The Ghost(英文版)-第17部分

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71；　describing　how　Lang　had　“held　the　audience　spellbound”　with　his　final　speech；　as　he　glimpsed　eternal　damnation。

　　While　Lang　went　off　to　play　tennis　with　one　of　his　bodyguards；　I　dropped　by　the　downstairs　office　to　check　on　the　transcription。　An　hour’s　interviewing　generally　yields　between　seven　and　eight　thousand　words；　and　Lang　and　I　had　been　at　it　from　nine　till　nearly　one。　Amelia　had　set　both　secretaries　on　the　task。　Each　was　wearing　headphones。　Their　fingers　skimmed　the　keyboards；　filling　the　room　with　a　soothing　rattle　of　plastic。　With　a　bit　of　luck　I　would　have　about　a　hundred　double…spaced　pages　of　material　to　show　for　that　morning’s　work　alone。　For　the　first　time　since　arriving　on　the　island；　I　felt　the　warm　breath　of　optimism。

　　“This　is　all　new　to　me；”　said　Amelia；　who　was　bent　over　Lucy’s　shoulder；　reading　Lang’s　words　as　they　unfurled　across　the　screen。　“I’ve　never　heard　him　mention　any　of　this　before。”

　　“The　human　memory　is　a　treasure…house；　Amelia；”　I　said；　deadpan。　“It’s　merely　a　matter　of　finding　the　right　key。”

　　I　left　her　peering　at　the　screen　and　went　into　the　kitchen。　It　was　about　as　large　as　my　London　flat；　with　enough　polished　granite　to　furnish　a　family　mausoleum。　A　tray　of　sandwiches　had　been　laid　out。　I　put　one　on　a　plate　and　wandered　around　the　back　of　the　house　until　I　came　to　a　solarium—I　suppose　that’s　what　you　would　call　it—with　a　big　sliding　glass　door　leading　to　an　outside　swimming　pool。　The　pool　was　covered　with　a　gray　tarpaulin　depressed　by　rainwater；　on　which　floated　a　brown　scum　of　rotting　leaves。　There　were　two　silvered　wooden　cube…shaped　buildings　at　the　far　end；　and　beyond　those　the　scrub　oak　and　the　white　sky。　A　small；　dark　figure—so　bundled　up　against　the　cold　he　was　almost　spherical—was　raking　leaves　and　piling　them　into　a　wheelbarrow。　I　presumed　he　must　be　the　Vietnamese　gardener；　Duc。　I　really　must　try　to　see　this　place　in　summer；　I　thought。

　　I　sat　down　on　a　lounge；　releasing　a　faded　odor　of　chlorine　and　suntan　lotion；　and　called　Rick　in　New　York。　He　was　in　a　rush；　as　usual。

　　“How’s　it　going？”

　　“We　had　a　good　morning。　The　man’s　a　pro。”

　　“Great。　I’ll　call　Maddox。　He’ll　be　glad　to　hear　it。　The　first　fifty　thousand　just　came　in；　by　the　way。　I’ll　wire　it　over。　Speak　to　you　later。”　The　line　went　dead。

　　I　finished　my　sandwich　and　went　back　upstairs；　still　clutching　my　silent　phone。　I　had　had　an　idea；　and　my　newborn　confidence　gave　me　the　courage　to　act　on　it。　I　went　into　the　study　and　closed　the　door。　I　plugged　Amelia’s　flash　drive　into　my　laptop；　then　I　attached　a　cable　from　my　computer　to　the　cell　phone　and　dialed　up　the　internet。　How　much　easier　my　life　would　be；　I　reasoned—how　much　quicker　the　job　would　be　done—if　I　could　work　on　the　book　in　my　hotel　room　each　night。　I　told　myself　I　was　doing　no　harm。　The　risks　were　minimal。　The　machine　rarely　left　my　side。　If　necessary；　it　was　small　enough　to　fit　under　my　pillow　while　I　slept。　The　moment　I　was　online；　I　addressed　an　email　to　myself；　attached　the　manuscript　file；　and　pressed　Send。

　　The　upload　seemed　to　take　an　age。　Amelia　started　calling　my　name　from　downstairs。　I　glanced　at　the　door　and　suddenly　my　fingers　were　thick　and　clumsy　with　anxiety。　“Your　file　has　been　transferred；”　said　the　female　voice　that　for　some　reason　is　favored　by　my　internet　service　provider。　“You　have　email；”　she　announced　a　fraction　later。

　　Immediately　I　yanked　the　cable　out　of　the　laptop；　and　I　had　just　removed　the　flash　drive　when　somewhere　in　the　big　house　a　klaxon　started。　At　the　same　time　there　was　a　hum　and　a　rattle　above　the　window　behind　me　and　I　spun　round　to　see　a　heavy　metal　shutter　dropping　from　the　ceiling。　It　descended　very　quickly；　blocking　first　the　view　of　the　sky；　then　the　sea　and　the　dunes；　flattening　the　winter　afternoon　to　dusk；　crushing　the　last　sliver　of　light　to　blackness。　I　groped　for　the　door　and　when　I　flung　it　open　the　unfiltered　sound　of　the　siren　was　strong　enough　to　vibrate　my　stomach。

　　The　same　process　was　happening　in　the　living　room：　one；　two；　three　shutters　falling　like　steel　curtains。　I　stumbled　in　the　gloom；　cracking　my　knee　against　a　sharp　edge。　I　dropped　my　phone。　As　I　stooped　to　retrieve　it；　the　klaxon　stalled　on　a　rising　note　and　died　with　a　moan。　I　heard　heavy　footsteps　coming　up　the　steps；　and　then　a　saber　of　light　flashed　into　the　big　room；　catching　me　in　a　furtive　crouch；　my　arms　flung　up　to　shield　my　face：　a　parody　of　guilt。

　　“Sorry；　sir；”　came　a　policeman’s　puzzled　voice　from　the　darkness。　“Didn’t　realize　there　was　anyone　up　here。”

　　IT　WAS　A　DRILL。They　held　it　once　a　week。　“Lockdown；”　I　think　they　called　it。　Rhinehart’s　security　people　had　installed　the　system　to　protect　him　against　terrorist　attack；　kidnap；　hurricanes；　unionized　labor；　the　Securities　and　Exchange　Commission；　or　whatever　passing　nightmare　currently　stalked　the　restless　nights　of　theFortune　500。　As　the　shutters　rose　and　the　pale　wash　of　Atlantic　light　was　released　back　into　the　house；　Amelia　came　into　the　living　room　to　apologize　for　not　having　warned　me。　“It　must　have　made　you　jump。”

　　“You　could　say　that。”

　　“But　then　I　did　rather　lose　track　of　you。”　There　was　an　edge　of　suspicion　to　her　manicured　voice。

　　“It’s　a　big　house。　I’m　a　big　boy。　You　can’t　keep　an　eye　on　me　all　the　time。”　I　tried　to　sound　relaxed；　but　I　knew　I　radiated　unease。

　　“A　word　of　advice。”　Her　glossy　pink　lips　parted　in　a　smile；　but　her　big；　clear　blue　eyes　were　as　cold　as　crystal。　“Don’t　go　wandering　round　too　much　on　your　own。　The　security　boys　don’t　like　it。”

　　“Gotcha。”　I　smiled　back。

　　There　was　a　squeak　of　rubber　soles　on　polished　wood　and　Lang　came　hurtling　up　the　stairs　at　a　tremendous　rate；　taking　them　two　or　three　at　a　time。　He　had　a　towel　around　his　neck。　His　face　was　flushed；　his　thick　and　wavy　hair　damped　and　darkened　by　sweat。　He　seemed　angry　about　something。

　　“Did　you　win？”　asked　Amelia。

　　“Didn’t　play　tennis　in　the　end。”　He　blew　out　his　breath；　dropped　into　the　nearby　sofa；　bent　forward；　and　started　vigorously　toweling　his　head。　“Gym。”

　　Gym？　I　looked　at　him　in　amazement。　Hadn’t　he　already　been　for　a　run　before　I　arrived？　What　was　he　in　training　for？　The　Olympics？

　　I　said；　in　a　jovial　way；　designed　to　show　Amelia　how　unfazed　I　was；　“So；　are　you　ready　to　get　back　to　work？”

　　He　glanced　up　at　me　furiously　and　snapped；　“You　call　what　we’re　doingwork　？”

　　It　was　the　first　time　I’d　ever　seen　a　flash　of　bad　temper　from　him；　and　it　struck　me　with　the　force　of　a　revelation　that　all　this　running　and　pressing　and　lifting　had　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　training；　he　wasn’t　even　doing　it　for　enjoyment。　It　was　simply　what　his　metabolism　demanded。　He　was　like　some　rare　marine　specimen　fished　up　from　the　depths　of　the　ocean；　which　could　live　only　under　extreme　pressure。　Deposited　on　the　shore；　exposed　to　the　thin　air　of　normal　life；　Lang　was　in　constant　danger　of　expiring　from　sheer　boredom。

　　“Well；　I　certainly　call　it　work；”　I　said　stiffly。　“For　both　of　us。　But　if　you　think　it’s　not　intellectually　demanding　enough　for　you；　we　can　stop　now。”

　　I　thought　I　might　have　gone　too　far；　but　then　with　a　great　effort　of　self…control—so　great；　you　could　practically　see　the　intricate　machinery　of　his　facial　muscles；　all　the　little　levers　and　pulleys　and　cables；　working　together—he　managed　to　hoist　a　tired　grin　back　onto　his　face。　“All　right；　man；”　he　said　tonelessly。　“You　win。”　He　flicked　me　with　his　towel。　“I　was　only　kidding。　Let’s　get　back　to　it。”

　　SEVEN

　　Quite　often；　particularly　if　you　are　helping　them　write　a　memoir　or　autobiography；　the　author　will　dissolve　into　tears　when　telling　the　story…Your　job　under　these　circumstances　is　to　pass　the　tissues；　keep　quiet　and　keep　recording。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　“WERE　YOUR　PARENTS　ATall　political？”

　　We　were　once　again　in　the　study；　in　our　usual　positions。　He　was　sprawled　out　in　the　armchair；　still　wearing　his　tracksuit；　the　towel　still　draped　round　his　neck。　He　exuded　a　faint　aroma　of　sweat。　I　sat　opposite　with　my　notebook　and　list　of　questions。　The　minirecorder　was　on　the　desk　beside　me。

　　“Not　at　all；　no。　I’m　not　sure　my　father　even　voted。　He　said　they　were　all　as　bad　as　one　another。”

　　“Tell　me　about　him。”

　　“He　was　a　builder。　Self…employed。　He　was　in　his　fifties　when　he　met　my　mother。　He’d　already　got　two　teenage　sons　by　his　first　wife—she’d　run　off　and　left　him　some　while　before。　Mum　was　a　teacher；　twenty　years　younger　than　him。　Very　pretty；　very　shy。　The　story　was　he　came　to　do　some　repair　work　on　the　school　roof；　and　they　got　talking；　and　one　thing　led　to　another；　and　they　got　married。　He　built　them　a　house　and　the　four　of　them　moved　in。　I　came　along　the　following　year；　which　was　a　shock　to　him；　I　think。”

　　“Why？”

　　“He　thought　he　was　through　with　babies。”

　　“I　get　the　impression；　reading　what’s　already　been　written；　that　you　weren’t　that　close　to　him。”

　　Lang　took　his　time　before　answering。　“He　died　when　I　was　sixteen。　He’d　already　retired　by　then；　because　of　bad　health；　and　my　stepbrothers　had　grown　up；　married；　moved