The Ghost(英文版)-第28部分

按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！


nly　because　he’d　fancied　a　girl。　It　flattered　him；　by　making　him　look　less　ambitious；　and　it　flattered　her；　by　making　her　look　more　influential　than　she　probably　was。　Audiences　liked　it。　Everyone　was　happy。　But　now　the　question　arose：　what　was　I　supposed　to　do？

　　It’s　not　an　uncommon　dilemma　in　the　ghosting　business；　and　the　etiquette　is　simple：　you　draw　the　discrepancy　to　the　author’s　attention　and　leave　it　up　to　him　to　decide　how　to　resolve　it。　The　collaborator’s　responsibility　is　not　to　insist　on　the　absolute　truth。　If　it　were；　our　end　of　the　publishing　industry　would　collapse　under　the　dead　weight　of　reality。　Just　as　the　beautician　doesn’t　tell　her　client　that　she　has　a　face　like　a　sack　of　toads；　so　the　ghost　doesn’t　confront　the　autobiographer　with　the　fact　that　half　his　treasured　reminiscences　are　false。　Don’t　dictate；　facilitate：　that　is　our　motto。　Obviously；　McAra　had　failed　to　observe　this　sacred　rule。　He　must　have　had　his　suspicions　about　what　he　was　being　told；　ordered　up　a　parcel　of　research　from　the　archives；　and　then　removed　the　ex–prime　minister’s　most　polished　anecdote　from　his　memoirs。　What　an　amateur！　I　could　imagine　how　well　that　must　have　been　received。　No　doubt　it　helped　explain　why　relations　had　become　so　strained。

　　I　turned　my　attention　back　to　the　Cambridge　material。　There　was　a　strange　kind　of　innocence　about　these　faded　jeunesse　dorée；　stranded　in　that　lost　but　happy　valley　that　lay　somewhere　between　the　twin　cultural　peaks　of　hippiedom　and　punk。　Spiritually；　they　looked　far　closer　to　the　sixties　than　the　seventies。　The　girls　had　long　lacy　dresses　in　floral　prints；　with　plunging　necklines；　and　big　straw　hats　to　keep　off　the　sun。　The　men’s　hair　was　as　long　as　the　women’s。　In　the　only　color　picture；　Lang　was　holding　a　bottle　of　champagne　in　one　hand　and　what　looked　very　much　like　a　joint　in　the　other；　a　girl　seemed　to　be　feeding　him　strawberries；　while　in　the　background　a　bare…chested　man　gave　a　thumbs…up。

　　The　biggest　of　the　cast　photographs　showed　eight　young　people　grouped　together　under　a　spotlight；　their　arms　outstretched　as　if　they　had　just　finished　some　show…stopping　song　and　dance　routine　in　a　cabaret。　Lang　was　on　the　far　right…hand　side；　wearing　his　striped　blazer；　a　bow　tie；　and　a　straw　boater。　There　were　two　girls　in　leotards；　fishnet　tights；　and　high　heels：　one　with　short　blonde　hair；　the　other　dark　frizzy　curls；　possibly　a　redhead　（it　was　impossible　to　tell　from　the　monochrome　photo）：　both　pretty。　Two　of　the　men　apart　from　Lang　I　recognized：　one　was　now　a　famous　comedian；　the　other　an　actor。　A　third　man　looked　older　than　the　others：　a　postgraduate　researcher；　perhaps。　Everyone　was　wearing　gloves。

　　Glued　to　the　back　was　a　typed　slip　listing　the　names　of　the　performers；　along　with　their　colleges：

　　G。　W。　Syme　（Caius）；　W。　K。　Innes　（Pembroke）；　A。　Parke　（Newnham）；　P。　Emmett　（St。　John’s）；　A。　D。　Martin　（King’s）；　E。　D。　Vaux　（Christ’s）；　H。　C。　Martineau　（Girton）；　A。　P。　Lang　（Jesus）。

　　There　was　a　copyright　stamp—Cambridge　Evening　News—in　the　bottom　left…hand　corner；　and　scrawled　diagonally　next　to　it　in　blue　ballpoint　was　a　telephone　number；　prefixed　by　the　international　dialing　code。　No　doubt　McAra；　indefatigable　fact　hound　that　he　was；　had　hunted　down　one　of　the　cast；　and　I　wondered　which　of　them　it　was　and　if　he　or　she　could　remember　the　events　depicted　in　the　photographs。　Purely　on　a　whim；　I　took　out　my　mobile　and　dialed　the　number。

　　Instead　of　the　familiar　two…beat　British　ringing　tone；　I　heard　the　single　sustained　note　of　the　American。　I　let　it　ring　for　a　long　while。　Just　as　I　was　about　to　give　in；　a　man　answered；　cautiously。

　　“Richard　Rycart。”

　　The　voice；　with　its　slight　colonial　twang—“Richard　Roicart”—was　unmistakably　that　of　the　former　foreign　secretary。　He　sounded　suspicious。　“Who　is　this？”　he　asked。

　　I　hung　up　at　once。　In　fact；　I　was　so　alarmed　that　I　actually　threw　the　phone　onto　the　bed。　It　lay　there　for　about　thirty　seconds　and　then　started　to　ring。　I　darted　over　and　grabbed　it—the　incoming　number　was　listed　as　“withheld”—and　quickly　switched　it　off。　For　half　a　minute　I　was　too　stunned　to　move。

　　I　told　myself　not　to　rush　to　any　conclusions。　I　didn’t　know　for　certain　that　McAra　had　written　down　the　number；　or　even　rung　it。　I　checked　the　package　to　see　when　it　had　been　dispatched。　It　had　left　the　United　Kingdom　on　January　the　third；　nine　days　before　McAra　died。

　　It　suddenly　seemed　vitally　important　for　me　to　get　every　remaining　trace　of　my　predecessor　out　of　that　room。　Hurriedly；　I　stripped　the　last　of　his　clothes　from　the　closet；　upending　the　drawers　of　socks　and　underpants　into　his　suitcase　（I　remember　he　wore　thick　knee…length　socks　and　baggy　white　Y…fronts：　this　boy　was　old…fashioned　all　the　way　through）。　There　were　no　personal　papers　that　I　could　find—no　diary　or　address　book；　letters；　or　even　books—and　I　presumed　they　must　have　been　taken　away　by　the　police　immediately　after　his　death。　From　the　bathroom　I　removed　his　blue　plastic　disposable　razor；　toothbrush；　comb；　and　the　rest　of　it；　and　then　the　job　was　done：　all　tangible　effects　of　Michael　McAra；　former　aide　to　the　Right　Honourable　Adam　Lang；　were　crammed　into　a　suitcase　and　ready　to　be　dumped。　I　dragged　it　out　into　the　corridor　and　around　to　the　solarium。　It　could　stay　there　until　the　summer；　for　all　I　cared；　just　as　long　as　I　didn’t　have　to　see　it　again。　It　took　me　a　moment　to　recover　my　breath。

　　And　yet；　even　as　I　headed　back　toward　his—my—our—room；　I　could　sense　his　presence；　loping　along　clumsily　at　my　heels。　“Fuck　off；　McAra；”　I　muttered　to　myself。　“Just　fuck　off　and　leave　me　alone　to　finish　this　book　and　get　out　of　here。”　I　stuffed　the　photographs　and　photocopies　back　into　their　original　envelope　and　looked　around　for　somewhere　to　hide　it；　then　I　stopped　and　asked　myself　why　I　should　want　to　conceal　it。　It　wasn’t　exactly　top　secret。　It　had　nothing　to　do　with　war　crimes。　It　was　just　a　young　man；　a　student　actor；　more　than　thirty　years　earlier；　on　a　sunlit　riverbank；　drinking　champagne　and　sharing　a　spliff　with　his　friends。　There　could　be　any　number　of　reasons　why　Rycart’s　number　was　on　the　back　of　that　photo。　But　still；　somehow；　it　demanded　to　be　hidden；　and　in　the　absence　of　any　other　bright　idea；　I’m　ashamed　to　say　I　resorted　to　the　cliché　of　lifting　the　mattress　and　stuffing　it　underneath。

　　“Lunch；　sir；”　called　Dep　softly　from　the　corridor。　I　wheeled　round。　I　wasn’t　sure　if　she’d　seen　me；　but　then　I　wasn’t　sure　it　mattered。　Compared　to　what　else　she　must　have　witnessed　in　the　house　over　the　past　few　weeks；　my　own　strange　behavior　would　surely　have　seemed　small　beer。

　　I　followed　her　into　the　kitchen。　“Is　Mrs。　Lang　around？”　I　said。

　　“No；　sir。　She　go　Vineyard　Haven。　Shopping。”

　　She　had　fixed　me　a　club　sandwich。　I　sat　on　a　tall　stool　at　the　breakfast　bar　and　compelled　myself　to　eat　it；　while　she　wrapped　things　in　tinfoil　and　put　them　back　in　one　of　Rhinehart’s　array　of　six　stainless　steel　fridges。　I　considered　what　I　should　do。　Normally　I　would　have　forced　myself　back　to　my　desk　and　continued　writing　all　afternoon。　But　for　just　about　the　first　time　in　my　career　as　a　ghost；　I　was　blocked。　I’d　wasted　half　the　morning　composing　a　charmingly　intimate　reminiscence　of　an　event　that　hadn’t　happened—couldn’thave　happened；　because　Ruth　Lang　hadn’t　arrived　to　start　her　career　in　London　until　1976；　by　which　time　her　future　husband　had　already　been　a　party　member　for　a　year。

　　Even　the　thought　of　tackling　the　Cambridge　section；　which　once　I’d　regarded　as　words　in　the　bank；　now　led　me　to　confront　a　blank　wall。　Who　was　he；　this　happy…go…lucky；　girl…chasing；　politically　allergic；　would…be　actor？　What　suddenly　turned　him　into　a　party　activist；　trailing　around　council　estates；　if　it　wasn’t　meeting　Ruth？　It　made　no　sense　to　me。　That　was　when　I　realized　I　had　a　fundamental　problem　with　our　former　prime　minister。　He　was　not　a　psychologically　credible　character。　In　the　flesh；　or　on　the　screen；　playing　the　part　of　a　statesman；　he　seemed　to　have　a　strong　personality。　But　somehow；　when　one　sat　down　to　think　about　him；　he　vanished。　This　made　it　almost　impossible　for　me　to　do　my　job。　Unlike　any　number　of　show　business　and　sporting　weirdos　I　had　worked　with　in　the　past；　when　it　came　to　Lang；　I　simply　couldn’t　make　him　up。

　　I　took　out　my　cell　phone　and　considered　calling　Rycart。　But　the　more　I　reflected　on　how　the　conversation　might　go；　the　more　reluctant　I　became　to　initiate　it。　What　exactly　was　I　supposed　to　say？　“Oh；　hello；　you　don’t　know　me；　but　I’ve　replaced　Mike　McAra　as　Adam　Lang’s　ghost。　I　believe　he　may　have　spoken　to　you　a　day　or　two　before　he　was　washed　up　dead　on　a　beach。”　I　put　the　phone　back　in　my　pocket；　and　suddenly　I　couldn’t　rid　my　mind　of　the　image　of　McAra’s　heavy　body　rolling　back　and　forth　in　the　surf。　Did　he　hit　rocks；　or　was　he　run　straight　up　onto　soft　sand？　What　was　the　name　of　the

　　place　where　he’d　been　found？　Rick　had　mentioned　it　when　we　had　lunch　at　his　club　in　London。　Lambert　something…or…other。

　　“Excuse　me；　Dep；”　I　said　to　the　housekeeper。

　　She　straightened　from　the　fridge。　She　had　such　a　sweetly　sympathetic　face。　“Sir？”

　　“Do