The Ghost(英文版)-第2部分
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“Well； that’s the point。 Who’s interested in politics？ In any case； it’s a professional ghostwriter he needs； my friend； not another goddamned politico。” He glanced around。 It was an iron rule of the club that no business could be discussed on the premises—a problem for Rick； seeing as he never discussed anything else。 “Marty Rhinehart paid ten million dollars for these memoirs on two conditions。 First； it’d be in the stores within two years。 Second； Lang wouldn’t pull any punches about the war on terror。 From what I hear； he’s nowhere near meeting either requirement。 Things got so bad around Christmas； Rhinehart gave him the use of his vacation house on the Vineyard so that Lang and McAra could work without any distractions。 I guess the pressure must have gotten to McAra。 The state medical examiner found enough booze in his blood to put him four times over the driving limit。”
“So it was an accident？”
“Accident？ Suicide？” He casually flicked his hand。 “Who’ll ever know？ What does it matter？ It was the book that killed him。”
“That’s encouraging；” I said。
While Rick went on with his pitch； I stared at my plate and imagined the former prime minister looking down at his assistant’s cold white face in the mortuary—staring down at his ghost； I suppose one could say。 How did it feel？ I am aly clients。 I must ask it a hundred times a day during the interview phase： How did it feel？How did it feel？ And mostly they can’t answer； which is why they have to hire me to supply their memories； by the end of a successful collaboration I am more them than they are。 I rather enjoy this process； to be honest： the brief freedom of being someone else。 Does that sound creepy？ If so； let me add that real craftsmanship is required。 I not only extract from people their life stories； I impart a shape to those lives that was often invisible； sometimes I give them lives they never even realized they had。 If that isn’t art； what is？
I said； “Should I have heard of McAra？”
“Yes； so let’s not admit you haven’t。 He was some kind of aide when Lang was prime minister。 Speechwriting； policy research； political strategy。 When Lang resigned； McAra stayed with him； to run his office。”
I grimaced。 “I don’t know； Rick。”
Throughout lunch I’d been half watching an elderly television actor at the next table。 He’d been famous when I was a child for playing the single parent of teenage girls in a sitcom。 Now； as he rose unsteadily and started to shuffle toward the exit； he looked as though he’d been made up to act the role of his own corpse。 That was the type of person whose memoirs I ghosted： people who had fallen a few rungs down the celebrity ladder； or who had a few rungs left to climb； or who were just about clinging to the top and were desperate to cash in while there was still time。 I was abruptly overwhelmed by the ridiculousness of the whole idea that I might collaborate on the memoirs of a prime minister。
“I don’t know—” I began again； but Rick interrupted me。
“Rhinehart Inc。 are getting frantic。 They’re holding a beauty parade at their London office tomorrow morning。 Maddox himself is flying over from New York to represent the company。 Lang’s sending the lawyer who negotiated the original deal for him—the hottest fixer in Washington； a very smart guy by the name of Sidney Kroll。 I’ve other clients I could put in for this； so if you’re not up for it； just tell me now。 But from the way they’ve been talking； I think you’re the best fit。”
“Me？ You’re kidding。”
“No。 I promise you。 They need to do something radical—take a risk。 It’s a great opportunity for you。 And the money will be good。 The kids won’t starve。”
“I don’t have any kids。”
“No；” said Rick with a wink； “but I do。”
WE PARTED ON THEsteps of the club。 Rick had a car waiting outside with its engine running。 He didn’t offer to drop me anywhere； which made me suspect he was off to see another client； to whom he would make exactly the same pitch he had just made to me。 What is the collective noun for a group of ghosts？ A train？ A town？ A haunt？ At any rate； Rick had plenty of us on his books。 Take a look at the bestseller lists： you would be amazed how much of it is the work of ghosts； novels as well as nonfiction。 We are the phantom operatives who keep publishing going； like the unseen workers beneath Walt Disney World。 We scuttle along the subterranean tunnels of celebrity； popping up here and there； dressed as this character or that； preserving the seamless illusion of the Magic Kingdom。
“See you tomorrow；” he said； and dramatically； in a puff of exhaust fumes； he was gone： Mephistopheles on a fifteen percent commission。 I stood for a minute； undecided； and if I had been in another part of London it is still just possible things might have gone differently。 But I was in that narrow zone where Soho washes up against Covent Garden： a trash…strewn strip of empty theaters； dark alleys； red lights； snack bars； and bookshops—so many bookshops you can start to feel ill just looking at them； from the tiny little rip…off specialist dealers in Cecil Court to the cut…price behemoths of Charing Cross Road。 I often drop into one of the latter； to see how my titles are displayed； and that was what I did that afternoon。 Once inside； it was only a short step across the scuffed red carpet of the “Biography & Memoir” department； and suddenly I had gone from “Celebrity” to “Politics。”
I was surprised by how much they had on the former prime minister—an entire shelf； everything from the early hagiography；Adam Lang： Statesman for Our Time ； to a recent hatchet job titledWould You Adam and Eve It？ The Collected Lies of Adam Lang ； both by the same author。 I took down the thickest biography and opened it at the photographs： Lang as a toddler； feeding a bottle of milk to a lamb beside a drystone wall； Lang as Lady Macbeth in a school play； Lang dressed as a chicken in a Cambridge University Footlights revue； Lang as a distinctly stoned…looking merchant banker in the nineteen seventies； Lang with his wife and young children on the doorstep of a new house； Lang wearing a rosette and waving from an open…topped bus on the day he was elected to parliament； Lang with his colleagues； Lang with world leaders； with pop stars； with soldiers in the Middle East。 A bald customer in a scuffed leather coat browsing the shelf next to me stared at the cover。 He held his nose with one hand and mimed flushing a toilet with the other。
I moved around the corner of the bookcase and looked up McAra； Michael in the index。 There were only five or six innocuous references—no reason； in other words； why anyone outside the party or the government need ever have heard of him； so to hell with you； Rick； I thought。 I flicked back to the photograph of the prime minister seated smiling at the cabinet table； with his Downing Street staff arrayed behind him。 The caption identified McAra as the burly figure in the back row。 He was slightly out of focus—a pale； unsmiling； dark…haired smudge。 I squinted more closely at him。 He looked exactly the sort of unappealing inadequate who is congenitally drawn to politics and makes people like me stick to the sports pages。 You’ll find a McAra in any country； in any system； standing behind any leader with a political machine to operate： a greasy engineer in the boiler room of power。 And this was the man who had been entrusted to ghost a ten…million…dollar memoir？ I felt professionally affronted。 I bought myself a small pile of research material and headed out of the bookshop with a growing conviction that maybe Rick was right： perhaps I was the man for the job。
It was obvious the moment I got outside that another bomb had gone off。 At Tottenham Court Road people were surging up above ground from all four exits of the tube station like storm water from a blocked drain。 A loudspeaker said something about “an incident at Oxford Circus。” It sounded like an edgy romantic comedy：Brief Encounter meets the war on terror。 I carried on up the road； unsure of how I would get home—taxis； like false friends； tending always to vanish at the first sign of trouble。 In the window of one of the big electrical shops； the crowd watched the same news bulletin relayed simultaneously on a dozen televisions： aerial shots of Oxford Circus； black smoke gushing out of the underground station； thrusts of orange flame。 An electronic ticker running across the bottom of the screen announced a suspected suicide bomber； many dead and injured； and gave an emergency number to call。 Above the rooftops a helicopter tilted and circled。 I could smell the smoke—an acrid； eye…reddening blend of diesel and burning plastic。
It took me two full hours to walk home； lugging my heavy bag of books—up to Marylebone Road and then westward toward Paddington。 As usual； the entire tube system had been shut down to check for further bombs； so had the main railway stations。 The traffic on either side of the wide street was stalled and； on past form； would remain so until evening。 （If only Hitler had known he didn’t need a whole air force to paralyze London； I thought；
