The Ghost(英文版)-第15部分

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tanding　proudly　beside　the　suspended　corpses　of　their　prey：　the　fishermen　would　now　all　be　as　dead　as　their　fish；　I　thought；　and　such　was　my　mood　that　the　notion　pleased　me。　A　big　television　above　the　bar　was　showing　an　ice　hockey　game。　I　ordered　a　beer　and　a　bowl　of　clam　chowder　and　sat　where　I　could　see　the　screen。　I　know　nothing　about　ice　hockey；　but　sport　is　a　great　place　to　lose　yourself　for　a　while；　and　I’ll　watch　anything　available。

　　“You’re　English？”　said　a　man　at　a　table　in　the　corner。　He　must　have　heard　me　ordering。　He　was　the　only　other　customer　in　the　bar。

　　“And　so　are　you；”　I　said。

　　“Indeed　I　am。　Are　you　here　on　holiday？”

　　He　had　a　clipped；　hello…old…chap…fancy…a…round…of…golf　sort　of　a　voice。　That；　and　the　striped　shirt　with　the　frayed　collar；　the　double…breasted　blazer；　the　tarnished　brass　buttons；　and　the　blue　silk　handkerchief　in　the　top　pocket；　all　flashed　bore；　bore；　bore　as　clearly　as　the　Edgartown　Lighthouse。

　　“No。　Working。”　I　resumed　watching　the　game。

　　“So　what’s　your　line？”　He　had　a　glass　of　something　clear　with　ice　and　a　slice　of　lemon　in　it。　Vodka　and　tonic？　Gin　and　tonic？　I　was　desperate　not　to　be　trapped　into　conversation　with　him。

　　“Just　this　and　that。　Excuse　me。”

　　I　got　up　and　went　to　the　lavatory　and　washed　my　hands。　The　face　in　the　mirror　was　that　of　a　man　who’d　slept　six　hours　out　of　the　past　forty。　When　I　returned　to　the　table；　my　chowder　had　arrived。　I　ordered　another　drink　but　pointedly　didn’t　offer　to　buy　one　for　my　compatriot。　I　could　feel　him　watching　me。

　　“I　hear　Adam　Lang’s　on　the　island；”　he　said。

　　I　looked　at　him　properly　then。　He　was　in　his　middle　fifties；　slim　but　broad　shouldered。　Strong。　His　iron…gray　hair　was　slicked　straight　back　off　his　forehead。　There　was　something　vaguely　military　about　him　but　also　unkempt　and　faded；　as　if　he　relied　on　food　parcels　from　a　veterans’　charity。　I　answered　in　a　neutral　tone；　“Is　he？”

　　“So　I　hear。　You　don’t　happen　to　know　his　whereabouts；　do　you？”

　　“No。　I’m　afraid　not。　Excuse　me　again。”

　　I　started　to　eat　my　chowder。　I　heard　him　sigh　noisily　and　then　the　clink　of　ice　as　his　glass　was　set　down。

　　“Cunt；”　he　said　as　he　passed　my　table。

　　SIX

　　I　have　often　been　told　by　subjects　that　by　the　end　of　the　research　process；　they　feel　as　if　they　have　been　in　therapy。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　THERE　WAS　NO　SIGNof　him　when　I　came　down　to　breakfast　the　next　morning。　The　receptionist　told　me　there　was　no　other　guest　apart　from　me　in　residence。　She　　that　she　hadn’t　seen　a　British　man　in　a　blazer。　I’d　already　been　awake　since　four—an　improvement　on　two；　but　not　much—and　was　groggy　enough　and　hungover　enough　to　wonder　if　I　hadn’t　hallucinated　the　whole　encounter。　I　felt　better　after　some　coffee。　I　crossed　the　road　and　walked　around　the　lighthouse　a　couple　of　times　to　clear　my　head；　and　by　the　time　I　returned　to　the　hotel　the　minivan　had　arrived　to　take　me　to　work。

　　I’d　anticipated　that　my　biggest　problem　on　the　first　day　would　be　physically　getting　Adam　Lang　into　a　room　and　keeping　him　there　for　long　enough　to　start　interviewing　him。　But　the　strange　thing　was　that　when　we　reached　the　house；he　was　already　waiting　forme　。　Amelia　had　decided　we　should　use　Rhinehart’s　office；　and　we　found　the　former　prime　minister；　wearing　a　dark　green　tracksuit；　sprawled　in　the　big　chair　opposite　the　desk；　one　leg　draped　over　the　arm。　He　was　flicking　through　a　history　of　World　War　Two　that　he’d　obviously　just　taken　down　from　the　shelf。　A　mug　of　tea　stood　on　the　floor　beside　him。　His　trainers　had　sand　on　their　soles：　I　guessed　he　must　have　gone　for　a　run　on　the　beach。

　　“Hi；　man；”　he　said；　looking　up　at　me。　“Ready　to　start？”

　　“Good　morning；”　I　said。　“I　just　need　to　sort　out　a　few　things　first。”

　　“Sure。　Go　ahead。　Ignore　me。”

　　He　went　back　to　his　book　while　I　opened　my　shoulder　bag　and　carefully　unpacked　the　tools　of　the　ghosting　trade：　a　Sony　Walkman　digital　tape　recorder　with　a　stack　of　MD…R　74　minidisks　and　a　mains　lead　（I’ve　learned　the　hard　way　not　to　rely　solely　on　my　batteries）；　a　metallic　silver　Panasonic　Toughbook　laptop　computer；　which　is　not　much　larger　than　a　hardcover　novel　and　considerably　lighter；　a　couple　of　small　black　Moleskine　notebooks　and　three　brand…new　Jetstream　rollerball　pens；　made　by　the　Mitsubishi　Pencil　Co。；　and　finally　two　white　plastic　adapters；　one　a　British　multipoint　plug　and　one　a　converter　to　fit　an　American　socket。　It’s　a　superstition　with　me　always　to　use　the　same　items；　and　to　lay　them　out　in　the　proper　sequence。　I　also　had　a　list　of　questions；　culled　from　the　books　I’d　bought　in　London　and　my　reading　of　McAra’s　first　draft　the　previous　day。

　　“Did　you　know；”　said　Lang　suddenly；　“that　the　Germans　had　jet　fighters　in　1944？　Look　at　that。”　He　held　up　the　page　to　show　the　photograph。　“It’s　a　wonder　we　won。”

　　“We　have　no　floppy　disks；”　said　Amelia；　“only　these　flash　drives。　I’ve　loaded　the　manuscript　onto　this　one　for　you。”　She　handed　me　an　object　the　size　of　a　small　plastic　cigarette　lighter。　“You’re　welcome　to　copy　it　onto　your　own　computer；　but　I’m　afraid　that　if　you　do；　your　laptop　must　stay　here；　locked　up；　overnight。”

　　“And　apparently　Germany　declared　war　on　America；　not　the　other　way　round。”

　　“Isn’t　this　all　a　bit　paranoid？”

　　“The　book　contains　some　potentially　classified　material　that　has　yet　to　be　approved　by　the　Cabinet　Office。　More　to　the　point；　there’s　also　a　very　strong　risk　of　some　news　organization　using　unscrupulous　methods　to　try　to　get　hold　of　it。　Any　leak　would　jeopardize　our　newspaper　serialization　deals。”

　　Lang　said；　“So　you’ve　actually　got　my　whole　book　on　that？”

　　“We　could　get　a　hundred　books　on　that；　Adam；”　said　Amelia；　patiently。

　　“Amazing。”　He　shook　his　head。　“You　know　the　worst　thing　about　my　life？”　He　closed　the　book　with　a　snap　and　replaced　it　on　the　shelf。　“You　get　so　out　of　touch。　You　never　go　in　a　shop。　Everything’s　done　for　you。　You　don’t　carry　any　money—if　I　want　some　money；　even　now；　I　have　to　ask　one　of　the　secretaries　or　one　of　the　protection　boys　to　get　it　for　me。　I　couldn’t　do　it　myself；　anyway；　I　don’t　know　my—what’re　they　called？—I　don’t　even　know　that—”

　　“PIN？”

　　“You　see？　I　just　don’t　have　a　clue。　I’ll　give　you　another　example。　The　other　week；　Ruth　and　I　went　out　to　dinner　with　some　people　in　New　York。　They’ve　always　been　very　generous　to　us；　so　I　say；　‘Right；　tonight；　this　is　on　me。’　So　I　give　my　credit　card　to　the　manager　and　he　comes　back　a　few　minutes　later；　all　embarrassed；　and　he　shows　me　the　problem。　There’s　still　a　strip　where　the　signature’s　supposed　to　be。”　He　threw　up　his　arms　and　grinned。　“The　card　hadn’t　been　activated。”

　　“This；”　I　said　excitedly；　“is　exactly　the　sort　of　detail　we　need　to　put　in　your　book。　Nobody　knows　this　sort　of　thing。”

　　Lang　looked　startled。　“I　can’t　put　that　in。　People　would　think　I　was　a　complete　idiot。”

　　“But　it’s　human　detail。　It　shows　what　it’s　like　to　be　you。”　I　knew　this　was　my　moment。　I　had　to　get　him　to　focus　on　what　we　needed　right　from　the　start。　I　came　round　from　behind　the　desk　and　confronted　him。　“Why　don’t　we　try　to　make　this　book　unlike　any　other　political　memoir　that’s　ever　been　written？　Why　don’t　we　try　to　tell　the　truth？”

　　He　laughed。　“Now　that　would　be　a　first。”

　　“I　mean　it。　Let’s　tell　people　what　it　really　feels　like　to　be　prime　minister。　Not　just　the　policy　stuff—any　old　bore　can　write　about　that。”　I　almost　cited　McAra　but　managed　to　swerve　away　at　the　last　moment。　“Let’s　stick　to　what　no　one　except　you　knows—the　day…to…day　experience　of　actually　leading　a　country。　What　do　you　feel　like　in　the　mornings？　What　are　the　strains？　What’s　it　like　to　be　so　cut　off　from　ordinary　life？　What’s　it　like　to　be　hated？”

　　“Thanks　a　lot。”

　　“What　fascinates　people　isn’t　policy—who　cares　about　policy？　What　fascinates　people　is　always　people—the　detail　of　another　person’s　life。　But　because　the　detail　is　naturally　all　so　familiar　to　you；　you　can’t　sort　out　what　it　is　the　reader　wants　to　know。　It　has　to　be　drawn　out　of　you。　That’s　why　you　need　me。　This　shouldn’t　be　a　book　for　political　hacks。　This　should　be　a　book　for　everyone。”

　　“The　people’s　memoir；”　said　Amelia　dryly；　but　I　ignored　her；　and　so；　more　important；　did　Lang；　who　was　looking　at　me　quite　differently　now：　it　was　as　if　some　electric　lightbulb　marked　“self…interest”　had　started　to　glow　behind　his　eyes。

　　“Most　former　leaders　couldn’t　get　away　with　it；”　I　said。　“They’re　too　stiff。　They’re　too　awkward。　They’re　tooold　。　If　they　take　off　their　jacket　and　tie　and　put　on　a”—I　gestured　at　his　outfit—“put　on　a　tracksuit；　say；　they　look　phony。　But　you’re　different。　And　that’s　why　you　should　write　a　different　kind　of　political　memoir；　for　a　different　age。”

　　Lang　was　staring　at　me。　“What　do　you　think；　Amelia？”

　　“I　think　you　two　were　made　for　each　other。　I’m　beginning　to　feel　like　a　gooseberry。”

　　“Do　you　mind；”　I　asked；　“if　I　start　recording？　Something　useful　might　come　out　of　this。　Don’t　worry—the　tapes　will　all　be　yo