The Ghost(英文版)-第16部分

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

　　Lang　shrugged　and　gestured　toward　the　Sony　Walkman。　As　I　pressed　Record；　Amelia　slipped　out　and　closed　the　door　quietly　behind　her。

　　“The　first　thing　that　strikes　me；”　I　said；　bringing　a　chair　round　from　behind　the　desk　so　that　I　could　sit　facing　him；　“is　that　you　aren’t　really　a　politician　at　all；　in　the　conventional　sense；　even　though　you’ve　been　so　amazingly　successful。”　This　was　the　sort　of　tough　questioning　I　specialized　in。　“I　mean；　when　you　were　growing　up；　no　one　would　have　expected　you　to　become　a　politician；　would　they？”

　　“Jesus；　no；”　said　Lang。　“Not　at　all。　I　had　absolutely　no　interest　in　politics；　either　as　a　child　or　as　a　teenager。　I　thought　people　who　were　obsessed　by　politics　were　weird。　I　still　do；　as　a　matter　of　fact。　I　liked　playing　football。　I　liked　theater　and　the　movies。　A　bit　later　on　I　liked　going　out　with　girls。　I　never　dreamed　I　might　become　a　politician。　Most　student　politicians　struck　me　as　complete　nerds。”

　　Bingo！　I　thought。　We’d　been　working　only　two　minutes　and　already　we　had　a　potential　opening　of　the　book　right　there：

　　When　I　was　growing　up；　I　had　no　interest　in　politics。　In　fact；　I　thought　people　who　were　obsessed　by　politics　were　weird。

　　I　still　do…

　　“So　what　changed？　What　turned　you　on　to　politics？”

　　“Turned　on　is　about　right；”　said　Lang　with　a　laugh。　“I’d　left　Cambridge　and　drifted　for　a　year；　hoping　that　a　play　I’d　been　involved　in　might　get　taken　up　by　a　theater　in　London。　But　it　didn’t　happen　and　so　I　ended　up　working　in　a　bank；　living　in　this　grotty　basement　flat　in　Lambeth；　feeling　very　sorry　for　myself；　because　all　my　friends　from　Cambridge　were　working　in　the　BBC；　or　getting　paid　a　fortune　to　do　voice…overs　on　adverts；　or　what　have　you。　And　I　remember　it　was　a　Sunday　afternoon—raining；　I　was　still　in　bed—and　someone　starts　knocking　on　the　door…”

　　It　was　a　story　he　must　have　told　a　thousand　times；　but　you　wouldn’t　have　guessed　it；　watching　him　that　morning。　He　was　sitting　back　in　his　chair；　smiling　at　the　memory；　going　over　the　same　old　words；　using　the　same　rehearsed　gestures—he　was　miming　knocking　on　a　door—and　I　thought　what　an　old　trouper　he　was：　the　sort　of　pro　who’d　always　make　an　effort　to　put　on　a　good　show；　whether　he　had　an　audience　of　one　or　one　million。

　　“…and　this　person　just　wouldn’t　go　away。　Knock　knock　knock。　And；　you　know；　I’d　had　a　bit　to　drink　the　night　before　and　what　have　you；　and　I’m　moaning　and　groaning。　I’ve　got　the　pillow　over　my　head。　But　it　starts　up　again：　knock　knock　knock。　So　eventually—and　by　now　I’m　swearing　quite　a　bit；　I　can　tell　you—I　get　out　of　bed；　I　pull　on　a　dressing　gown；　and　I　open　the　door。　And　there’s　this　girl；　this　gorgeous　girl。　She’s　wringing　wet　from　the　rain；　but　she　completely　ignores　that　and　launches　into　this　speech　about　the　local　elections。　Bizarre。　I　have　to　say　I　didn’t　even　know　therewere　any　local　elections；　but　at　least　I　have　the　sense　to　pretend　that　I’m　very　interested；　and　so　I　invite　her　in；　and　make　her　a　cup　of　tea；　and　she　dries　off。　And　that’s　it—I’m　in　love。　And　it　quickly　becomes　clear　that　the　best　way　of　getting　to　see　her　again　is　to　take　one　of　her　leaflets　and　turn　up　the　next　Tuesday　evening；　or　whenever　it　is；　and　join　the　local　party。　Which　I　do。”

　　“And　this　is　Ruth？”

　　“This　is　Ruth。”

　　“And　if　she’d　been　a　member　of　a　different　political　party？”

　　“I’d　have　gone　along　and　joined　it　just　the　same。　I　wouldn’t　havestayed　in　it；”　he　added　quickly。　“I　mean　obviously　this　was　the　start　of　a　long　political　awakening　for　me—bringing　out　values　and　beliefs　that　were　already　present　but　were　simply　dormant　at　that　time。　No；　I　couldn’t　have　stayed　in　justany　party。　But　everything　would　have　been　different　if　Ruth　hadn’t　knocked　on　that　door　that　afternoon；　and　kept　knocking。”

　　“And　if　it　hadn’t　been　raining。”

　　“If　it　hadn’t　been　raining　I　would　have　found　some　other　excuse　to　invite　her　in；”　said　Lang　with　a　grin。　“I　mean；　come　on；　man—I　wasn’tcompletely　hopeless。”

　　I　grinned　back；　shook　my　head；　and　jotted　“opening？？”　in　my　notebook。

　　WE　WORKED　ALL　MORNINGwithout　a　break；　except　for　when　a　tape　was　filled。　Then　I　would　briefly　hurry　downstairs　to　the　room　that　Amelia　and　the　secretaries　were　using　as　a　temporary　office　and　hand　it　over　to　be　transcribed。　This　happened　a　couple　of　times；　and　always　on　my　return　I’d　find　Lang　sitting　exactly　where　I’d　left　him。　At　first　I　thought　this　was　a　testament　to　his　powers　of　concentration。　Only　gradually　did　I　realize　it　was　because　he　had　nothing　else　to　do。

　　I　took　him　carefully　through　his　early　years；　focusing　not　so　much　on　the　facts　and　dates　（McAra　had　assembled　those　dutifully　enough）　as　on　the　impressions　and　physical　objects　of　his　childhood：　the　semidetached　home　on　a　housing　estate　in　Leicester；　the　personalities　of　his　father　（a　builder）　and　his　mother　（a　teacher）；　the　quiet；　apolitical　values　of　the　English　provinces　in　the　sixties；　where　the　only　sounds　to　be　heard　on　a　Sunday　were　church　bells　and　the　chimes　of　ice　cream　vans；　the　muddy　Saturday　morning　games　of　football　at　the　local　park　and　the　long　summer　afternoons　of　cricket　down　by　the　river；　his　father’s　Austin　Atlantic　and　his　own　first　Raleigh　bike；　the　comics—theEagle　and　theVictor　—and　the　radio　comedies—I’m　Sorry；　I’ll　Read　That　AgainandThe　Navy　Lark　；　the　1966　World　Cup　Final　andZ　Cars　andReady；　Steady；　Go！；　The　Guns　of　Navarone　andCarry　On；　Doctor　at　the　local　movie　theater；　Millie　singing　“My　Boy　Lollipop”　and　Beatles　singles　played　at　forty…five　RPM　on　his　mother’s　Dansette　Capri　record　player。

　　Sitting　there　in　Rhinehart’s　study；　the　minutiae　of　English　life　nearly　half　a　century　earlier　seemed　as　remote　as　bric…a…brac　in　a　Victorian　trompe　l’oeil—and；　you　might　have　thought；　about　as　relevant。　But　there　was　cunning　in　my　method；　and　Lang；　with　his　genius　for　empathy；　grasped　it　at　once；　for　this　was　not　just　his　childhood　we　were　itemizing　but　mine　and　that　of　every　boy　who　was　born　in　England　in　the　nineteen　fifties　and　who　grew　to　maturity　in　the　seventies。

　　“What　we　need　to　do；”　I　told　him；　“is　to　persuade　the　reader　to　identify　emotionally　with　Adam　Lang。　To　see　beyond　the　remote　figure　in　the　bombproof　car。　To　recognize　in　him　the　same　things　they　recognize　in　themselves。　Because　if　I　know　nothing　else　about　this　business；　I　know　this：　once　you　have　the　readers’　sympathy；　they’ll　follow　you　anywhere。”

　　“I　get　it；”　he　said；　nodding　emphatically。　“I　think　that’s　brilliant。”

　　And　so　we　swapped　memories　for　hour　after　hour；　and　I　will　not　say　we　began　toconcoct　a　childhood　for　Lang；　exactly—I　was　always　careful　not　to　depart　from　the　known　historical　record—but　we　certainly　pooled　our　experiences　to　such　an　extent　that　a　few　of　my　memories　inevitably　became　blended　into　his。　You　may　find　this　shocking。　I　was　shocked　myself；　the　first　time　I　heard　one　of　my　clients　on　television　weepily　describing　a　poignant　moment　from　his　past　that　was　actually　frommy　past。　But　there　it　is。　People　who　succeed　in　life　are　rarely　reflective。　Their　gaze　is　always　on　the　future：　that’s　why　they　succeed。　It’s　not　in　their　nature　to　remember　what　they　were　feeling；　or　wearing；　or　who　was　with　them；　or　the　scent　of　freshly　cut　grass　in　the　churchyard　on　the　day　they　were　married；　or　the　tightness　with　which　their　first　baby　squeezed　their　finger。　That’s　why　they　need　ghosts—to　flesh　them　out；　as　it　were。

　　As　it　transpired；　I　collaborated　with　Lang　for　only　a　short　while；　but　I　can　honestly　say　I　never　had　a　more　responsive　client。　We　decided　that　his　first　memory　would　be　when　he　tried　to　run　away　from　home　at　the　age　of　three　and　he　heard　the　sound　of　his　father’s　footsteps　coming　up　behind　him　and　felt　the　hardness　of　his　muscled　arms　as　he　scooped　him　back　to　the　house。　We　remembered　his　mother　ironing；　and　the　smell　of　wet　clothes　on　a　wooden　frame　drying　in　front　of　a　coal　fire；　and　how　he　liked　to　pretend　that　the　clotheshorse　was　a　house。　His　father　wore　a　vest　at　table　and　ate　pork　dripping　and　kippers；　his　mother　liked　the　occasional　sweet　sherry　and　had　a　book　calledA　Thing　of　Beauty　with　a　red…and…gold　cover。　Young　Adam　would　look　at　the　pictures　for　hours；　that　was　what　first　gave　him　his　interest　in　the　theater。　We　remembered　Christmas　pantomimes　he　had　been　to　（I　made　a　note　to　look　up　exactly　what　was　playing　in　Leicester　when　he　was　growing　up）　and　his　stage　debut　in　the　school　nativity　play。

　　“Was　I　a　wise　man？”

　　“That　sounds　a　little　smug。”

　　“A　sheep？”

　　“Not　smug　enough。”

　　“A　guiding　star？”

　　“Perfect！”

　　By　the　time　we　broke　for　lunch；　we　had　reached　the　age　of　seventeen；　when　his　performance　in　the　title　role　of　Christopher　Marlowe’sDoctor　Faustus　had　confirmed　him　in　his　desire　to　become　an　actor。　McAra；　with　typical　thoroughness；　had　already　dug　out　the　review　in　theLeicester　Mercury　；　December　1971；　describing　how　Lang　had　“held　the　audience　spellbound”　with