The Ghost(英文版)-第32部分

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an　the　others。”

　　“Really；　there’s　no　need。”

　　“Dinner’s　in　an　hour。　Is　that　okay？”

　　“That’s　fine；”　I　said；　surrendering。　“Thank　you。”

　　I　listened　for　the　click　of　the　door　as　she　left。　Immediately　I　rose　from　the　bath　and　grabbed　a　towel。　On　the　bed；　she　had　laid　out　a　freshly　laundered　shirt　belonging　to　her　husband　（it　was　handmade；　with　his　monogram；　APBL；　on　the　pocket）；　a　sweater；　and　a　pair　of　jeans。　Where　my　own　discarded　clothes　had　been　there　was　only　a　wet　mark　on　the　floor。　I　lifted　the　mattress—the　package　was　still　there—then　let　it　fall。

　　There　was　something　disconcerting　about　Ruth　Lang。　You　never　knew　where　you　were　with　her。　Sometimes　she　could　be　aggressive　for　no　reason—I　hadn’t　forgotten　her　behavior　during　our　first　conversation；　when　she　virtually　accused　me　of　planning　to　write　a　kiss…and…tell　memoir　about　her　and　Lang—and　then　at　others　she　was　bizarrely　overfamiliar；　holding　hands　or　dictating　what　you　should　wear。　It　was　as　if　some　tiny　mechanism　was　missing　from　her　brain；　the　bit　that　told　you　how　to　behave　naturally　with　other　people。

　　I　drew　my　towel　more　tightly　around　me；　knotted　it　at　my　waist；　and　sat　down　at　the　desk。　I’d　been　struck　before　by　how　strangely　absent　she　was　from　her　husband’s　autobiography。　That　was　one　of　the　reasons　I’d　wanted　to　begin　the　main　part　of　the　book　with　the　story　of　their　meeting—until　I　discovered　that　Lang　had　made　it　up。　She　was　there；　naturally　enough；　on　the　dedication　page—

　　To　Ruth；

　　and　my　kids；

　　and　the　people　of　Britain

　　—but　then　one　had　to　wait　another　fifty　pages　until　she　actually　appeared　in　person。　I　leafed　through　the　manuscript　until　I　reached　the　passage。

　　It　was　at　the　time　of　the　London　elections　that　I　first　got　to　know　Ruth　Capel；　one　of　the　most　energetic　members　of　the　local　association。　I　would　like　to　be　able　to　say　that　it　was　her　political　commitment　that　first　drew　me　to　her；　but　the　truth　is　that　I　found　her　immensely　attractive—small；　intense；　with　very　short　dark　hair　and　piercing　dark　eyes。　She　was　a　North　Londoner；　the　only　child　of　two　university　lecturers；　and　had　been　passionately　interested　in　politics　almost　from　the　time　she　could　speak—unlike　me！　She　was　also；　as　my　friends　never　tired　of　pointing　out；　much　cleverer　than　I　was！　She　had　gained　a　First　at　Oxford　in　politics；　philosophy；　and　economics；　and　then　done　a　year’s　postgraduate　research　in　postcolonial　government　as　a　Fulbright　scholar。　As　if　that　were　not　enough　to　intimidate　me；　she　had　also　come　top　in　the　Foreign　Office　entrance　examinations；　although　she　later　left　to　work　for　the　party’s　foreign　affairs　team　in　parliament。

　　Nevertheless；　the　Lang　family　motto　has　always　been；　“Nothing　ventured；　nothing　gained；”　and　I　managed　to　arrange　for　us　to　go　canvassing　together。　It　was　then　a　relatively　easy　matter；　after　a　hard　evening’s　knocking　on　doors　and　handing　out　leaflets；　to　suggest　a　casual　drink　in　a　local　pub。　At　first；　other　members　of　the　campaign　team　used　to　join　us　on　these　excursions；　but　gradually　they　became　aware　that　Ruth　and　I　wanted　to　spend　time　alone　together。　A　year　after　the　elections；　we　began　sharing　a　flat；　and　when　Ruth　became　pregnant　with　our　first　child；　I　asked　her　to　marry　me。　Our　wedding　took　place　at　Marylebone　registry　office　in　June　1979；　with　Andy　Martin；　one　of　my　old　friends　from　Footlights；　acting　as　my　best　man。　For　our　honeymoon；　we　borrowed　Ruth’s　parents’　cottage　near　Hay…on…Wye。　After　two　blissful　weeks；　we　returned　to　London；　ready　for　the　very　different　political　fray　following　the　election　of　Margaret　Thatcher。

　　That　was　the　only　substantial　reference　to　her。

　　I　slowly　worked　my　way　through　the　succeeding　chapters；　underlining　the　places　where　she　was　mentioned。　Her　“lifelong　knowledge　of　the　party”　was　“invaluable”　in　helping　Lang　gain　his　safe　parliamentary　seat。　“Ruth　saw　the　possibility　that　I　might　become　party　leader　long　before　I　did”　was　the　promising　opening　of　chapter　three；　but　how　or　why　she　reached　this　prescient　conclusion　weren’t　explained。　She　surfaced　to　give　“characteristically　shrewd　advice”　when　he　had　to　sack　a　colleague。　She　shared　his　hotel　suites　at　party　conferences。　She　straightened　his　tie　on　the　night　he　became　prime　minister。　She　went　shopping　with　the　wives　of　other　world　leaders　on　official　visits。　She　even　gave　birth　to　his　children　（“my　kids　have　always　kept　my　feet　firmly　on　the　ground”）。　But　for　all　that　hers　was　a　phantom　presence　in　the　memoirs；　which　puzzled　me；　because　she　certainly　wasn’t　a　phantom　presence　in　his　life。　Perhaps　this　was　why　she　had　been　keen　to　hire　me：　she　guessed　I　would　want　to　put　in　more　about　her。

　　When　I　checked　my　watch　I　realized　I’d　already　spent　an　hour　going　over　the　manuscript；　and　it　was　time　for　dinner。　I　contemplated　the　clothes　she　had　laid　out　on　the　bed。　I’m　what　the　English　would　call　“fastidious”　and　the　Americans　“tight…assed”：　I　don’t　like　eating　food　that’s　been　on　someone　else’s　plate；　or　drinking　from　the　same　glass；　or　wearing　clothes　that　aren’t　my　own。　But　these　were　cleaner　and　warmer　than　anything　I　possessed；　and　she　had　gone　to　the　trouble　of　fetching　them；　so　I　put　them　on—rolling　up　the　sleeves　because　I　had　no　cuff　links—and　went　upstairs。

　　THERE　WAS　A　LOGfire　burning　in　the　stone　hearth；　and　someone；　presumably　Dep；　had　lit　candles　all　around　the　room。　The　security　lights　in　the　grounds　had　also　been　turned　on；　illuminating　the　gaunt　white　outlines　of　trees　and　the　greenish…yellow　vegetation　bending　in　the　wind。　As　I　came　up　into　the　room；　a　gust　of　rain　slashed　across　the　huge　picture　window。　It　was　like　the　lounge　of　some　luxurious　boutique　hotel　out　of　season；　which　had　only　two　guests。

　　Ruth　was　sitting　on　the　same　sofa；　in　the　same　position　she　had　adopted　that　morning；　with　her　legs　drawn　up　beneath　her；　reading　theNew　York　Review　of　Books　。　Arranged　in　a　fan　on　the　low　table　in　front　of　her　was　an　array　of　magazines；　and　beside　them—a　harbinger　of　things　to　come；　I　hoped—a　long…stemmed　glass　of　what　looked　like　white　wine。　She　glanced　up　approvingly。

　　“A　perfect　fit；”　she　said。　“And　now　you　need　a　drink。”　She　leaned　her　head　over　the　back　of　the　sofa—I　could　see　the　cords　of　muscle　standing　out　in　her　neck—and　called　in　her　mannish　voice　in　the　direction　of　the　stairs；　“Dep！”　And　then　to　me；　“What　will　you　have？”

　　“What　are　you　having？”

　　“Biodynamic　white　wine；”　she　said；　“from　the　Rhinehart　Vinery　in　Napa　Valley。”

　　“He　doesn’t　own　a　distillery；　I　suppose？”

　　“It’s　delicious。　You　must　try　it。　Dep；”　she　said　to　the　housekeeper；　who　had　appeared　at　the　top　of　the　stairs；　“bring　the　bottle；　would　you；　and　another　glass？”

　　I　sat　down　opposite　her。　She　was　wearing　a　long　red　wraparound　dress；　and　on　her　normally　scrubbed…clean　face　was　a　trace　of　makeup。　There　was　something　touching　about　her　determination　to　put　on　a　show；　even　as　the　bombs；　so　to　speak；　were　falling　all　around　her。　All　we　needed　was　a　windup　gramophone　and　we　could　have　played　the　plucky　English　couple　in　a　No。l　Coward　play；　keeping　up　brittle　appearances　while　the　world　went　smash　around　us。　Dep　poured　me　some　wine　and　left　the　bottle。

　　“We’ll　eat　in　twenty　minutes；”　instructed　Ruth；　“because　first；”　she　said；　picking　up　the　remote　control　and　jabbing　it　fiercely　at　the　television；　“we　must　watch　the　news。　Cheers；”　she　said　and　raised　her　glass。

　　“Cheers；”　I　replied　and　did　the　same。

　　I　drained　the　glass　in　thirty　seconds。　White　wine。　Whatis　the　point　of　it？　I　picked　up　the　bottle　and　studied　the　label。　Apparently　the　vines　were　grown　in　soil　treated　in　harmony　with　the　lunar　cycle；　using　manure　buried　in　a　cow’s　horn　and　flower　heads　of　yarrow　fermented　in　a　stag’s　bladder。　It　sounded　like　the　sort　of　suspicious　activity　for　which　people　quite　rightly　used　to　be　burned　as　witches。

　　“You　like　it？”　asked　Ruth。

　　“Subtle　and　fruity；”　I　said；　“with　a　hint　of　bladder。”

　　“Pour　us　some　more；　then。　Here　comes　Adam。　Christ；　it’s　the　lead　story。　I　think　I　may　have　to　get　drunk　for　a　change。”

　　The　headline　behind　the　announcer’s　shoulder　read　“LANG：　WAR　CRIMES。”　I　didn’t　like　the　fact　that　they　weren’t　bothering　to　use　a　question　mark　anymore。　The　familiar　scenes　from　the　morning　unfolded：　the　press　conference　at　The　Hague；　Lang　leaving　the　Vineyard　house；　the　statement　to　reporters　on　the　West　Tisbury　highway。　Then　came　shots　of　Lang　in　Washington；　first　greeting　members　of　Congress　in　a　warm　glow　of　flashbulbs　and　mutual　admiration；　and　then；　more　somberly；　Lang　with　the　secretary　of　state。　Amelia　Bly　was　clearly　visible　in　the　background：　the　official　wife。　I　didn’t　dare　look　at　Ruth。

　　“Adam　Lang；”　said　the　secretary　of　state；　“has　stood　by　our　side　in　the　war　against　terror；　and　I　am　proud　to　stand　by　his　side　this　afternoon　and　to　offer　him；　on　behalf　of　the　American　people；　the　hand　of　friendship。　Adam。　Good　to　see　you。”

　　“Don’t　grin；”　said　Ruth。

　　“Thank　you；”　said　Adam；　grinning　and　shaking　the　proferred　hand。　He　beamed　at　the　cameras。　He　looked　like　an　eager　s