The Ghost(英文版)-第3部分

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ly　Hitler　had　known　he　didn’t　need　a　whole　air　force　to　paralyze　London；　I　thought；　just　a　revved…up　teenager　with　a　bottle　of　bleach　and　a　bag　of　weed　killer。）　Occasionally　a　police　car　or　an　ambulance　would　mount　the　curb；　roar　along　the　pavement；　and　attempt　to　make　progress　up　a　side　street。

　　I　trudged　on　toward　the　setting　sun。

　　It　must　have　been　six　when　I　reached　my　flat。　I　had　the　top　two　floors　of　a　high；　stuccoed　house　in　what　the　residents　called　Notting　Hill　and　the　post　office　stubbornly　insisted　was　North　Kensington。　Used　syringes　glittered　in　the　gutter；　at　the　halal　butchers　opposite　they　did　the　slaughtering　on　the　premises。　It　was　grim。　But　from　the　attic　extension　that　served　as　my　office　I　had　a　view　across　west　London　that　would　not　have　disgraced　a　skyscraper：　rooftops；　railway　yards；　motorway；　and　sky—a　vast　urban　prairie　sky；　sprinkled　with　the　lights　of　aircraft　descending　toward　Heathrow。　It　was　this　view　that　had　sold　me　the　apartment；　not　the　estate　agent’s　gentrification　patter—which　was　just　as　well；　as　the　rich　bourgeoisie　have　no　more　returned　to　this　area　than　they　have　to　downtown　Baghdad。

　　Kate　had　already　let　herself　in　and　was　watching　the　news。　Kate：　I　had　forgotten　she　was　coming　over　for　the　evening。　She　was　my—？　I　never　knew　what　to　call　her。　To　say　she　was　my　girlfriend　was　absurd；　no　one　the　wrong　side　of　thirty　has　agirlfriend　。　Partner　wasn’t　right　either；　as　we　didn’t　live　under　the　same　roof。　Lover？　How　could　one　keep　a　straight　face？　Mistress？　Do　me　a　favor。　Fiancée？　Certainly　not。　I　suppose　I　ought　to　have　realized　it　was　ominous　that　forty　thousand　years　of　human　language　had　failed　to　produce　a　word　for　our　relationship。　（Kate　wasn’t　her　real　name；　by　the　way；　but　I　don’t　see　why　she　should　be　dragged　into　all　this。　In　any　case；　it　suits　her　better　than　the　name　she　does　have：　she　looks　like　a　Kate；　if　you　know　what　I　mean—sensible　but　sassy；　girlish　but　always　willing　to　be　one　of　the　boys。　She　worked　in　television；　but　let’s　not　hold　that　against　her。）

　　“Thanks　for　the　concerned　phone　call；”　I　said。　“I’m　dead；　actually；　but　don’t　worry　about　it。”　I　kissed　the　top　of　her　head；　dropped　the　books　onto　the　sofa；　and　went　into　the　kitchen　to　pour　myself　a　whiskey。　“The　entire　tube　is　down。　I’ve　had　to　walk　all　the　way　from　Covent　Garden。”

　　“Poor　darling；”　I　heard　her　say。　“And　you’ve　been　shopping。”

　　I　topped　up　my　glass　with　water　from　the　tap；　drank　half；　then　topped　it　up　again　with　whiskey。　I　remembered　I　was　supposed　to　have　reserved　a　restaurant。　When　I　went　back　into　the　living　room；　she　was　removing　one　book　after　another　from　the　carrier　bag。　“What’s　all　this？”　she　said；　looking　up　at　me。　“You’re　not　interested　inpolitics　。”　And　then　she　realized　what　was　going　on；　because　she　was　smart—smarter　than　I　was。　She　knew　what　I　did　for　a　living；　she　knew　I　was　meeting　an　agent；　and　she　knew　all　about　McAra。　“Don’t　tell　me　they　wantyou　to　ghost　his　book？”　She　laughed。　“You　cannot　be　serious。”　She　tried　to　make　a　joke　of　it—“Youcannot　be　serious”　in　an　American　accent；　like　that　tennis　player　a　few　years　ago—but　I　could　see　her　dismay。　She　hated　Lang；　felt　personally　betrayed　by　him。　She　used　to　be　a　party　member。　I　had　forgotten　that；　too。

　　“It’ll　probably　come　to　nothing；”　I　said　and　drank　some　more　whiskey。

　　She　went　back　to　watching　the　news；　only　now　with　her　arms　tightly　folded；　always　a　warning　sign。　The　ticker　announced　that　the　death　toll　was　seven　and　likely　to　rise。

　　“But　if　you’re　offered　it　you’ll　do　it？”　she　asked；　without　turning　to　look　at　me。

　　I　was　spared　having　to　reply　by　the　newsreader　announcing　that　they　were　cutting　live　to　New　York　to　get　the　reaction　of　the　former　prime　minister；　and　suddenly　there　was　Adam　Lang；　at　a　podium　marked　“Waldorf…Astoria；”　where　it　looked　as　though　he　had　been　addressing　a　lunch。　“You　will　all　by　now　have　heard　the　tragic　news　from　London；”　he　said；　“where　once　again　the　forces　of　fanaticism　and　intolerance…”

　　Nothing　he　uttered　that　night　warrants　reprinting。　It　was　almost　a　parody　of　what　a　politician　might　say　after　a　terrorist　attack。　Yet；　watching　him；　you　would　have　thought　his　own　wife　and　children　had　been　eviscerated　in　the　blast。　This　was　his　genius：　to　refresh　and　elevate　the　clichés　of　politics　by　the　sheer　force　of　his　performance。　Even　Kate　was　briefly　silenced。　Only　when　he　had　finished　and　his　largely　female；　mostly　elderly　audience　was　rising　to　applaud　did　she　mutter；　“What’s　he　doing　in　New　York；　anyway？”

　　“Lecturing？”

　　“Why　can’t　he　lecture　here？”

　　“I　suppose　because　no　one　here　would　pay　him　a　hundred　thousand　dollars　a　throw。”

　　She　pressed　Mute。

　　“There　was　a　time；”　said　Kate　slowly；　after　what　felt　like　a　very　long　silence；　“when　princes　taking　their　countries　to　war　were　supposed　to　risk　their　lives　in　battle—you　know；　lead　by　example。　Now　they　travel　around　in　bombproof　cars　with　armed　bodyguards　and　make　fortunes　three　thousand　miles　away；　while　the　rest　of　us　are　stuck　with　the　consequences　of　their　actions。　I　just　don’t　understand　you；”　she　went　on；　turning　to　look　at　me　properly　for　the　first　time。　“All　the　things　I’ve　said　about　him　over　the　past　few　years—‘war　criminal’　and　the　rest　of　it—and　you’ve　sat　there　nodding　and　agreeing。　And　now　you’re　going　to　write　his　propaganda　for　him；　and　make　him　richer。　Did　none　of　it　ever　mean　anything　to　you　at　all？”

　　“Hold　on　a　minute；”　I　said。　“You’re　a　fine　one　to　talk。　You’ve　been　trying　to　get　an　interview　with　him　for　months。　What’s　the　difference？”

　　“What’s　the　difference？　Christ！”　She　clenched　her　hands—those　slim　white　hands　I　knew　so　well—and　raised　them　in　frustration；　half　claw；　half　fist。　The　sinews　stood　out　in　her　arms。　“What’s　the　difference？We　want　to　hold　him　to　account—that’s　the　difference！　To　ask　him　proper　questions！　About　torturing　and　bombing　and　lying！　Not　‘How　does　it　feel？’Christ！　This　is　a　complete　bloody　waste　of　time。”

　　She　got　up　then　and　went　into　the　bedroom　to　collect　the　bag　she　always　brought　on　the　nights　she　planned　to　stay。　I　heard　her　filling　it　noisily　with　lipstick；　toothbrush；　perfume　spray。　I　knew　if　I　went　in　I　could　retrieve　the　situation。　She　was　probably　expecting　it；　we’d　had　worse　rows。　I’d　have　been　obliged　to　concede　that　she　was　right；　acknowledge　my　unsuitability　for　the　task；　affirm　her　moral　and　intellectual　superiority　in　this　as　in　all　things。　It　needn’t　even　have　been　a　verbal　confession；　a　meaningful　hug　would　probably　have　been　enough　to　get　me　a　suspended　sentence。　But　the　truth　was；　at　that　moment；　given　a　choice　between　an　evening　of　her　smug　left…wing　moralizing　and　the　prospect　of　working　with　a　so…called　war　criminal；　I　preferred　the　war　criminal。　So　I　simply　carried　on　staring　at　the　television。

　　Sometimes　I　have　a　nightmare　in　which　all　the　women　I　have　ever　slept　with　assemble　together。　It’s　a　respectable　rather　than　a　huge　number—were　it　a　drinks　party；　say；　my　living　room　could　accommodate　them　quite　comfortably。　And　if；　God　forbid；　this　gathering　were　ever　to　occur；　Kate　would　be　the　undisputed　guest　of　honor。　She　is　the　one　for　whom　a　chair　would　be　fetched；　who　would　have　her　glass　refilled　by　sympathetic　hands；　who　would　sit　at　the　center　of　a　disbelieving　circle　as　my　moral　and　physical　flaws　were　dissected。　She　was　the　one　who　had　stuck　it　the　longest。

　　She　didn’t　slam　the　door　as　she　left　but　closed　it　very　carefully。　That　was　stylish；　I　thought。　On　the　television　screen　the　death　toll　had　just　increased　to　eight。

　　TWO

　　A　ghost　who　has　only　a　lay　knowledge　of　the　subject　will　be　able　to　keep　asking　the　same　questions　as　the　lay　reader；　and　will　therefore　open　up　the　potential　readership　of　the　book　to　a　much　wider　audience。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　RHINEHART　PUBLISHING　UK　CONSISTEDof　five　ancient　firms　acquired　during　a　vigorous　bout　of　corporate　kleptomania　in　the　nineteen　nineties。　Wrenched　out　of　their　Dickensian　garrets　in　Bloomsbury；　upsized；　downsized；　rebranded；　renamed；　reorganized；　modernized；　and　merged；　they　had　finally　been　dumped　in　Hounslow；　in　a　steel…and…smoked…glass　office　block　with　all　its　pipes　on　the　outside。　It　nestled　among　the　pebble…dash　housing　estates　like　an　abandoned　spacecraft　after　a　fruitless　mission　to　find　intelligent　life。

　　I　arrived；　with　professional　punctuality；　five　minutes　before　noon；　only　to　discover　the　main　door　locked。　I　had　to　buzz　for　entry。　A　notice　board　in　the　foyer　announced　that　the　terrorism　alert　was　ORANGE/HIGH　。　Through　the　darkened　glass　I　could　see　the　security　men　in　their　dingy　aquarium　checking　me　on　a　monitor。　When　I　finally　got　inside　I　had　to　turn　out　my　pockets　and　pass　through　a　metal　detector。

　　Quigley　was　waiting　for　me　by　the　lifts。

　　“Who’re　you　expecting　to　bomb　you？”　I　asked。　“Random　House？”

　　“We’re　publishing　Lang’s　memoirs；”　replied　Quigley　in　a　stiff　voice。　“That　alone　makes　us　a　target；　apparently。　Rick’s　already　upstairs。”

　　“How　many’ve　you　seen？”

　　“Five。　You’re　the　last。”

　　I　knew　Roy　Quigley　fairly　well；　well　enough