At last I understood why Andremund pushed me out of Plimpton Park. He knew it was a huge eddy on the surface of the sea, and if I didn't change course in time, I would eventually be sucked deep into the bottom of the sea, leaving no debris—mentally or physically.
In the days we were together, I talked about my mother countless times with an almost reverent attitude. He knew that Mrs. Cust was the only support of my soul, my faith. Whether it was deciphering "mystery" for Linton or finally deciding to enter the Plimpton Manor, I was deeply influenced by her. Her soft encouragement seemed to be right next to her ear: "Alan, you are doing the right thing, you are for our glorious Britain."
It was as if I could see her beautiful gray-blue eyes as soon as I turned around.
Andrew understands the consequences of the destruction of faith and the heavy charge of treason. Even though I will not be punished in any form for my mother's treason, this family guilt will oppress my spirit and stay with me for the rest of my life. I am no longer Jane the cryptographer. The son of Custer, but the son of a traitor.
No, no, it doesn't matter.
Importantly, it shattered my faith in my mother. The double torment of family affection and conscience brought about by this collapse made me miserable.
I am reminded of a sentence I read in a German book. Goethe said that in this restless age, those who can hide in the depths of quiet passion are indeed happy. I could have been happy. According to Anderson's wishes, I should leave him, stay away from the truth of the matter, teach after Cambridge, and one day be successful in mathematics. Len Castells, important theory discoverer. That book will be filled with the fragrance of ink.
If so, I can indeed have quiet and secret happiness in this war. In the sense that Andremon had undergone a three-month quarantine to suppress this information, he was trying to give me happiness, and I was refusing it. Because wars never go the way people intend.
After the coercion that night, Andremon left me alone in the empty studio. He looks like a handsome gentleman, but he doesn't know how to control his strength when making love. I can barely feel my waist, and I can only feel my legs trembling with every step I take, like autumn leaves. If it hadn't been for Andremon to support me, I wouldn't even have the strength to go up the spiral staircase to the cinema room.
Under the double collapse of spirit and body, I almost thought that I would not be able to go back to my room behind Office No. 7.
Fortunately I saw Arnold.
Office No. 7 is a red brick shed building, remodeled from an old manor storeroom. Arnold was wearing a military uniform, idly playing with his pocket watch against the green-painted wooden door, throwing it up and down in his hand. Seeing me, he grinned and waved his hands: "Hi, it's exactly twelve o'clock. Is Her Royal Highness's glass slipper still there?"
Then his face suddenly became serious, he stopped joking, and strode over to support me: "Alan, what's wrong with you?"
I just wrapped a coat casually. My full weight was on his arms as he held me, my jacket undone. Arnold's hand holding me tightened suddenly, I let out a cry of pain, and he quickly let go of it as if apologetic.
I understand what Arnold saw.
Inside the jacket, the chest exposed by the unbuttoned shirt was covered with hickey marks and bite marks left by Andemon, concentrated on the two sensitive spots on the chest, deep and shallow. The trousers were left in the red building, and under the shirt were bare|naked legs. I only felt that my body was sticky, and only then did I realize that there were traces of blood flowing on the inner thighs.
Arnold didn't ask anything, and helped me into the room and put me on the bed.
It was the first time I saw the old fox expressionless. He filled the bathtub with hot water and asked me from the narrow bathroom: "Allen, do you wash it yourself or should I wash it for you?"
I did it myself, but Arnold was leaning against the bathroom door frame to watch the whole time.
"Arnold, please wait for me outside for half an hour."
He didn't say anything, he stood there stubbornly with his hands folded, no emotion could be seen under the gold-rimmed glasses.
It took a long time before he said, "Alan, you didn't do it voluntarily."
Exhausted, I did not answer him until much later.
"Yes, I am not."
"I'm going to see Andrémon García tomorrow."
The dried blood dissolved in the hot water and floated to the surface. I felt dizzy, the steam made it hard to breathe, and things took on distorted shapes. The last memory is of Arnold rushing through the door and picking me up from the tub, splashing water all over the floor.
When I woke up the next morning, the air was filled with the choking smell of smoke. Arnold sat smoking in front of my bed, his back to me, legs crossed, his dark blue khaki uniform wrinkled. He held a GAVLOISE between his index finger and middle finger, and the light blue smoke slowly rose from the top, disappearing in the thin morning light. I don't like this French brand of cigarettes, it has a strong taste and makes your throat uncomfortable.
"Thank you, Mr. Visco."
Arnold stood up and walked to the window, opened the glass window to let fresh air in, threw away the cigarette butt, took out the lighter and lit a new one. He leaned against the window and took a few breaths, then turned to me with a wry smile: "Little Allen, you need to change your habit of fainting in my arms every time, and at least put on your clothes next time. You trust me too much, gentleman Graceful."
I pointed to his cigarette: "I thought you didn't use psychoactive drugs on yourself."
"But it's not bad to smoke once in a while."
He gave me a melancholy look: "Alan, your complexion is very bad. You fainted while taking a shower."
Arnold gave me a glass of water and an aspirin.
He picked up his hat and went out the door.
I stopped him: "Don't go to see Andymond."
He had already reached the door and stopped.
"This matter is over... After that he will marry Miss Linna, we're done here."
My throat was very dry, and I swallowed: "Andermeng is your boss, there is no need for you to help me to this extent. Thank you."
Arnold turned and walked back quickly and kissed me on the forehead.
He seemed suddenly in high spirits.
"You're in a bad state of mind, Alan. We're going to the Lake District for a holiday in August during the lavender harvest season, and you need a good rest. Get on the train from London Euston Station and change to the Lake Waterline train at Oxenholm. We'll be in Windermere soon."
Andremend did what he said, and had my personal office supplies moved to Office No. 1 the next day.
Rafael came to knock on my door on a rare occasion, but stood at the door and did not come in: "Alan, they said you are going to Office No. 1."
I lay far away and sniffed, making a loud noise.
"yes."
"Have a cold?"
I huddled under the quilt and covered my head: "Yes."
"Pay attention to your body, don't burn into an idiot."
Raphael went through a painful process from his initial admiration for me because he deciphered the "mystery" to his disillusionment later. In the end, he had to pat the dust off the documents he took from my desk, took out a handkerchief and wiped it before reading it.
He leaned against the door for a while.
"Alan, if I say that I have designed a 'mysterious' decryption machine, would you like to look at the blueprint for me?"
He paused: "I think in Plimpton Manor, except for Mr. Garcia, only you can understand it."
It wasn't Andrew and Arnold that really pulled me out of bed, but Edgar and Fan.
Anderson will only make me miserable, and Arnold will say, Alan, your condition is very bad, don't force yourself if you don't want to work.
I finally got up, got dressed and went to Office One.
The weather seemed to warm up during the week I was in bed, and occasionally a robin hopped on the window sill looking for crumbs, and the feathers on the front of the little breast were all orange-red.
I wrote Edgar a letter, not saying that the mother might still be alive, but saying that she was suspected of treason, and I was very sad.
Edgar replied quickly, using the special letterhead of the Royal Air Force base.
He didn't understand the seriousness of the problem, and joked that it was a time of war, half of the old ladies on the entire street outside their base were reported for treason by the other half, so don't worry.
Edgar was still drawing, and there was a sketch of me enclosed in the letter.
That was Alan Castor in college, with bright eyes and an upbeat personality. He smiled at me from the paper and reminded me of those good times.
Edgar wrote a line with a light blue pen in the lower left corner of the painting.
It's still what he told me back then.
"Alan, dear, you don't even trust your own mother, who else can you trust?"
So I cheered up again, and worked with Raphael to study the decryption machine of "Mystery".
The "fan" is important because it is used by almost the entire high-level German intelligence system. Thousands of encrypted telegrams are intercepted by Plimpton Manor every day, but we can manually decipher no more than one hundred. Even if we intercept Hitler's own speech, if we don't have time to decipher the content, we can't know its importance, and we can only let it be mixed with ordinary secret messages and be wasted. Therefore, how to decipher intelligence with the highest efficiency and screen out valuable parts has become extremely important.
In a way, the Decryptor saved Britain.