Decoded (27 page)

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!

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 . . .

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?