London before the war was still prosperous, people lingered in theaters and bars, and the prices of brandy and wine did not soar to the high prices of 1940. And Cambridge, which is only ninety miles away from London, is more like a paradise in my memory.
My uncle thought it was another prank when I was admitted to King's College, Cambridge. He was so enraged that he almost threw the envelope, sealed with red wax and stamped with the Cambridge seal, into the stove. However, two months later I still took the train from Bedfordshire to London, dragged my suitcase out of the station, took a coach, and jumped off at Cambridge halfway. The moment I got out of the car, the evening glow rushed towards my face, and the towering spires and auditorium in the distance were covered with warm and holy orange, so dazzling that I almost covered my eyes with my fingers. Under the clouds, the world seems so peaceful and beautiful.
I took the letter of introduction and found No. 72 Gray Pigeon Street with difficulty. The landlord is a friend of my aunt, a kind old single lady in London. The two-story red brick building has a small garden surrounded by white fences in front of the door, full of gorse. A small wooden box for milk delivery was hung diagonally on the fence.
I lived here as a boarder for five years, and in the second year I met Anderson, and in the fourth year he left me. Then I waited for him here for another year.
I studied mathematics at King's College, Cambridge, and my grades were not bad. My uncle said that I am an idiot who knows nothing but mathematics. Only after I met Andremon did I realize that compared to him, I am also an idiot in mathematics.
The first time I saw Andymond was under the apple tree full of pink flowers outside the library. Cambridge in the spring is beautiful. I came out of the library arch with two yellow|novel novels in my arms, dawdling not to meet the new professor of the second year. Advanced Mathematics is said to be a big shot in academia, not only has profound attainments in mathematical logic and quantum mechanics, but even dabbles in cryptography, the awards alone can crush people to death. I had no interest in bearded old men and skipped four classes. Edgar was caught doing the roll call for me, and told me that the professor said that it was okay if he didn’t want to attend the class, but he had to meet him in person with the paper due at the end of the semester. (By the way, Edgar is my friend, who studies oil painting, and often goes to the mathematics department for me to roll the roll.)
The apple tree was not tall, and Andemont was standing under the tree, leaning against the trunk, with one hand in the pocket of his trousers, and a few petals fell on his shoulders. He is tall and thin, wearing a clean and tidy white shirt. The sun shines on him through the petals and oval leaves. The whole figure is like Edgar's oil painting, with soft and warm tones. Surrounding him was a circle of students who seemed to be solving a mathematical problem, and Edgar was among them. I squeezed through.
I enrolled in 1936, when the political situation was already sensitive, and things like ciphers were generally rarely discussed openly. As I walked over Edgar handed me a piece of paper with a long string of numbers written on it. I frowned and recognized for a long time, and read out in a drawn-out tone: "I love Professor Andemund. Wilson".
A group of people around burst into laughter. Edgar's face turned pale again, and he said, "Allen, don't make such a joke."
I spread my hands innocently: "That's what's written on the note, how could I be interested in that kind of old man."
The person standing leaning against the tree suddenly interjected: "He deciphered it correctly. This is a Caesar cipher shifted six digits backwards, and it was used as a fence. A girl handed it to Professor Wesson today. Who are you?"
"Alan. Alan Custer," I replied quickly, staring at his face.
It may be because he hasn't seen sunlight in the reference room all year round, so his face looks paler than ordinary people. High cheekbones, long eyelashes, dark green eyes like opals in an antique shop. When he smiled, the corners of his mouth curved into a just right arc, just enough to make me lose my mind.
When I came back to my senses, we were already sitting together in a coffee shop.
He reached out to pick up the coffee and took a sip: "Do you usually study passwords?"
His voice is so soft it reminds me of glass wind chimes hanging outside the revolving doors of coffee shops on a May breeze.
I shrugged: "No, my parents were cryptography researchers and left me a similar book... I read it when I was a child. And today's cipher is not difficult - all letters are moved back five places and read vertically in two lines. "
"It's really not difficult." He seemed to be suddenly interested, his green eyes narrowed: "Forgive me for taking the liberty, which organization do your parents work for?"
"No idea. They died when I was five." I desperately wanted to change the subject: "Hi, what's your name? What college are you in?"
"Your surname is Custer." He pondered for a moment: "The Custers... seem to have heard it."
He got up hurriedly, shook hands with me and left. I silently called the waiter to pay the bill, only to find that he had already paid when he left.
And to my dismay I don't know his name yet.
Soon I will know. I went to the first advanced mathematics class of this semester and saw him enter the lecture hall with a black leather notebook under his arm. He is a new professor with an overwhelming award, and his full name is Anderson. Wesson, a well-known figure in mathematics. When he passed by me, he stopped for a moment and raised his left eyebrow: "Alan, you owe five classes and haven't handed in your homework. Maybe you would like to stay after class and talk to me?"
I asked Edgar pitifully: "Do you think he heard me call him an old man that day?"
For the next few months Andremon kept a close eye on me. He is a professor, and Alan Custer was the first one to be called in class. The homework he handed in was corrected more carefully than ever. Once he lost his mind in class, he would be called up to answer various questions.
I said to Edgar weakly, "I think it's hopeless to chase him."
Edgar's face turned pale again: "Don't be joking."
We skipped class and went to an open-air coffee shop for afternoon tea by the River Cam: "I think my dear Andymond hates me because I said he was an old man last time. Oh dear, you don't understand the feeling of love at first sight, my heart It's all going to shatter."
Edgar is serious: "Homosexuality is against the law!"
He was a serious guy, a little prim, a little taller than me, with brown curly hair and a typical Greek nose, and he was very attractive to girls. We met on the banks of the Cam River. I acted as a model for his paintings for free, and he helped me roll the rolls in class.
I teased the waitress in a plaid skirt who delivered coffee, and he drew; I lay on the grass and read a book, and he drew; I talked all kinds of nonsense about Andymond, and he was still drawing—until now I don’t quite understand Why can someone like him with a meticulous personality be able to get along with me, and even become a close friend.
At that time, I thought I was just playing around with Andymond, but Edgar didn't take it seriously. On average, I chased a woman a week, but this time it was a man.
I was lying comfortably on a white recliner under an old coat. I lazily opened my eyes facing the sun, and suddenly saw Andremeng's face, I was so frightened that I almost went to see God.
It's already spring, and he's still wearing a light gray overcoat, and he usually holds a black notebook. He heard every word I said clearly, leaned over and looked at me with a smile: "Alan, homosexuality is indeed prohibited by law in our country."
He gave me a piece of paper from his notebook and told me to follow him. I followed him dejectedly, and saw his neck protruding from the collar of his coat, with slender and graceful lines. I trotted in front of him and blocked the way: "Professor, I'm serious. I like you."
He smiled noncommittally, bypassed me and opened the door of the office with a copper key, left me outside, and went inside to make a phone call by himself.
I can't hear very well.
"... Both parents were genius codebreakers the day before yesterday... Although it is very simple, it was indeed deciphered with just one glance, so I plan to let him try the code name Thirteen. I will be careful."
He hung up the phone and called me into the room. I thought it was to punish me for skipping class, but he only let me look at the piece of paper in my hand. I just looked at him just now, only to realize that the paper is full of all kinds of incomprehensible circles and squares, stars and moons. Graphics in blue ink have been drawn all over the page. "Alan." Andremon motioned me to sit down: "If you really don't want to write the essay on Gödel's theorem, you can help me try to see if I can crack the code. This happened in London Homicide, the convict sent this to the newspaper. My friend at Scotland Yard knew I had research on code-breaking, so he passed it on to me."
He rang the bell and called for coffee, looked at me and smiled slightly: "I haven't deciphered it, I think maybe you can try it."