Turing's Delirium Read Online Free PDF Page A

don't know how the message began. We know. That. He. Is. Having. A. Hard. Time. Finishing it ... And continues to write sentences. Pages. Notebooks. Books. Libraries. Universes.
    Someone comes in and wants to touch me. They don't...
    I'm here and I'm not here. Better if I'm not.
    Or are they the same?

Chapter 4
    I N HIS OFFICE on the top floor of the Black Chamber, Ramírez-Graham reviews the files that Baez has just brought him. He is drinking his third coffee of the morning. Not as hot as he wanted it, but they can't get anything right in this fucking country. The last few weeks he has had stomach problems. The doctor told him that it might be gastritis or the start of an ulcer and that he should avoid alcohol, spicy food, and coffee for two months. He paid attention to the doctor for ten exasperating days—the exact length of time a doctor's orders should be followed. Then he remembered his father, who had had emphysema and continued to smoke, saying that everyone had to die of something and that there was no use in denying yourself the pleasures of life. He died a year later. What a senseless death, Ramírez-Graham had thought; if only his dad had taken better care of himself, he might have lived for five more years. But now that he is about to turn thirty-five, he is starting to understand his dad a little better. In the last two years the top of his nightstand has filled with medications and his life with prohibitions.
    Various mathematical formulas float on the computer monitor. In an aquarium with blue-green water, four angelfish swim in circles, magnetized by their own boredom. A Nokia cell phone rests on the desk.
    Behind him, in a glass case protected by an antitheft system, is a rusted Enigma machine. The first time he saw it, the cover reminded Ramírez-Graham of those typewriters that date back a few generations. But in truth the device was a typewriter that was tired of its humble purpose of transferring men's words onto paper and was willing to carry out a much more advanced role by means of its rotors and cables. No one knows where Albert got it; there are only a few left in the world, in museums and in the hands of private collectors—they understandably go for an exorbitant sum. With Enigma, the Nazis had managed to mechanize the sending of secret messages and, thanks in part to their impenetrable system of communication, had achieved a great advantage in the war for a few years. Luckily, a group of Polish cryptanalysts was undaunted by the complexity of Enigma; luckily, there was Alan Turing.
    Albert brought the machine to the office on his first day of work at the Black Chamber. He took it home each night for the first few weeks, until the case was built. Behind his back, Albert's employees called him Enigma and spread rumors about his unknown past. In their eyes, the device was irrefutable proof that he was a Nazi refugee. The government was lying when it said he was a CIA consultant. After all, his Spanish, with its
r
that became a guttural gand a
w
that sounded like a
v,
was German-accented, not American. Albert never bothered to contradict the rumors.
    Ramírez-Graham is intrigued by his predecessor. He feels that all of his actions are measured against the bar that was set by the creator of the Black Chamber. He wonders how much truth there is to what he hears about the man, but he has resisted the temptation to go and see Albert on his deathbed. Perhaps the image of his decrepit body would destroy the invincible aura that people have built around him. But no. Ramírez-Graham would rather study history first. He will go down to the Archive of Archives and review the documents that set out how the Black Chamber was built and what it was that Albert actually did.
    He is exhausted, isn't sleeping well. Sometimes, a few hours after he finally nods off, he will wake up with the image of Kandinsky in mind, and then it is impossible to fall back asleep. Supersonic sleeps at the foot of the