dreamed.

One evening in the canteen, I unexpectedly bumped into Rong Jinzhen. He sat in the seat facing me, his back bent, his head low, completely unmoving, just like a. . what was it. . a heap of clothes, a rag doll? He looked rather pitiful; the expression on his face showed the unrelenting and unmerciful passage of time. Silently I stole a look at his face and thought of what my father had said, thought of this man, once young, who had shown so much promise; a special operative of Unit 701 who had distinguished himself with meritorious service, had made exception contributions to the Unit. But now he looked so old, so mentally infirm. The passing of time had been without compassion, it had beaten him down, had turned him into a shell of a man — all that remained were his bones. Just like water wearing down a stone, or a particular phrase becoming crystallized and refined with the passage of time. As dusk fell, he looked so incredibly ancient: a truly ghastly sight, like a centenarian who might take his leave of this world at any time.

At first, with his head bent, he didn’t realize I was watching him, but after eating, as he stood up to leave, our eyes met. At that moment, a spark of something suddenly appeared in his eyes, as if life had just been returned to them. Turning towards me, he moved closer, with a kind of robotic movement; a shadow of pain clung about his face, like a beggar stumbling towards his chosen mark. Standing in front of me, he stared at me with two goldfish-like eyes, stretching out both his hands, as if begging for something. With great difficulty his trembling mouth sputtered out the following words: ‘Notebook, notebook, notebook. . ’

I was scared out of my wits, at a complete loss. Fortunately the duty nurse had noticed what was happening and quickly rushed over to extricate me. Immediately she started consoling him — then, putting her arm around him, she guided him step by step out of the room and into the darkness of the corridor. He continued to look back and forth between her and me.

Afterwards, my father told me that it didn’t matter who it was, but if your eyes met his, he would move towards you and ask after his long-lost notebook as though somewhere behind your eyes he had caught a glimpse of it.

‘He is still searching for it then?’ I asked.

‘Yes, still searching,’ my father replied.

‘Didn’t you say that they had found it?’

‘Yes, it was found,’ my father said. ‘but how could he know that?’

I couldn’t help but gasp in astonishment.

I thought that as a mentally crippled man, a man completely undone, it is perhaps no wonder that he had already lost his memory.

But there was something strange about this: the memory of his lost notebook seemed to be etched in his mind, carved in stone; he seemed to be almost brooding over it. He didn’t know that it had been found, he wasn’t aware of how time had cruelly passed him by. Nothing remained — nothing except for this one last recollection, this notebook. As the seasons passed, he staunchly held on, continuing to search for his notebook — for more than twenty years now. And the search continues. Even today.

What about tomorrow?

Might something unexpected happen?

Sadly, I think: maybe. . maybe. .

The third reason I wrote this final section has to do with the demands of my readers. There are those who are keen to believe in dark forces and evil plots. They believe in secret, clandestine meetings behind the scenes. They believe in all the conspiracies. These people, of course, hope that I will pick up my pen and write something in this fashion. The problem is that there are also many people, the majority, who are extremely practical — they like to get to the bottom of things, they want to understand everything thoroughly; they cannot help but keep turning things over and over in their minds. So they ask, what happened after BLACK? Indeed, this type of person seems to hold a grudge if they remain unsatisfied. They need to know. It was for this group that I decided to write this final section.

So, in the summer of the following year, I once again found myself paying a visit to Unit 701.

2

Just as time ate away at the colour of the gate to Unit 701’s compound, it also eroded some of the mystery surrounding the entire place, and eroded some of its imposing and yet serene nature. I used to find that being granted permission to pass through those gates was a painfully tedious and complicated affair. But this time the sentinel on duty simply inspected my credentials (my national ID card and reporter’s pass), instructed me to register my name in rather a nondescript logbook, and that was it. It was so easy that I couldn’t help but think that something was amiss, as if the guard was neglecting his duty or something. But once I made it deeper into the compound, these misgivings soon disappeared. Before me, in the large courtyard, peddlers hawked their goods, temporary workers idled about; everyone looked rather carefree and unconcerned, as though they were in some uninhabited sector. It was a veritable picture of bucolic simplicity.

I am not especially fond of the traditional image of Unit 701, but nor do I like seeing what it has become: it made me feel as though I were stepping on something insubstantial, like air. However, after asking about, I discovered that there was yet another inner courtyard within Unit 701’s complexes and I had simply stepped into the newly constructed residential area. This courtyard within a courtyard was like a cave inside a larger cave. Not only was it not easy to find, but if you did, you would not even notice that you had entered it. The sentinels on guard in this sector were like spectres. They would appear in front of you suddenly and without warning, striking a rather threatening and chilling pose, like an imposing ice sculpture towering up before you. They would forbid you to draw any closer. They seemed, in fact, almost afraid that you would come closer, as though the very warmth from your body would melt them; as if they really were made of ice and snow.

I spent ten days at Unit 701. As you can imagine, I saw Vasili, whose real name is Zhao Qirong. I also saw Rong Jinzhen’s no longer young wife, whose full name is Di Li. She was still a security officer. Her tall frame had been worn down somewhat by the passing of the years but she was still much taller than most people. She had no children, no parents; all she had was Rong Jinzhen, whom she considered to be both at the same time. She told me that her greatest trouble at present was her inability to resign from active duty, given the nature of her position. However, once her resignation was accepted, she planned to make her way to the Lingshan nursing home immediately, where she would spend every day seated beside Rong Jinzhen. Until that time came, she could only spend her annual leaves with him, about a month or two in total per year. I don’t know if it was because she had worked for such a long time as a security officer, or because she had spent so much time alone, but she gave me the impression of someone even more detached and reticent than Rong Jinzhen. To be frank, even though both Vasili and Di Li should be considered good people, they didn’t really help me all that much; nor did anyone else, save one. It seemed as though most of the people in Unit 701 weren’t really willing to drag up the tragic tale of Rong Jinzhen, and even if they did, their reminiscences would be fraught with errors and contradictions, as though the tragedy itself had made them forget that which they should have remembered. It was as though because they didn’t want to talk about it, they couldn’t. That is a very effective means to leave a story buried in the past.

On one of the first evenings of my stay I paid a visit to Rong Jinzhen’s wife. But because she wasn’t really forthcoming, I returned to the guest house soon afterwards. Once back in my room, I began to go through the few notes I had taken when a complete stranger, who must have been about thirty years of age, burst into my room. Introducing himself as an administrator from the security office by the name of Lin, he began to badger me with questions. I must say he was really rather unpleasant towards me, even searching through my room and luggage without permission. Of course, I knew that the result of his search would only make him believe and trust me — that I was here to praise and eulogize one of their own, the hero Rong Jinzhen — so I let him proceed with his investigation without making a fuss. The problem was that even after he searched everything, he didn’t trust me. He began to interrogate me again, making things very difficult, and finally telling me that he was going to confiscate all of my credentials — my reporter’s pass, my work permit, my ID card and writer’s association ID — as well as my tape recordings and notebooks. He had to investigate me further was all he said. I asked when I could expect to have my documents returned, but all he told me was that would depend upon the outcome of his investigation.

I spent a sleepless night.

During the morning of the following day, the same man, this Administrator Lin, came to find me. This time, however, his rough demeanour from the night before had disappeared. He went to great pains to apologize for his earlier presumptuousness and then politely returned my credentials and notebook. It was clear that the results of his investigation had been satisfactory, as I had expected. What caused me great surprise was that he also passed along a piece of very good news: someone higher up wished to speak with me.

With him as escort, I swaggered through three security checkpoints, ultimately entering the most secure area of the complex.

The first of the checkpoints was an armed police post with two guards on duty. Both carried pistols and truncheons. The second checkpoint was manned by the PLA. It too had two guards on duty, both armed with crow-black semi-automatic rifles. Their guard post was ringed with barbed wire and there was a small circular military pillbox made of stone adjacent to the gate. Inside were a phone and what looked to be machine guns. The third checkpoint was manned by a single guard in plainclothes who walked back and forth. He carried no weapon, only a walkie-talkie.

To tell you the truth, even today I am not entirely sure what department or sector Unit 701 belonged to: was it the military, the police or the local government? From my observations, almost everyone who worked there dressed casually, with only a few in military uniform. In the car park you could see both local licence plates and military ones, although the latter were much fewer in number. From the enquiries I made to different people I always received the same response: this was a question I shouldn’t ask, and what’s more, they didn’t know the answer. In any case, it didn’t matter whether it was a military unit or a civilian unit, all that was important was that it was a unit vital to the country’s well-being — after all, the military and civilian sectors are both of the country. Of course, that was true. What more was there to say? All nations need this type of agency, just as every household has its own first-aid kit. It is essential. When all was said and done, there was nothing really strange about it at all. It would be strange, in fact, for a country not to have this type of agency. But I digress.

After passing through the three checkpoints, we came upon a perfectly straight, narrow road, hemmed in on both sides by immense trees covered in lush foliage. The incessant chirping of the birds up in the trees echoed down, giving you the feeling that you had wandered off the beaten track and into some forest reserve. Proceeding forward, it seemed as though we wouldn’t encounter anyone, but then very suddenly my eyes fell upon a stunning six-floor building that towered up out of the trees. Its exterior façade was adorned with russet coloured ceramic tiles, giving it a stately and reassuring air. In front there was a large open space, the size of half a football pitch. On either side were rectangular grassy lawns. In the middle there was a square bed of flowers brimming with colour, a stone statue placed amid the fresh flowers — a sculpture that in outline and colour was reminiscent of Rodin’s The Thinker. At first I thought that this statue was indeed a reproduction of Rodin’s work, but upon a closer inspection, you could see that the seated figured was wearing a pair of spectacles and the character for ‘soul’ was prominently inscribed below it. From a distance, it was The Thinker. Later, after thoroughly scrutinizing it, I couldn’t help but feel that the statue looked vaguely familiar. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Asking Administrator Lin, I finally discovered who the statue was in honour of: Rong Jinzhen.

I stood in front of it for a long time. With the sun shining down upon it, with Rong Jinzhen’s chin firmly supported by his left hand, it seemed as though the statue’s eyes were fixed upon me; they shone radiantly. The statue shared some similarities with the Rong Jinzhen who now resided at the Lingshan nursing home. It was like looking at a man in the fullness of life and then seeing him in old age.

Taking leave of the statue, Administrator Lin — contrary to my expectations — led me round the back to a small two-storey westernstyle structure of greenish-black brick. I soon discovered that this building contained a remarkably Spartan parlour which was used to receive visitors. I was instructed to wait in the parlour, and before long I heard a distinct metallic clicking sound coming from the corridor outside. Not long afterwards an elderly man leaning on a walking stick made his way into the room. His eyes fell upon me and he said, ‘Ah, hello comrade reporter. Please, let’s shake hands.’

I stood up quickly to exchange a handshake and then invited him to sit on the sofa.

Sitting down, he said, ‘It should have been me going to meet you, because after all I am the one who requested to see you. But, as you can see, I don’t get around as easily as I used to, so I asked you to come here.’

I replied, ‘If I am right, you must be the man who went to recruit Rong Jinzhen at N University: Mr Zheng.’

He gave a roar of laughter. Pointing his cane at his lame foot, he said, ‘That’s what gave me away, isn’t it? You reporters are not all the same, eh? Ah, not bad, not bad. I am indeed that man, so now may I ask who you might be?’

I thought to myself: surely you’ve seen my credentials? Do you still need to ask? But out of respect for him, I quickly introduced myself.

After listening to my introduction, he waved a number of photocopied pages in front of me, saying, ‘How is it that you came to know of this?’

What he was waving about was a copy of my notebook!

I couldn’t help but ask, ‘I know I did not give my consent, so how is it that you copied my notebook without permission?’

‘Please don’t take offence; we really had no other option. There were five people who each felt a need to examine your notebook and if we were to pass it along to each in turn, I’m afraid it would’ve taken much more time before we could have returned it to you. Now, everything is fine, all the interested parties have read it and there are no issues — you could say that your notebook touches on nothing which counts as classified information and so we have returned it to you. If that had not been the case, well, it would have remained with me.’ He laughed a moment and then continued, ‘I do have one question that has plagued me since last night. How is it that you came to know of this? Please, comrade reporter, could you enlighten me?’

In the simplest manner possible, I related to him my first-hand experience at the Lingshan nursing home.

He listened, smiled knowingly, and said, ‘Oh, so that’s it. You are the child of someone in our organization.’

‘That’s not possible,’ I replied, ‘My father was a mechanical engineer.’

‘How can that be? Tell me, who is your father? Perhaps I know him.’

I told him who my father was and then asked if he knew him.

‘No, I don’t,’ he replied.

‘Exactly,’ I said. ‘How could you know him? My father can’t have been a member of your organization.’

‘Ah, but each and every one of the patients in the Lingshan nursing home is one of ours,’ he said.

I was truly overwhelmed by this news. My father was close to death and now suddenly I didn’t even know who he was. It goes without saying that had Director Zheng not mentioned this by chance, I would never have known about my father’s true identity — just as Master Rong was kept in the dark about Rong Jinzhen. Now I could understand why my father had never shown my mother and I the love we needed — why my mother had wanted a divorce. It seemed as though she had treated him unjustly. But the problem wasn’t there. Rather, the problem lay in the fact that Father had accepted this unfair treatment rather than trying to defend himself. What can I say about that? Was it conviction, or inflexibility? Worthy of respect or a source of sorrow? I suddenly felt a terribly suffocating feeling welling up in my heart. It would not be until six months later, in conversation with Master Rong about these events, that I would finally come to feel that my father’s stoicism ought to be respected and not mourned.

Master Rong told me that to conceal the truth from those closest to you for a long time, even for a lifetime, is unfair. But if they didn’t maintain such secrecy, it is possible that our country might not even exist today, or at least it would be under threat of disaster. It’s unfair, but the fact is that it has to be that way.

That was how Master Rong allowed me to appreciate my father anew, to permit the love and respect I felt for him to grow.

Returning to our story: the fact that the Director was satisfied that my notebook didn’t reveal any secrets left me feeling pleased, especially since had it not, it wouldn’t have been mine any longer. But his second remark made me feel as though I had been pushed into the Cold Palace — *

He said: ‘I believe that more than half the details that you have learnt have been acquired through hearsay. This is quite regrettable.’

‘Do you mean to say the details aren’t accurate?’ I asked anxiously.

‘No,’ he shook his head, ‘what’s real is real, it’s just that. . hmm, how should I put it, I feel that you don’t really understand Rong Jinzhen. Yes, that’s it: your understanding is rather deficient.’

Having reached this point, he paused to light a cigarette. Taking a long drag, he seemed to be mulling things over; then he raised his head and intoned seriously: ‘Looking at your notebook, it is rather scattered and fragmentary, with more than half of it based purely on word of mouth. But it has evoked within me many memories of Rong Jinzhen. I understood him the most, or at least — out of all of us — I understood him the best. Would you be interested in hearing me speak of him?’

I was floored. This was simply too good to be true. I couldn’t have asked for better!

It was in this manner that my book received a new vitality.

I met with the Director many times while I was staying at Unit 701. My understanding and grasp of Rong Jinzhen’s history expanded immensely, providing me with the ‘Transcript of the interview with Director Zheng’ sections in the earlier chapters. Of course, his purpose was not solely to provide me with material for this work; that was not his real aim. Before I got to know Director Zheng, Rong Jinzhen was something of a mystery to me, a legend. But now, after having talked with Director Zheng, he had become real, unquestionably a part of history. What is more, the man primarily responsible for putting Rong Jinzhen on this path, for changing the course of his life, was none other than Director Zheng. Not only did he not mind sharing his reminiscences with me, but he also provided me with a long list of names of people who were also familiar with Rong Jinzhen and his past, even though quite a few of them had already died.

I have only a single regret concerning my time spent at Unit 701. All the while I was there I had repeatedly referred to him as Director. I never thought to ask him his name and even now I still do not know it. As a member of a secret organization, one’s name is, as a rule, of no value; it is usually hidden behind a serial number and one’s official designation. For Director Zheng, his position in history was thoroughly identifiable by his lame foot. But covering up one’s name doesn’t mean that the name disappears; it just means that it has been buried. I truly believe that had I asked him — in a professional capacity — what his name was, he would have told me, but I was too enthralled by the image he projected and so I forgot to ask. As a result, I’m still confused as to what to call him — the Gimp, Zheng the Gimp, Section Chief Zheng, the Crippled Director, Director Zheng, Sir, and so on. Most people from N University referred to him as the Gimp or as Section Chief Zheng. He usually referred to himself as the Crippled Director. I generally addressed him as Sir or Director Zheng.

* Translators’ note: The Cold Palace refers to the area within the Forbidden City to which members of the imperial family would be confined if they displeased the emperor.

3

Director Zheng told me the following –

His connection to Rong Jinzhen had begun with his maternal grandfather. In the second year after the Xinhai Revolution, his maternal grandfather had got to know Old Lillie at the theatre and the two had become quite friendly thereafter. Since Director Zheng had grown up in his maternal grandfather’s residence, he had come to know Old Lillie from a very early stage. Later on, when Old Lillie died, his maternal grandfather had taken him along to N University to attend the memorial service and so he had met Young Lillie. He was fourteen at the time, in his second year of middle school, and the beauty of the campus left a deep impression on him. Once he graduated from middle school, he took his school transcripts in hand and went off to see Young Lillie to request that he be allowed to enrol in the high school attached to N University. And that was that, as they say. While a pupil at the affiliated high school, his language teacher was a member of the Communist Party, who would later recruit him. Once the War of Resistance against Japan broke out, teacher and student left the school and made their way to Yan’an. This was the beginning of his long revolutionary career.

I should say, once he set foot in N University, the foundation was laid for his path to cross that of Rong Jinzhen. But as he said himself, the sequence of events that ensured that they would meet wasn’t immediately set in motion. Fifteen years would pass before he was sent to N University to recruit talent for the cryptography division in Unit 701. It was mere coincidence that in paying a visit to the former chancellor and speaking of his mission to find people of talent that the latter would recommend Rong Jinzhen.

The Director said, ‘Although I couldn’t tell Young Lillie what kind of work I would be getting this person to do — only that they had to possess certain abilities — I was very clear about what abilities were needed. I was therefore very surprised and happy when the old man told me of Rong Jinzhen, especially since I had complete faith in his ability to discern another person’s character. The former chancellor was not someone given to making wisecracks, so when he made his joke, I was sure that Rong Jinzhen was precisely the kind of person I was looking for.’

It turned out to be true. Once Director Zheng had met Rong Jinzhen, he decided he was indeed the man they needed.

‘When you think about it,’ the Director said, ‘a mathematical genius, a man who since he was small had been intimate contact with the interpretation of dreams, who had studied both Chinese and Western thought, who had come to explore the intricacies of the human mind — he simply must have been put on this earth to be a cryptographer. Could I have been anything but startled?’

As to how they had come to agree to letting Director Zheng take Rong Jinzhen away, he said that this would remain a secret between himself and Young Lillie, a secret he wouldn’t divulge to anyone. On the whole, I thought this must be true, for at the time he must have been so eager to get the old man’s consent that he most likely violated the rules of his profession and told him the truth about why he wanted Rong Jinzhen. Otherwise, why would he still be so tightlipped about the whole affair?

Several times during our interviews he reiterated that his discovery of Rong Jinzhen was his single greatest contribution to the work done at Unit 701. But he never once thought that things would end up the way they did; he never foresaw the disaster that awaited Rong. Every time this was mentioned, he would shake his head in grief, sigh deeply, and then shout out Rong Jinzhen’s name several times in succession: ‘Rong Jinzhen! Rong Jinzhen! Rong Jinzhen!’[Transcript of the interview with Director Zheng]

If we were to talk about the time before he cracked PURPLE, then the image of Rong Jinzhen in my mind would have been hazy, unclear — wavering between him being a genius and him being insane. But after he deciphered PURPLE, the image came into focus: it was graceful and yet terrifying, like a tiger silently waiting to pounce. To tell you the truth, I admired him and respected him, but I never wished to get too close to him. I was afraid that I would be scalded by him; I was fearful of him, just as you would be while watching a tiger hunting. I daresay his spirit was that of a tiger. He tore apart problems as a tiger would relish gnawing meat off the bones of a recent kill: there was an animal ferocity in him, a calculated approach — again like a tiger that stalks its prey, waiting for the precise moment at which to pounce.

A tiger!

Lord of animals!

Lord of cryptography!

To tell you the truth, although I was much older than him and was considered an old hand in the Intelligence Service (indeed, by the time he arrived I was already a section chief), in my heart, I looked on him as my senior. No matter what the trouble was, I would ask him about it. The more I understood him, the more I got close to him, the more I became a slave to his intelligence, his presence; I would kneel down before him and have no regrets about doing so. .

. . As I’ve already mentioned, the world of cryptography does not allow for the appearance of similar ciphers — such an event would result in them becoming rubbish. Consequently, the world of cryptography has an unwritten rule, practically an iron-clad law: an individual can either create ciphers or crack them. Because Rong Jinzhen possessed the ability to create and destroy ciphers, he was enraptured by his own mind. However, such rapture was tantamount to discarding it, to losing it, to going completely mad. In principle, Rong Jinzhen should not have assumed responsibility for deciphering BLACK. His mind already belonged to PURPLE. Such a task should be his only if he was able to re-forge the inevitable fragmentation of his mind.

But for Rong Jinzhen, for that kind of person, we didn’t really believe that there were rules that applied. Rather, we trusted in his talent. To put it another way, we had faith in his ability to rebuild his mind — we believed that for him, this was not impossible. We might not believe in ourselves, we might not believe in the impartiality of rules, but there was no way that we could refuse to believe in Rong Jinzhen. For us, his very being was built upon those things that we believed to be impossible: he made those things real; made them part of reality itself. It was in this fashion that the great burden of cracking BLACK came to fall on his shoulders.

This necessitated his return to the forbidden zone.

But unlike the first time, this time he was forced by someone else — and also by his own illustrious reputation — into the forbidden zone. It was totally unlike the situation with PURPLE. There he penetrated deep into the historical woods of cryptography; of his own initiative he stormed into this forbidden area. But one man cannot be too outstanding. Once you are too apart from your fellows, you discover that your glorious reputation is no support. In fact, it is the reverse: it brings your own destruction ever closer.

I never probed into Rong Jinzhen’s frame of mind once he took on the responsibility for deciphering BLACK, but the suffering he endured as a result was unfair — that I saw clearly. If we were to talk of how he cracked PURPLE, then I could say that it was not terribly stressful for him: he was at ease going into battle; he arrived at work on time and left when the work day was over. Those around him remarked that it seemed as though it were all a game to him. But when it came to BLACK, well, his former light-heartedness had completely disappeared. The weight pressing down upon him was enormous, bowing him over. During the time he spent on BLACK, I saw at first-hand how Rong Jinzhen’s jet-black hair began to go grey, how his stature began to shrink: it was as though the situation had forced him into the labyrinth of BLACK; a labyrinth he couldn’t escape from. As you can imagine, BLACK carried Rong Jinzhen along with it, into its deeper realms — he was obsessed with tearing it apart, as well as about smashing his own mind to pieces. The torment and pain were like the two hands of the devil pressing down upon his shoulders. This man who had originally had no connection to BLACK (because he had cracked PURPLE), now endured the full weight of it: it was his shame, his sorrow, and even the pain and sorrow of the Unit itself. To speak frankly, I never doubted Rong Jinzhen’s talent and diligence, but as to whether or not he could pull another miracle out of his hat, to decipher BLACK, to overthrow the iron-clad law of the world of cryptography, I couldn’t say that I had no misgivings. I believe a genius is still a man, a man who can become confused, a man who can make mistakes; but should a man of this sort commit an error then that error must be colossal, must be shocking. In truth, in the world of cryptography there is unanimous agreement that BLACK was not some high-level cipher of exceptional rigorousness and importance. Indeed, the means by which it was cracked were shocking to everyone by their simplicity. For that reason, not long after Rong Jinzhen’s mental collapse, BLACK was quickly dispatched. In terms of talent, these cryptographers simply didn’t compare to Rong Jinzhen, but once the task had been undertaken, it was just like when Rong Jinzhen had cracked PURPLE: it took only three months and they did it in a completely relaxed fashion. .

[To be continued]

Did you hear? Someone deciphered BLACK!

Who?

Was he (or she) still alive? Director Zheng told me his name: Yan Shi. What is more, he told me that he was indeed still alive. He suggested that I go and interview him, and once the interview was over, come and see him again; apparently, Director Zheng had additional information to give me. Two days later, I met with Director Zheng again and the first words out of his mouth were a question: ‘So, what do you think of that old bastard?’ He was referring to Yan Shi, the man responsible for deciphering BLACK. His wording left me speechless for a moment.

‘Don’t be offended,’ he went on. ‘In truth, no one around here cares much for Yan Shi.’

‘Why?’ I asked, feeling that this was rather odd.

‘Because he has got so much out of it: too much, in fact.’

‘But he cracked BLACK — doesn’t he deserve to be rewarded?’

‘But everyone believes that his accomplishment was only possible because he had Rong Jinzhen’s notebook to work from; that his inspiration came solely from the work already carried out by Rong Jinzhen.’

‘That’s true; he admitted that to me,’ I said.

‘Really? No way — he would never have said that.’

‘Eh? I heard it with my own ears.’

‘What did he say, then?’ Director Zheng asked.

‘He told me that actually it was Rong Jinzhen who deciphered BLACK; that his own reputation was underserved.’

‘Oh, this is big news.’ He stared at me in surprise. ‘Previously he always skirted round the issue of Rong Jinzhen, evaded questions about how he figured out how to decipher BLACK. How is it that he didn’t with you? Hmm. . perhaps it’s because you are not a member of this organization, you’re somebody on the outside. I wonder.’ Director Zheng paused for a moment and then continued, ‘He never before so much as mentioned Rong Jinzhen, purposefully pushing him aside, trying to create the impression that he was entirely responsible for deciphering BLACK. But how could that have been possible? We’ve all been here together for such a long time, who doesn’t know who? Yet it seemed as though he had changed into a genius overnight; now tell me, who could believe that? No one, that’s who! As we saw him hog all of the glory for cracking BLACK, we really couldn’t accept it. There was so much gossip and complaint — we all felt outraged by the injustice done to Rong Jinzhen.’

I fell into deep thought. I wondered if I should disclose to him everything that Yan Shi had told me. To tell you the truth, Yan Shi never explicitly told me not to share with others what he had told me, but neither did he imply that it was okay to tell other people.

A moment of silence passed. Director Zheng looked me over and then continued speaking: ‘Actually, his inspiration for deciphering BLACK could only have come from Rong Jinzhen’s notebook, this fact is undeniable; everyone had already come to this conclusion and you’ve just now said that Yan Shi himself admits to this. Then why has he never come clean with us, why hasn’t he admitted it to us? It is just as I said: his only aim was to push Rong Jinzhen aside in order to obtain all the glory for deciphering BLACK himself. Everyone knew that. And because everyone knew it, he has stubbornly refused to admit it, causing everyone to loathe him even more and to not trust him at all. But I think that he was not at all clever with his selfish little machinations. Ah, but that is another topic altogether, let’s leave that for now. .

‘Now, I want to ask you — and you can take your time thinking about it — how is it that he was able to discover inspiration from Rong Jinzhen’s notebook when Rong Jinzhen himself couldn’t? It is quite reasonable to say that whatever it was that he learnt from the notebook, Rong Jinzhen should have been able to do the same and much earlier. Don’t you agree? After all, it was Rong Jinzhen’s notebook; his thoughts, his ideas. To use an analogy, you could say that the notebook was like a room and inside this room there was a key, the key to unlocking BLACK. Then how is it that the person whose room it was couldn’t find it? How is it that someone on the outside could simply enter the room and discover it immediately? Now I ask you, is that not strange?’

His analogy was quite apropos. It laid out all of his innermost thoughts about this situation on a plate; it was all very incisive. But I wanted to say that none of what he thought was actually what really happened. That is. . there were no problems with his analogy; rather, the problem lay in what he thought had taken place. Mulling it over whilst listening to him, I ultimately decided that I would tell him everything that Yan Shi had told to me; that in and of itself that should clear things up and establish for certain what actually transpired. But he never gave me the chance to get a word in edgewise, he simply continued on in the same breath: ‘It was then that I came to believe that while attempting to crack BLACK, Rong Jinzhen had made a cardinal sin, and what’s more, this error wound its way into his head, bludgeoning a genius into an idiot. This mistake, when all is said and done, could only have happened to someone who could transgress the iron-clad law of cryptography: it was the residual effect of his having cracked PURPLE lurking in the shadows, waiting to cause mischief.’

Having reached this point, Director Zheng stopped talking and went silent. It seemed as though he had fallen into a state of mournful melancholy. As I waited for him to speak again, it became obvious that he wasn’t going to continue on with his story but rather to bid me farewell. Even though I had thought of telling him what I had learnt from Yan Shi, I never had the chance. But I was happy with this. I thought, ‘Since I wasn’t really sure if I should tell him or not, not having been given the opportunity to do so worked in my favour, it allowed me to avoid the burden the words would have incurred.’

Before we parted, I had to remind him, ‘Didn’t you say that you had some additional information to give me?’

He was a bit taken aback, but then made his way over to a metal file cabinet and pulled open a drawer. Removing a single file, he asked, ‘Did you know that when Rong Jinzhen was at university he was the student of a foreign professor, a man by the name of Jan Liseiwicz?’

‘No, I hadn’t heard that.’

‘This man went to great efforts to prevent Rong Jinzhen from deciphering PURPLE. This file is the proof. Have a look, and should you need it, we can make copies for you.’

That was how I first heard of Liseiwicz.

Director Zheng admitted that he did not know Liseiwicz and what he had discovered had come by way of hearsay. He said, ‘When he made contact with us here, I was overseas in Y country to learn from their experience in trying to decrypt PURPLE. Even after I returned, I did not come into contact with the Liseiwicz correspondence; only the special task force assigned to cracking PURPLE had any firsthand knowledge of these letters. At the time, Headquarters was taking direct charge of things — perhaps they feared we would fight over it, fight to see who could produce the desired outcome. As a result, they kept us in the dark about the whole affair. It was only much later on that I met a senior official from Headquarters who was prepared to let me see the letters. They are all in English, but accompanied with Chinese translations.’

Having reached this point, a thought suddenly occurred to him: the original English letters should remain in his possession. I therefore opened the file and began to separate the English originals from the translations. It was then that I saw a record of a telephone conversation on top of the file — someone named Qian Zongnan had telephoned. The note seemed to serve as a foreword to the case files. There were only a few sentences:

Liseiwicz was employed as a high-level military intelligence analyst for X country. I saw him four times, the last in the summer of 1970. Later I discovered that Liseiwicz and Fan Lili were put under house arrest at PP military base, reason unknown. Liseiwicz died in 1978 at PP base. In 1981, the military authorities of X country released Fan (Lili) from house arrest. In 1983, Fan (Lili) arrived in Hong Kong in search of me, hoping that I would assist her in making arrangements for her to return to China. Assistance refused. In 1986, it was reported that Fan (Lili) was in her home town of Linshui county, C City, contributing funds to establish an engineering project. By all accounts, she is still resident in Linshui county.

Director Zheng told me that this person, Qian Zongnan, was at that time an informant, a comrade charged with keeping tabs on Liseiwicz in X country. Upon being handed the file, I had thought that this man would be crucial for helping me to come to a better understanding of the role played by Jan Liseiwicz in these events. I was therefore very sad to be informed that he had died the year before. Still, the record did make mention of Fan Lili, Liseiwicz’s Chinese wife. If I wished to understand him, then she was without a doubt the best person to talk to.I was ecstatic.

4

Since I lacked a specific address, I had at first mistakenly believed that finding Fan Lili would entail great deal of effort and be fraught with complications and setbacks; the actual experience was anything but. Making initial enquiries at the Linshui County Education Bureau, it seemed as though everyone in the building knew her. As it turned out, several years ago not only had she succeeded in establishing three primary-level Hope Schools,* she had also donated tens of thousands of yuan worth of textbooks to the local middle schools. You could say that those on the frontlines of education in Linshui, without exception, knew who she was and respected her. However, when I found her at Jinhe Hospital in C City, my original ambition went cold, for there she was, lying in bed with her larynx removed. Gauze was tied about her neck and head in a rough fashion, making it seem as though she possessed two skulls. She was suffering from throat cancer. The doctor said that even though the surgery was successful, there was no way that she could speak unless she practised making sounds through her lungs. Because the surgery had just taken place recently, her condition was still very poor. It would be impossible for me to interview her. Therefore, I said nothing and instead pretended that I was another of the numerous senior people from Linshui county who had come to pay their respects. I left her flowers and my best wishes, and took leave. Later, over the course of the next few days, I visited her in the hospital three more times. On each visit she would write her responses to my questions. Altogether, she wrote several pages and each one astonished me!

To tell you the truth, if she hadn’t written these answers, no one would ever have grasped the truth about Liseiwicz. We would never have realised his true identity and position, his sincere desires and shame, his indisputable pain and sorrow. In a very real sense, Liseiwicz’s departure for X country was far from being all there was to that story. The entire tale was something truly mind-boggling, a genuinely freakish combination of events.

* Translators’ note: Hope Schools, or xiwang xiaoxue, refer to privately run primary and elementary schools set up in poor rural areas of China. The schools are funded primarily by wealthy Hong Kong and Taiwanese social organizations.

To be honest with you, Fan Lili’s words demand patience in order to be appreciated and valued.

I give them to you below, word for word. The first time:

1. He (Liseiwicz) was not a code-breaker.

2. Since you already know that he wrote those letters in order to mystify you and put you on the wrong track, why do you still believe what he said? Those words were all lies — him a code-breaker? He created ciphers; he was the enemy of those who decipher them.

3. PURPLE was his creation!

4. This will take some explaining. It was the spring of 1946. A man had come looking for Liseiwicz, a fellow student from Cambridge. At that time, it seemed that this man was preparing to take charge of a very important post for the government of Israel. He took Liseiwicz to a church on Gulou Street, and in front of God and in the name of the millions of Jewish compatriots, requested him to devise a cipher for the State of Israel. Liseiwicz took more than a year to construct the cipher, but his sponsors didn’t seem to care; they were ever so pleased. Since the time he was a small child, Liseiwicz had grown up surrounded with adulation: his ego was very strong and it wouldn’t let him fail. But because he didn’t have enough time in which to work on it, it was somewhat rushed — at least for him — and he began to feel that there were many flaws within it; so he took it upon himself to devise a new cipher to take its place. This was when he was hopelessly drawn deeper and deeper into the bewildering world of cryptography. Finally, after nearly three years of work, he succeeded in devising a cipher he could be satisfied with. That cipher was PURPLE. He then requested that the Israeli authorities replace his previous cipher with this new one. They decided to experiment with it, but the result was not what he expected: PURPLE turned out to be too difficult; there was no way that they could use it. At the time, the famous cryptanalyst Klaus Johannes was still living. It was said that after he saw a secret telegram encrypted with PURPLE, he remarked. ‘I would like to have three thousand similarly encrypted telegrams come across my desk, all waiting to be deciphered, but in the current situation,* I will probably only see a thousand.’† The meaning of this statement was clear — in however many years he had left, he would not be able to crack this cipher. Once X country got wind of this, they immediately thought of buying PURPLE, but at that time we had not yet decided to leave N University. What is more, considering the strained relationships between X country and China, we decided that it was best not to respond to this proposal. What happened later was as you described it: in order to rescue my father, we used PURPLE to make a deal with X country.

5. Yes, he believed that Rong Jinzhen would sooner or later decipher PURPLE, and so he made every effort to impede his progress.

6. In the entire world, there was only one person he admired and that was Rong Jinzhen. He believed that concentrated within Jinzhen was the sum of all Western knowledge and wisdom, something only seen once every hundred years. 7. I’m tired, another day.The second time:

1. This, using the words of a military intelligence analyst, is for external dissemination. In fact, he (Liseiwicz) was still engaged in the development of ciphers.

* At the time, World War II had ended and there was no large-scale conflict taking place.

† The absence of war meant that for the moment there were not as many coded telegrams being sent back and forth.

2. A high-level cipher is like the main actor in a play: there has to be an understudy. When developing a high-level cipher, generally two are created: one for use, the other in reserve. But the essence of PURPLE was derived from Liseiwicz’s very own character; it was impossible for him to simultaneously create two ciphers. Furthermore, when he was constructing PURPLE he never once thought that it would become a high-level cipher. When he created it, it was as though he had researched and developed an entirely new language, a language that itself required considerable precision. But once X country decided to use PURPLE as a high-level cipher, they immediately determined that a reserve cipher would have to be created; this understudy was none other than BLACK.

3. Correct, as soon as he set foot in X country he was immediately whisked away to participate in the development of BLACK. But to be precise, he served as an observer of the work.

4. Strictly speaking, one man can only create one high-level cipher. His participation in the development of BLACK was as an observer, meaning that he was not directly engaged in the research. His role was to highlight clearly the special characteristics of PURPLE, to work in tandem with the researchers, to guide them away from making a simple replica of PURPLE. Sort of like a navigator. For instance, if PURPLE set its gaze upon the sky, then he would ensure that BLACK directed its attention towards burrowing into the ground. How it was to in fact burrow into the ground was for the actual researchers to determine.

5. Before they learned that Jinzhen had cracked PURPLE, the underlying structure of BLACK had already been completed — the two ciphers were about the same level of difficulty. Making them difficult is the primary aim of creating high-level ciphers; why else would the field of cryptography gather in the most talented and erudite of people if not because everyone wishes to confound and baffle their opponents? But, after learning that Jinzhen had deciphered PURPLE, he became adamant about the need to make revisions to BLACK. He had the distinct feeling that since Jinzhen had been able to crack PURPLE, he could do the same with BLACK. He knew this because he knew Jinzhen: he knew the type of person he was, and he appreciated his innate talent, a talent that only became more excited and aroused when confronted with a difficult and seemingly impenetrable problem — more determined to solve it. Nothing would stop him, not even death. If death would not stop him, then the only remaining option was to devise some means to thoroughly baffle and confuse him, to introduced manoeuvres that would challenge his entire way of thinking: this was the only way to defeat him. As a result, BLACK was revised, but not in a traditional manner. Rather, the cipher had become almost absurd; certain sections were extremely impenetrable, whilst others were incredibly easy: it was neither fish nor fowl but something nondescript. To use Liseiwicz’s own words, it was like a man who on the outside appears absolutely refined and exquisite, but underneath is wearing neither underpants nor socks.

6. You’re absolutely right,* but Jinzhen understood Liseiwicz’s mind too well. You could say that cracking PURPLE was akin to him and Liseiwicz sitting down to play a game of chess; he would not be distracted by Liseiwicz. Since he couldn’t be distracted, it was possible for him to go on to crack other ciphers. But BLACK was not broken in this manner.

7. I don’t agree with what you said:† after all, even if such a person existed there would have been no way that he could have accomplished everything himself, he must have relied upon what Jinzhen wrote in his notebook.

* The world of cryptography has an unwritten rule: an individual can either create ciphers or crack them! This is so because whatever path the person takes, either creating ciphers or deciphering them, that person’s heart and mind have already been given over to their work. However, the world does not allow two similar ciphers to exist.

† I told her that in the end, BLACK was not deciphered by Rong Jinzhen.

8. If you can, could you please tell me exactly what happened to Jinzhen?

9. I suppose what Liseiwicz said was correct.

10. He said, ‘Our lives were ruined by Jinzhen, but in the end he still destroyed himself.’

11. Jinzhen — this kind of person — could perhaps only be destroyed by himself; no one else would be able to accomplish it. Actually, both of them, Liseiwicz and Rong Jinzhen, were cursed by their fates: fate killed them. The only difference was that Jinzhen’s fate was not independent of itself; his fate was tied up with Liseiwicz’s destiny. But from Jinzhen’s perspective, Liseiwicz was simply his gifted teacher and that is all.

12. Let’s talk more again another day. When you come, please bring along the letters Liseiwicz wrote to Jinzhen. I would like to see them.The third time:

1. Yes, Liseiwicz was Weinacht.

2. This much is clear. At the time, he was a member of the Secret Service; how could he use his real name to play the role of a mathematician? A mathematician is someone in the public eye, but the nature of his real work would not allow for that. Besides which, in terms of professional ethics it would not be permitted. What kind of organization would allow you to take a high salary and then just carry on doing your own job?

3. Because he was only an observer on the team developing BLACK, he had the time and energy to engage in other research. In truth, he had always dreamt of working on artificial intelligence and I should say his theory on the binary nature of mathematical constants was of great importance in the development of computer technology. Why did he hope to persuade Jinzhen to leave China? It wasn’t because he was acting at the behest of certain people with certain political aims. No, he hoped that Jinzhen would remain overseas so that the both of them could collaborate on this artificial intelligence project.

4. You will have to think about this problem yourself;* I can give you no answer. In short, Liseiwicz was a scientist: in terms of politics, he was terribly naïve and so it was very easy for him to be wounded; it was also easy for him to be used. As for what you just mentioned — that he was a virulent anti-communist — that is a complete fabrication; I am sure that he harboured no such feelings.

5. Some of the circumstances are clear.† Both of these highlevel ciphers (PURPLE and BLACK) were cracked one after the other. The first, he (Liseiwicz) had created solely by himself, the second he had been a participant in. What is more, the person responsible for deciphering them both was his student. I was there. He did write so many letters — although to look at them they seemed to be an assortment of stratagems aimed at misleading their reader, in truth, who knows whether or not those riddles contained yet more secret information hidden inside them? The probability of deciphering a highly sophisticated cipher is extremely low, and now to see one person crack two of these ciphers in succession and do so incredibly quickly — well, ordinarily that would be impossible. The only way it could have happened was if someone were leaking secrets. But who? The greatest suspicion fell on him, on Liseiwicz. 6. We were put under strict house arrest after it was discovered that BLACK had been broken: that was in the second half of 1970. But even before then, starting around the time when PURPLE was cracked, we were being shadowed whenever we went out. Our telephone was also being monitored, and there were so many restrictions. In truth, it was as though we were under partial house arrest already.

7. In 1979, Liseiwicz passed away due to illness.

8. Ah yes, that was while we were still under house arrest. Every day we were together, every day we had to find things to talk about. That’s how I came to know so much about these things; it was during our period of house arrest that he told me everything. Before that, I knew very little.

9. I’ve been thinking: why has God cursed me with this disease? Perhaps it’s because I know too many secrets. It’s funny really — now that I have no mouth I can talk about these things. Before, when I had a mouth, I couldn’t.

10. I don’t wish to carry these secrets to my grave: I want to die in peace. In my next life I want to be a normal, average person. I don’t want glory, I don’t want secrets, I don’t want friends or enemies.

11. Don’t lie to me, I know how sick I am. The cancer has already spread: I have maybe a few months left.

12. You don’t want to say goodbye to a person about to die, that’s bad luck. Go, I wish you a happy and peaceful life!

* This is a reference to how Liseiwicz later became involved in extremist politics. † This is a reference to the circumstances which resulted in X country putting Liseiwicz and his wife under house arrest.

A few months later, I heard that she underwent open skull surgery and a few months after that I heard that she had died. Supposedly, in her last will and testament she mentioned me — hoped that I wouldn’t use their real names in the book I was writing; she and her husband wanted to rest in peace. In this book, the names Fan Lili and Liseiwicz are aliases. Even though this goes against the criteria I had set for writing — really, what could I do? An old person, whose fate had been full of frustrations and dashed hopes, who had loved so deeply and passionately, whose last will and testament spoke of a desire to be left in peace — because their life had been so difficult, how could I not respect their wishes!

5

I should talk about Yan Shi.

It was perhaps true that Yan Shi had initially attempted to push Rong Jinzhen to one side; he had deliberately tried to create estrangement between himself and everyone else in Unit 701. After his retirement, he no longer lived within the confines of the unit; instead, he had moved with his daughter to the capital of G province. The high-speed expressway had made the distance between there and A City quite short, and so I arrived in the provincial capital just three hours after leaving Unit 701. Even better, I had little difficulty in locating the daughter’s home and thus seeing Yan Shi.

He was as I imagined him. Sporting a pair of thick-lensed nearsighted spectacles, he was already well over seventy; indeed, much closer to eighty. His hair was luminous silver and his eyes carried deceit and secrets within them. In short, he was completely devoid of the benevolence and grace expected of old men. As my visit was rushed, I had come upon him seated in front of a Go table; his right hand was deftly manoeuvring a set of resplendent meditation balls while his left grasped a white Go stone; he was deep in thought. But there was no opponent seated opposite him — he was playing against himself. Yes, playing against himself — like speaking to one’s self; like some tragic and lonely old fool still holding onto great aspirations. His granddaughter, a fifteen-year-old high-school student, told me that since his retirement it was hard to pry him away from the game. Every day he whiled away the hours either playing Go or reading books on it. He had become quite skilled at it, so much so that it was now hard for him to find an opponent. All he could do was rely upon his Go books to satisfy his addiction.

Haven’t you heard? Playing chess against one’s self is actually like playing against a famous exponent.

A full table of Go was what triggered our conversations. Full of pride, he would tell me of the benefits of Go: how it could drive away loneliness, how it exercised the brain, nourished the soul and extended one’s life. After relating to me the many advantages of playing Go, he summed it all up by saying that his love of the game was actually an occupational hazard. ‘With respect to those working in cryptography, our collective fate is naturally tied up with the various games of chess — especially those with commonplace lives. Finally they will all be seduced by the art of chess, just like pirates and drug pushers are seduced by their own wares. It is just like how some people become interested in good works in their old age.’

That was how he explained it. His analogy allowed me to picture some form of reality, but. . ‘Why did you emphasize a commonplace life?’ I asked.

Mulling it over for a moment, he said, ‘In the case of very talented cryptanalysts, you could say that their passion and intellect is expressed through their work. In other words, their genius is used — by themselves and by their work. A soul spent in such explosive fashion tends toward the peaceful, the contemplative; it lacks the stress of having to repress oneself; it lacks anxiety about withering away. Without such pressure, naturally there is no desire to unburden one’s heart. Such people do not anxiously crave a new life. Therefore, for most geniuses, their later years are filled with memories; they listen attentively to the beauty of their own voice. But for those with commonplace lives, it is different. Those of talent, members of the inner circle, would refer to us as the fairer sex. It meant that we possessed elements of genius, but could never perform such work. We spent our years searching, feeling oppressed — filled with talent but never able to truly demonstrate it, to release it. For this kind of person their later years possesses no memories of glory; there is nothing to sum up. What are they to do in their so-called golden years? Only what they have done their whole lives: they continue to search in vain for something to do, unconsciously trying to find some way to put their abilities to use; enacting the ultimate and final struggle. This is the meaning of my infatuation with chess, the first meaning. The second meaning — well, if you look at it from another point of view, geniuses put in an enormous amount of time assiduously studying, pouring their hearts out, aiming to pass through an incredibly narrow path in order to reach the peak, and even if their hearts contained some other desire, a wish to do something else, they cannot: the path their minds are to traverse has been set, they cannot be torn away from it [his use of the word ‘torn’ filled me with a sense of horror, as if my whole spirit had been taken hold of by some unknown force]. Their minds, their mental powers, were already unable to move in a natural and unrestrained manner: they could only move forward, marching ever deeper along that same narrow path. Do you know the roots of madness? Genius and madness issue forth from the same track; both are brought about by bewitchment. Would you fancy playing a game of chess with them in their old age? Impossible, because they can’t!’

In a slightly halting voice, he continued, ‘I’ve always believed genius and madness are two sides of the same coin: they are like your left and right hands, both reaching out from this human body of ours, only they are walking different paths. In mathematics, there are positive infinities and negative infinities; in a sense, you could say that a genius is a positive infinity whilst a madman or a fool would represent a negative infinity. But in mathematics, both positive and negative infinities are still infinites: numbers without end. Therefore I’ve often thought that one day, when this human race of ours reaches a certain point of advanced development, perhaps the madman will become like the genius: a man of outstanding talent, a wise and able individual capable of making contributions to society that astound one and all. Of course, I needn’t speak of anything else, just ciphers. Imagine for a moment if we were able to march the same road as the madman (which is really no road at all) and devise a cipher; then it goes without saying that there would be no one capable of deciphering it. Actually, developing ciphers is a sort of madman’s work, it pulls you close to insanity and to genius. Or you could put it the other way round: in terms of composition, genius and insanity are made from the same stuff. It’s really surprising! Thus, I’ve never discriminated against madmen. I believe that perhaps, somewhere buried in their insanity, lies something to be treasured, something that we just can’t get at, at least for the moment. They are like a secret cache of mineral resources, waiting for us to extract them.’

Listening to this old man go on, I felt as though my spirit had been cleansed; my mind had never been so purified before. It was as though my mind had been encrusted with dust and grime and his words had served as a torrential flow of water scouring them away, allowing my tarnished mind to exhibit a new glow. I felt at ease, really quite happy! I listened attentively, and appreciated the subtle taste of his logic. I drank it in and became intoxicated. It seemed as though I had lost my train of thought; then at long last my eyes fell on the black and white stones on the Go board and I came to, finally asking, ‘Then how is it that you have come to be infatuated by Go?’

He shifted in his rattan chair. Then, in a tone of voice at once mocking and cheerful, he said, ‘I am just one of those with commonplace lives.’

‘No,’ I retorted, ‘You deciphered BLACK: how could you be common?’

His gaze became fixed, his body straightened up and the rattan chair creaked and moaned underneath him as if trying to ascertain whether his weight had increased or not. A moment of stillness passed between us and then he raised his eyes to look at me. In a serious tone he said, ‘Do you know how I deciphered BLACK?’

I shook my head thoughtfully.

‘Would you like to know?’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘Then I shall tell you. Rong Jinzhen helped me do it!’ It seemed as though he were calling out to him. ‘Ah, no, no, I should say it was Rong Jinzhen who deciphered BLACK: my fame is unwarranted.’

‘Rong Jinzhen. . ’ I was astonished. ‘Isn’t he. . didn’t something happen to him?’ I didn’t say that he had gone mad.

‘Yes, that’s right. Something did happen to him: he went mad.’ The old man continued, ‘But you’ll never guess: it was in the midst of this destruction, in his ruin, that I saw the hidden secret of BLACK.’

I felt my heart being cleaved in two. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Ah. . that’s a long story!’ He exhaled leisurely, his gaze moved away from me, he became immersed in memories of times past. .

6

[Transcript of the interview with Yan Shi]

I don’t remember exactly when it was — perhaps 1969, or maybe 1970 — but in any case, it was winter when Rong Jinzhen lost his mind. Prior to this, he had served as our section chief and I was his immediate subordinate. It was a big department — we were at our peak: there must’ve been more than X number of people in our section. Now it is smaller, much smaller. There was also another section chief there at the time, a man by the name of Zheng. He’s still there; I have heard he is now the Director. He is also quite an astounding individual. He took several bullets in the leg, causing him to walk with a limp, but it never affected his rise up into the echelons of the elite. Rong Jinzhen was discovered by him; they had both studied mathematics at N University. Their relationship was good; it was said that there were even some family connections. Before him, there was another section chief, from the old National Central University; a student of some renown, who during the War of Resistance cracked many of the ciphers used by those Japs. After the revolution, he joined Unit 701 and continued to work on special assignments. Sadly, PURPLE drove him mad. All told, we were fortunate to have had these three section chiefs; they allowed us to achieve the most glorious results. And I do mean glorious, I’m not exaggerating at all. Of course, had Rong Jinzhen not lost his mind, I daresay we would have accomplished even more; but ah, well, with what happened. . you never know, do you? The most unexpected things happen sometimes.

Getting back to what I was saying, after Rong Jinzhen fell. . ill, it was decided that I would assume his responsibilities, which meant deciphering BLACK. That notebook, Rong Jinzhen’s notebook, was the most important piece of information we had, so naturally it came into my hands. That notebook — well, you don’t know it, but that notebook was in essence the receptacle for all of his thoughts, a repository for his ruminations on BLACK; it contained all his mature reflections on the cipher as well as all his wild and crazy speculations. As I pored over each word, each sentence, each page, I began to feel that every single word meant something; every word was important. It shook me to the core: each word had a special quality to it, exciting me, provoking me. I had never discovered that kind of ability within myself, but I could admire what he had written. What is more, the notebook told me that Rong Jinzhen had already completed ninetynine per cent of the work. All that was left was to take the last step.

That final step was related to everything that came before — namely finding the key to unlocking BLACK.

The concept behind a cryptographic key is this: say that BLACK was a house that needed to be burnt down, then the first thing you would need to do is to collect the necessary kindling, enough to start the fire. Well, the amount of kindling collected by Rong Jinzhen would put a mountain to shame: enough to cover the house from top to bottom. All that remained to do was start the fire. Finding a match was the key to cracking BLACK.

From examining the notebook, you could see that Rong Jinzhen had set off down the path to finding this key a year before. This means that the other ninety-nine per cent had only taken Rong Jinzhen two years to complete, but that he couldn’t take that final last step. That to me was strange. Whatever way you look at it, if it took him two years to complete ninety-nine per cent of the work, then it didn’t matter how difficult that last one per cent might be, he shouldn’t have needed to waste a year trying to figure it out and then still not get it. This was just too strange.

Something else was also odd, but I’m not sure whether you can understand it or not. BLACK was a high-level cipher and we had spent years working on cracking it, but without making any progress. It was as though a sane person had borrowed the words of a madman to speak. In three years, there was not a single mistake to work with; not a drop of water had escaped. In the history of cryptography, this is an extremely rare phenomenon. Rong Jinzhen had already discussed this issue with me, believing that this was exceptionally odd. Over and over again he had raised doubts about BLACK, even suggesting that perhaps it had been plagiarized from an earlier cipher created by some agency or other. After all, once used, a cipher will invariably be modified, improved upon; this is the only way to reach perfection. Otherwise, the person creating it must be a god, possessing a genius far beyond what we can imagine.

These two strange phenomena were also the two main problems that we were forced to deal with. Looking at the notebook, I could see that Rong Jinzhen had thought extensively, profoundly, rigorously upon these two problems. The notebook brought me once more into contact with Rong Jinzhen’s spirit, in contact with his majesty: a thing so beautiful that it was frightening. When I first came into possession of his notebook, I thought that I would stand upon his shoulders and use all my energies to push forward on the path laid out in it. But once I entered into it, I realized that there was no way that I could march in tandem with such genius; even the slightest contact with such a soul shook me violently — attacked me!

His mind was trying to take me over.

At any moment, it would swallow me whole!

You could say that that notebook was Rong Jinzhen. I was drawing closer to him (though the medium of the notebook); I was being pushed towards him; I began to feel more and more his formidableness, his profundity, his wonder. Simultaneously, I began to feel my own weaknesses, my own insignificance — it was as though I was shrivelling up. In those days, poring over every word and sentence in the notebook, I began to realize, to comprehend, just how unique and special Rong Jinzhen was; how much talent he possessed. I began to see how crazy and bizarre his thinking was, how crafty and incisive he was. He was sharp, keen; he possessed a vigorousness about him that threatened; he was ferocious. All this implied a certain nastiness about him, an evil that lurked deep inside, ready to consume you at a moment’s notice. As I read through the notebook, it was as if I were reading about all of mankind: creation and murder were lumped together in large numbers; yet, ultimately, everything had a peculiar sort of beauty about it, revealing man’s remarkable intellect and passion.

To tell you the truth, the notebook had created this kind of person for me — he was like a god, he had created everything; he was also the devil, the destroyer of all things, including my own mind. Standing in front of this man, I felt devoted, awed and terrified; through and through I felt the need to prostrate myself in front of him. Three months passed and I had not stood upon his shoulders — I just couldn’t do it: I couldn’t stand up! All I could do was to stand meekly by his side, like a long-lost child that had finally found its mother’s embrace and was loath to leave her again; like a single raindrop finally falling to the ground and burrowing itself deep inside.

As you can imagine, if this was all I could do, then the best I could hope for would be the same as Rong Jinzhen: I too would be stuck at the ninety-ninth step; that final step would remain forever in the darkness. Perhaps time would eventually have permitted Rong Jinzhen to make that last step but not me, because as I just said, I was but a child walking alongside him — since he had fallen, I too would fall. It was then that I discovered that this notebook that had been given to me was filled with nothing but sorrow. It had allowed me to reach the cusp of victory, allowed me to spy it in the distance, but it kept that same victory forever beyond my grasp. How sad, how pitiful! I felt overwhelmed with horror at my plight, I felt utterly helpless.

However, just at that moment, Rong Jinzhen returned from the hospital.

It’s true, he was discharged: but not because he had recuperated, rather. . how shall I put it? It was just that there was no hope in him being cured so remaining in the hospital was meaningless — thus he returned.

I’d like to say it was the will of heaven, but I never spoke with Rong Jinzhen again. When everything happened, I was in hospital and by the time I was released, Rong Jinzhen had already been moved to the provincial capital to receive treatment there. Paying him a visit would have been most inconvenient and what is more, as soon as I was discharged, I was given BLACK to deal with. There was simply no time to see him. Besides which, after all, I had his notebook. The first time I laid eyes on him was after he had been released from hospital, after he had already gone mad. But we never spoke.

That was the will of heaven.

I should say that if I had gone to see him a month earlier, perhaps what happened later would not have taken place. Why do I say this? I have two reasons: first, while Rong Jinzhen was in hospital, I was absorbed in reading his notebook. In my mind’s eye, Rong Jinzhen was metamorphosing into an ever greater, ever larger, ever more intrepid character: a veritable giant; secondly, while reading through the notebook and turning things over in my mind, the difficulties in deciphering BLACK were diminishing, tapering down to a fine point. A basis of sorts was being laid down that would serve as the foundation for everything that happened afterwards.

One afternoon I heard that Rong Jinzhen would be coming back. Upon learning this, I set off to see him, but I was a bit too early, he had not yet arrived home and so I waited in the courtyard in front of his apartment. Shortly afterwards, I saw a jeep slide into the courtyard and come to a stop. Two people leapt out, an administrator from our division by the name of Huang, and Rong Jinzhen’s wife, Di Li. I went over to greet them. They looked me over, taking note of my slovenly appearance, and then turned back towards the jeep to assist Rong Jinzhen in getting out. It seemed as though he was unwilling to leave the car, as if he were something fragile, something easily broken; he could not just get out of the jeep, he had to alight carefully and slowly, ever so cautiously.

After a moment, he finally managed to get out of the vehicle. But the man I saw was not Rong Jinzhen — he bore no resemblance to the man I knew. This man was hunched over, his whole body trembling; his head seemed as though it had only been recently attached to his body — it was awkwardly placed, and seemed to be teetering off balance. His eyes were wide open, globular, filled with some unknown terror, and yet there was no glimmer of light in them; his mouth hung open like some gaping rift or breach, as though it couldn’t be closed, and from time to time a line of drool slipped out. .

Could this be Rong Jinzhen?

My heart felt as though something were squeezing it, pressing down upon it; my mind became confused, disordered. It seemed as though his notebook had drawn the strength from me, had made me afraid; and now seeing Rong Jinzhen, this shell of a man, it was the same. I stood there dumbfounded, not daring to greet him, as if this Rong Jinzhen had somehow scalded me, burnt my flesh. As his wife half-carried him away, Rong Jinzhen, like some terrible thought, disappeared from in front of me. But there was no way the memory of what I had seen would ever leave me.

Once I returned to my office, I tumbled upon the sofa; my feet were heavy and devoid of energy, my mind was blank. I felt nothing, I was a corpse propped up on a couch. It goes without saying that the shock I had received was too much; in no way less than the shock I received upon reading the notebook. Slowly, gradually, my spirits began to return, but the image of Rong Jinzhen when he alighted from the jeep still danced before my eyes. It was like a rare and horrible idea rudely and unreasonably playing about in my head: I couldn’t expel it, I couldn’t express it — I couldn’t fail but to acknowledge it. This was how I became hemmed in by the image of a deranged Rong Jinzhen. The image tortured me and the more I thought about it, the more I felt pity for him — how wretched he had become, how utterly terrifying. I asked myself: who had brought him to this pass? Who had destroyed him? Then I thought about what had happened, thought about the calamity, about the person responsible for it, the mastermind –

That bloody thief!

In all honesty, no one could have guessed that this would happen, that such a talented individual, such a formidable and frightening man (the image that came to me from reading his notebook), such an elevated and profound man, humanity’s crème de la crème, a hero in the field of cryptography, could ultimately be brought so low by a common street thief; could be so utterly destroyed by a mere petty criminal. I couldn’t help but feel shocked and horrified by the absurdity of it all.

All emotions possess the ability to surprise, causing you to reflect upon things. Sometimes this reflection takes place in one’s unconscious and so it is quite possible that it will have no effect; you might not even be immediately aware of it. In life, we often suddenly and unexpectedly come to think of things, have ideas take shape in our minds; and we are left to marvel at them, wondering whether or not they were given to us by some divine providence. But in truth, these thoughts are already within us, they are simply buried deeply in our unconscious minds; they have only now come to the fore, like a fish that out of the blue breaches the surface of the water.

However, at that time I was completely aware of what I was thinking: the images of that wretched little thief and the amazing Rong Jinzhen — the difference between them enormous — changed the direction of my thoughts, providing me with a clear direction to follow. Without a doubt, putting these two images together and abstracting them according to their vigour or mass, what you are left with is the gap between good and evil, heaviness and weightlessness, importance and insignificance. I thought of Rong Jinzhen, this man who had not been brought down by either a high-level cipher or a clever cryptographer, but had now been felled by the inadvertent actions of a lowly thief. He had withstood all the long days of torment and pain in trying to decipher PURPLE and BLACK, but when brought face to face with the actions of an insignificant crook, he barely lasted a couple of days before collapsing.

How was it that he was felled by the first blow?

Could it be that this thief had some unknown power, some unknown strength?

Of course not.

Was it because Rong Jinzhen was weak, frail?

Exactly!

It was all because that little criminal ran off with something Rong Jinzhen considered to be sacred as well as secret: the notebook! This thing was of the greatest importance to him and yet so insubstantial: like a person’s heart that can’t survive any blows — even the slightest knock can bring about death.

Now I’m sure you understand this. In normal situations, your most precious and sacred belonging, the thing you value most, ought to be kept in the safest, most secure place possible. In the case of Rong Jinzhen’s notebook, it should have been placed in the safe-deposit box; putting it in his leather attaché case was a mistake, a moment of negligence. But looking at it the other way round, if you think the thief was an actual enemy agent, a member of X country’s secret service whose mission it was to steal Rong Jinzhen’s notebook, then as a secret agent, it would be most unlikely that he would imagine that Rong Jinzhen could place that oh-so-important notebook, containing information requiring the utmost protection and vigilance, inside a completely unsecured leather briefcase. Consequently, his primary objective would not have been the attaché case; it could only have been the safe-deposit box. In essence then, if we were still to consider that the thief was some agent or other tasked with stealing the notebook, then having it placed in Rong Jinzhen’s leather briefcase was an ingenious means of avoiding calamity.

Later on I hypothesized again that if Rong Jinzhen’s action — placing the notebook in the leather attaché case — wasn’t unintentional, but rather deliberate, and he had become entangled in an actual special operation, then he was not simply the victim of a thief. Think about it for a moment. The cunning in his placing the notebook in his briefcase couldn’t be more sublime: the aim must have been to lure the special operative into a most sophisticated trap, right? This train of thought brought me back to BLACK. I thought, what if the creator of BLACK had taken the most vital means to decipher it — the key — and instead of hiding it out of the way, burying it deep within the cipher itself, had left it out in the open; had deliberately not put it in a safe-deposit box, but rather a leather attaché case. In that case Rong Jinzhen, this man who had searched so strenuously and persistently for the key to BLACK, was like the secret agent looking for the notebook in the wrong place.

As this thought flashed through my mind, I couldn’t help but become excited.

To tell you the truth, in terms of logic, my idea was completely absurd; but its absurdity latched on precisely to the two strange phenomena I mentioned earlier. Of these two, the former seemed to suggest that BLACK was extremely abstruse — this would be the reason why Rong Jinzhen had been unable to take the last step to decipher it; the latter seemed to suggest that BLACK was extremely simple — this would explain why over the course of three years no errors in the cipher had been discerned. You see? Only the most uncomplicated of things can exercise the right of unconstrained movement; only they can seek and obtain beauty.

Of course, strictly speaking, there are two kinds of simplicity possible in these circumstances. One type is an artificial simplicity. The bastard who created BLACK possessed a rare ingenuity: he was able to create any old cipher he pleased, a cipher that was incredibly uncomplicated for him, but for me was extremely sophisticated, impenetrable. The other type of simplicity is a genuine one that uses cunning as a substitute for sophistication: it baffles you with its ultrasimplicity, it conspires against you, entraps you; it places its key right in front of you, in a leather attaché case.

You can imagine what happened afterwards. If BLACK possessed an artificial kind of simplicity, then I wouldn’t be able to decipher it because the person we were up against — the person responsible for creating it — was a genius of the kind we might not see for another thousand years. Later, I realized that Rong Jinzhen had been ensnared within this simulated and obstinate sort of simplicity; or to put it another way, he had been entrapped by this bogus minimalism, he had been bewitched and deceived by it. That said, it was actually quite logical that he would have been deceived: it was practicably inevitable. On the one hand. . how should I put it? Hmmm, like this perhaps. Imagine that you and I are involved in a boxing match and you’ve just knocked me to the mat. Then, from my corner, another person jumps into the ring to fight you. Now you outmatch this person in every way, but at the very least he is going to be better than me, right? Well, Rong Jinzhen was in this kind of situation. He had deciphered PURPLE, he was the winner in the ring, he had proved his formidability; in his mind he had already come out on top against a superior opponent, and he was ready for the next one. On the other hand, speaking in terms of logic, only an artificial simplicity could successfully bring together and unite the two strange phenomena found in this cipher; otherwise they would be contradictory, in opposition. It was here at this point that Rong Jinzhen committed the error that all geniuses make, because from his point of view for such a high-level cipher to exhibit such an obvious contradiction was beyond the realm of possibility; it was unthinkable. He had broken PURPLE, he was fully aware of the deliberation and meticulousness needed in its construction. So, coming face to face with such a contradictory cipher, his mind was unable to analyse the two elements, unable to open them up; the most heroic efforts left him unable to do more than touch the fringes. That is the strength of artificial simplicity: all a genius could do was to touch its fringes.

In sum, this was where Rong Jinzhen encountered the most damage to his intellect: he had become hopelessly enthralled by this synthetic simplicity and was unable to extricate himself from it. This also demonstrates precisely Rong Jinzhen’s strength and courage in challenging such a redoubtable opponent. His mind thirsted to engage with this genius in hand-to-hand combat, to fight him at close quarters!

I am not like Rong Jinzhen. For me, such artificial simplicity was frightening; it made me despair. Thus this one route for deciphering BLACK was blocked. But since one route was blocked, another one was naturally laid open at my feet. So the real simplicity — that the key to deciphering BLACK was indeed stowed away in a leather attaché case — flashed before me. I felt a supreme happiness, as though I had finally found a way out of my predicament; as if a hand had appeared from out of nowhere to lift the curtain from before my eyes and throw it upon the ground, then trample on it. .

Yes, yes, I was so overjoyed, so excited — whenever I think of this I can’t help but get extremely excited. Over the course of my life, this was my greatest moment, and because of it, my life now is calm, undisturbed, peaceful and long. It was as though heaven had gathered up all the good fortune in this world and out of pity had bestowed it upon me. I felt small; I was only half-conscious; I felt that I had returned to the protection of a mother’s womb. It was a real blessing, like everything being given to you by someone else: you didn’t have to ask for it and you didn’t have to reciprocate; like a tree that simply gives its fruit.

Ah, but the mood of that beautiful moment was fleeting — I couldn’t hold onto it. I try to remember, but my mind is a blank. I can only call to mind that at the time I never even had the chance to confirm my assumption. One reason is perhaps because I feared that it would be exposed; another was perhaps because I was superstitious about the time of day: three in the morning. I had heard that after three in the morning the world belongs to both men and ghosts — this is when the soul and the spirit are at their most powerful. That’s how it was: in the middle of the night, in my silent office, I was like a convict repeatedly pacing back and forth, at once listening to the excited beating of my heart while trying to calm myself down — up until that fateful time, up until three in the morning. Afterwards, I finally pulled out a calculator (the one gifted to Rong Jinzhen by Headquarters, the one capable of over 40,000 calculations) and devoted myself to confirming my absurd and bizarre assumption. I don’t know how much time it took, I only remember that once I deciphered BLACK, I stormed out of the cave in a frenzy (at that time our offices were still underground in a mountain cave), fell to the ground and wailed loudly, worshipping heaven and earth. It was still dark outside, just before dawn.

Fast? Of course it was fast! Don’t you see, the cryptographic key to BLACK was in a leather attaché case!

Ah, who would have imagined it: BLACK had no real lock on it!

The cryptographic key was the number zero!

It was nothing!

Absolute nothing!

Er — um — I don’t know why I am explaining things in so much detail. Let me make an analogy. Let us say that BLACK is like a house concealed far, far away, high up in the vast sky. There are countless doors to this house, all of them identical down to the smallest detail and all of them locked. What is more, only one of these many doors can actually be opened. You can waste an eternity amid all of these doors, none of which you will ever be able to open and which look just the same as the real door. If you fancy entering this building, you must first search through the boundless universe to find where it is hidden and then you must locate the one single door that opens, out of an uncountable number of fake doors. Should you find the real door, you still have to hunt for the one key that can open it. At that time, Rong Jinzhen had not found the key. He had found the house, he had found the one real door, but he had not found the key.

Now, when I talk about searching for the key, as I just said, this involves trying one key after another in the keyhole. Generally, to forge such keys cryptanalysts rely upon their own intellect and imagination: they create a key and try it; if it doesn’t work, they create another and try that, and so on and so forth. This was how Rong Jinzhen spent the year up to the point where he lost his notebook. You can just imagine how many keys he must have gone through. Even to get to that point, you should begin to realize, a successful cryptanalyst doesn’t only need genius; he also needs the luck of the gods. You could say that a talented cryptanalyst has an unlimited number of keys in his mind and there must be one that will ultimately work. The problem is you can never know for certain when you will come upon that key: will it be when you first set out, in the middle of the work, or in the final stages? It is all a matter of serendipity.

Serendipity is dangerous enough to destroy everything!

Serendipity is miraculous enough to create everything!

But in my opinion, the danger and luck supposedly attached to this type of serendipity doesn’t exist, because in my mind there are no keys, I cannot manufacture them. As a result I felt none of the pain and fortune of searching them out. Now at that time, if that door was truly and firmly locked, if it had in fact required a key, then you can imagine what the result would have been — it would have been forever impossible for me to open it. It is very incongruous, but the door did indeed appear to be locked tight when in actual fact it wasn’t; it was nothing but a false façade, all I had to do was push a little and it swung open. That was all there was to it. The key to unlocking BLACK was so bizarre that people were unable to believe it; they dared not trust it, and even when the door swung open and I saw everything that was inside, I still had some difficulty believing in what I saw. I thought it must all be unreal — a mirage, an illusion, a dream.

Ah, this cipher was truly the work of the devil!

Only the devil possesses such barbarous courage and traitorous gall!

Only the devil possesses such an absurdly malicious intellect!

The devil had deftly dodged Rong Jinzhen’s attack, but had no answer for mine — me, the common man, the pleb. Still, heaven knows and I know that all of this had been made possible by Rong Jinzhen; thanks to his notebook I had been carried high up into the ether, to pass through disaster and reveal the hidden secret of BLACK. Perhaps you might say that this was unintentional, but you tell me — in this world, which ciphers aren’t decrypted by a mixture of hard work and luck? All of them are deciphered by this mixture, if not why do we say that decrypting ciphers calls for a luck that comes from far beyond the stars? Why do we say that they require auspicious smoke to be emanating from a person’s ancestral tombs?

Indeed, in this world there is not a single cipher that has not been decrypted with equal parts of ingenuity and good fortune!

Ha ha, young fellow: you never thought that today you would discover my own secret, eh? I should explain that all the things I’ve told you today are my secrets, my own personal secrets: I’ve never told anyone else. You must be wondering why I told you these things which I have never mentioned to another person. Why should I reveal to you my own inadequacies? I’ll tell you. I am nearly eighty years old now: who knows when Death will make its call, and I need no longer live with all this undeserved glory. .

[End of interview]

Finally the old man told me that the reason why our enemy created BLACK — a cipher with no key — was because they had felt so dejected after PURPLE had been deciphered and they had realized that they were at a dead end with their work. They understood, after just one confrontation with Rong Jinzhen, that his was a talent to be reckoned with. If they continued to stubbornly persist in challenging him, their own destruction was assured. As a result they risked universal commendation and in their madness brought forth this singularly freakish and malicious cipher: BLACK.

However, they never realized that Rong Jinzhen had his last countermove ready and waiting for them. To use the old man’s words: Rong Jinzhen had passed through destruction — amazingly, he had already passed on to his colleagues the secret of BLACK’s freakish birth by means of his notebook. In the history of cryptography he was one of a kind.

Now when I look back on everything, when I reflect on Rong Jinzhen’s past and present, when I think of his mystery and genius, I cannot help but feel enormous reverence for the man and also a limitless desolation, a limitless mystery.