Extra: Memoirs From the Grey Tower


One.

It was around 1949 when The Times held a prize crossword puzzle competition, with winners determined by the postmark timestamp. Bored and with nothing to do, I decided to take part. Andemund, sitting by the fireplace with a cup of coffee, watched me cut out the puzzle, fill it in, and slip it into an envelope. “Darling, should I mail it for you tomorrow?” he asked.

“Good idea.” I handed him the envelope.

“I’ll come back early tomorrow. We can catch a movie together,” he said, standing up and giving me a kiss.

That evening, the cinema was showing an Italian mystery film, Catene, directed by Raffaello Matarazzo. On the drive home, Andemund suddenly said, “The word Catene in Italian can imply ‘bonds’, but there’s another translation for it.”

I wasn’t much interested in literature and absentmindedly replied, “What is it, darling?”

He drove in silence for a while before answering, “Chains.”

“I prefer the first one,” I said.

Andemund smiled, letting go of the steering wheel with one hand to kiss the tips of his fingers before turning slightly toward me. “So do I.”

It had been four years since the end of the World War. London was slowly recovering, though some streets still bore the scars of wartime devastation. Walls and buildings patched with bricks stood like silent monuments. On some streets, the streetlights remained dark. Andemund’s car glided quietly through the long, dim roads. In the darkness, I lit a cigarette, but he suddenly stopped me. “Alan, put it out. It’s dangerous.”

"Why?" I asked in confusion. "Aren't you working for the government? What kind of danger could you possibly face?"

Just as I finished speaking, a bullet tore through the car's windshield, grazing past my ear.

I heard the sound of shattering glass.



Two.

"We're being followed."

"Since when?"

"Since we left the cinema," Andemund said, his voice unnervingly calm. "Darling, get down in the backseat and don't lift your head."

I had no idea what kind of government work Andemund was involved in that could attract assassins.

Our car swerved wildly through the dark streets, with the occasional sound of bullets shattering the windows. Andemund couldn't stop—stopping meant certain death. This was the West End of London, a place I used to wander during my bouts of unemployment, but Andemund rarely came this way. I had no idea where he planned to drive us in the dead of night. Then, the car screeched to a sudden halt.

It was an abandoned warehouse-like building, dimly illuminated by a single amber streetlight nearby. He got out swiftly, expertly pulling out a key to unlock the door, and gestured for me to enter. "We'll wait for rescue here."

The air inside reeked of old dust. The ground floor was completely empty, so we climbed a staircase to the second floor, where faint starlight seeped in through a skylight above. Andemund switched on a light, revealing a peeling wooden table, a wire-frame bed, and a pile of old wooden crates stacked together. In the darkness, I groped my way forward and accidentally knocked over one of the crates, spilling its contents—worn shirts, books, and outdated newspapers. On the table were Newton's Principia Mathematica, scattered calculation papers, a fountain pen, and an old-fashioned telephone.

The desk faced a tightly shut iron window. I walked over to check if it was securely closed.

"Don't go near there, Alan," Andemund called, his voice sounding a little odd. "The window is painted on."

It hit me then—the entire building had no real windows.

Andemund picked up the phone and dialed, speaking curtly to someone on the other end. "The situation is critical. Do not alert the police. I need agents from Section Six."

I moved one of the crates to barricade the wooden door.

Andemund remained silent, listening to the phone.

The screech of brakes echoed from the street as cars began pulling up outside the warehouse. Soon after, someone started pounding on the door with something heavy.

Whoever was tailing us, it wasn’t just one car—or one person.

Andemund hung up the phone and walked over to me, pulling me into a tight embrace from behind. "It's going to be alright, Alan. Help will be here soon."

I felt like Andemund was losing control of his emotions. The moment we entered the warehouse, his face turned deathly pale, and for the first time, I noticed a tremor in his voice. I figured he was scared, but during the long wait, I had no idea how to comfort him. So, I tried to sound as cheerful as I could. “Darling, whose belongings are these?”

“A friend’s,” Andemund replied.

The banging on the door grew louder.

I walked over, picked up some calculation drafts scattered on the desk, hoping to distract him. “Look, darling, your friend made a mistake here. I think the entire mathematical model is flawed.”

Andemund just stared at me without saying a word.

“Tell me about your friend?” I asked.

“He cracked the Enigma,” Andemund said after a moment’s thought. “These are the things he left behind. I stored them here.”

I heard the lock downstairs break with a sharp crack.

“Does your friend keep a habit of taking notes?” I asked.

The calculation drafts seemed to have once been tucked into a notebook. Ink from the notebook’s cheap paper had bled onto the drafts. I read aloud, “I just want to tell whoever finds this notebook that he misses the azure skies of Cambridge.”

Most of the handwriting had faded beyond recognition.

“Alan, put the paper down,” Andemund said, his eyes fixed on me as he stood motionless. He repeated the words, “Darling, put it down.”

“Where’s his notebook now?” I pressed.

“I never found it,” he admitted.

In that instant, I was struck by a strange familiarity—the chipped, long wooden desk, the scattered papers, and the barred window drawn on the wall. It felt instinctive, as though something natural was guiding me. I pulled open a drawer, reached into the upper compartment, and felt along the underside of the desk’s surface. My fingers found a loose wooden panel sealed with tape.

It was as if someone had once carefully carved out a hollow space beneath the desk with a knife, placed something inside, and covered it back up with a wooden panel of the exact dimensions, sealing it with tape.

I tore off the tape, retrieved what was hidden inside, and gave him a playful wink. “Darling, is this what you’re looking for? See? Being with me brings you good luck. A miracle has already happened once; it’ll happen again. We’ll wait for rescue, and we’ll make it out alive.”

If I had to choose one word to describe the look in Andemund’s deep emerald eyes, it would be despair.



Three.

It was an exceptionally old notebook, the kind with a once-popular hardcover and a black cover.

The pages had yellowed with age, carrying the faint scent of sawdust from its time.

I heard the sound of a lock hitting the ground and the warehouse door being pushed open. Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed on the stairs, filling the hollow warehouse.

Andemund always carried a gun. I thought he was about to draw it and retaliate against the intruder.

But instead, he slowly raised his gun and aimed it at his own temple.

He didn’t look back at the stairway entrance. Instead, he fixed his gaze on me, his voice barely a whisper: "My dear, if you open that notebook, I’ll pull the trigger."

Andemund’s lips were pale, drained of color. His eyes were gentle, his tone soft, as if confronting a fate he’d long come to terms with—a path he always knew would end this way.

"Alan, you have every right to open it," he said, his eyes locked on mine.

For a moment, I even thought Andemund’s gaze was urging me to open the notebook.

It was as if the pursuers behind us, the government agents, no longer mattered. He was calmly waiting for an ending he had orchestrated for himself.

I panicked at that moment.

I immediately tossed the notebook aside.

A gunshot rang out suddenly.

A bullet grazed Andemund’s hair and embedded itself in the painted window on the wall.

Beneath the low-brimmed hats and trench coats with collars pulled up to their noses, three pursuers stood, having arrived in three cars. The smoking barrels of their guns were trained on Andemund’s rigidly straight back.

Andemund lowered his gun, but he didn’t fire back. Instead, he seemed intent on retrieving the notebook that had fallen to the floor.

Three shots rang out.

One hit his shoulder, another missed, and the third struck his lower back from behind.

He didn’t hesitate.

On the third shot, Andemund wavered and then collapsed to the ground.

I rushed over, cradling him, and picked up the notebook for him. "Darling, your people will be here any moment. Hold on."

I didn’t believe a single word I was saying, and Andemund didn’t seem to believe it either. He raised his hand, clasping mine, turned his head, and pressed a kiss to my fingers in silence. Then, placing my hand over the gun he was holding, he lightly closed his eyes, his long lashes resting like shadows on his lids—as if he had fallen asleep.

Suddenly, I understood what Andemund meant.

He wanted me to pull the trigger—to kill him.

I took the gun from his hand and aimed it at the mobsters, forcing my voice to sound steady. "My aim may be bad, but I can at least take one of you down."



Four.

The sound of chaotic footsteps rose from downstairs.

If the government agents had been a minute later, it would have all been over.

Andemund was rushed to the hospital immediately, and it wasn’t until a month later that I saw him again. I went to the government office he had directed me to, only to have the lovely secretary look at the address in surprise and say, “Garcia, you said? No, Mr. Andemund Garcia doesn’t work here.”

“I’m a friend of his,” I said, handing over my business card. “He told me to come here if I needed to find him. I even know his driver, Peter—blue eyes, quiet type.”

The secretary frowned and corrected me, “Peter’s not a driver; he’s a captain.”

Peter told me to go home and wait.

One day, I returned home from the research institute to find the living room lights on. Andemund was back, drinking tea by the fireplace. He was in uniform, visibly thinner than before, his cheekbones more pronounced, his features more intense. His injuries hadn’t fully healed, and a walking cane leaned against the fireplace.

The notebook was on the dining table, next to the cold coffee I had left behind in the morning.

“Alan.”

He looked at me but didn’t say a word.

I stared back at him just as intently. “Darling, you’re looking so vulnerable—it’s making me want to top you.”

For a brief moment, his expression turned strange.

It was almost like a child receiving their dream Christmas gift, staring at it in disbelief, afraid to tear the wrapping paper. His body hadn’t recovered, but he stubbornly refused to use the cane. Slowly, with great difficulty, he shuffled over to me, stopping only when he was close enough to envelop me in a hug.

In my memory, Andemund had always been commanding, but at that moment, he was more fragile than I’d ever seen him. Like a thin sheet of paper standing upright, ready to topple with the lightest touch.

Yet he still pushed me onto the sofa and said firmly, “That won’t happen.”

“I don’t understand. Darling, you’re absolutely insane!” I exclaimed. “You let yourself get shot twice over a blank notebook.”

“A blank notebook?” For a moment, he looked utterly bewildered.

“There’s nothing written in it.”

I was convinced Andemund must have been out of his mind. The black leather-bound notebook was brand new, its only markings being the stains of his own blood. I had no idea why its previous owner had hidden it there. Perhaps there had been another notebook, one that was later removed, leaving this as a decoy. His friend seemed desperate to keep this notebook hidden.

For a moment, I found myself curious about what could have been written in it.

I asked Andemund, “Darling, do you regret it?”

“No, I don’t.”

He lowered his head and kissed my hair. "Darling, you know I'm a madman. I told you that the first time we met."

The next day, the Times published the list of winners for the riddle competition.

I was quite displeased and confronted Andemund with the newspaper in hand. "My answer was exactly the same as the official one, and if I mailed it the next morning, the postmark would have been a day earlier than the winner's. So why isn’t my name on the list?"

Andemund raised an eyebrow. "The newspaper must've made a mistake."

"This morning, I found the envelope I gave you in your coat pocket."

He didn’t even blink. "I must've forgotten."

Andemund then told me a story. During World War II, British intelligence recruited genius codebreakers by publishing crossword and decryption puzzles in newspapers. After the war ended and reconstruction began, many of these intelligence officers returned to their ordinary lives, fading into obscurity. But years later, as the nation recovered, the demand for such talent slowly reemerged.

"Who knows what's really behind this riddle competition?" he said. "Alan, I hope you focus on mathematics and don’t step into any hidden schemes so easily."

"How do you know there’s a hidden scheme?"

Andemund sipped his coffee, his smile inscrutable.

At that time, a mathematician named John Nash was studying game theory, a concept proposed by von Neumann. I was reading one of his papers when Andemund handed me two movie tickets and asked, "Alan, are you free tonight?"

“Catene?” I frowned. "We've already seen it once."

He bent down and kissed my cheek ever so gently. "Darling, I just want to watch it with you again."


***

Translator’s Note: My translation of Memoirs from the Grey Tower is now complete! I hope you enjoyed Andemund and Alan's story as much as I did. If you spot any errors or have feedback, feel free to contact me on Twitter.

A free EPUB version is available on my Ko-fi. Tips would be greatly appreciated but entirely optional.

I’m also looking for a new novel to translate! If you have suggestions that meet the below criteria, do drop me a DM on Twitter: