The Ghost(英文版)-第36部分

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　　“You’ve　taken　out　his　family　history；”　she　said。　“He　won’t　like　that。　He’s　very　proud　of　the　Langs。　And　why　have　you　underlined　my　name　every　time？”

　　“I　wanted　to　check　how　often　you　were　mentioned。　I　was　surprised　there　wasn’t　more　about　you。”

　　“That　will　be　a　hangover　from　the　focus　groups。”

　　“I’m　sorry？”

　　“When　we　were　in　Downing　Street；　Mike　used　to　say　that　every　time　I　opened　my　mouth　I　cost　Adam　ten　thousand　votes。”

　　“I’m　sure　that’s　not　true。”

　　“Of　course　it　is。　People　are　always　looking　for　someone　to　resent。　I　often　think　my　main　usefulness；　as　far　as　he　was　concerned；　was　to　serve　as　a　lightning　rod。　They　could　take　their　anger　out　on　me　instead　of　him。”

　　“Even　so；”　I　said；　“you　ought　not　to　be　written　out　of　history。”

　　“Why　not？　Most　women　usually　are。　Even　the　Amelia　Blys　of　this　world　are　written　out　eventually。”

　　“Well；　then；　I　shall　reinstate　you。”　I　slid　open　the　door　of　the　closet　so　hard　in　my　haste　it　banged。　I　had　to　get　out　of　that　house。　I　had　to　put　some　distance　between　myself　and　their　destructive　ménage　à　trois　before　I　ended　up　as　crazed　as　they　were。　“I’d　like　to　sit　down　with　you；　when　you　have　the　time；　and　do　a　really　long　interview。　Put　in　all　the　important　occasions　that　he’s　forgotten。”

　　“How　very　kind　of　you；”　she　said　bitterly。　“Like　the　boss’s　secretary　whose　job　is　to　remember　his　wife’s　birthdays　for　him？”

　　“Something　like　that。　But　then；　as　you　say；　I　can’t　claim　to　be　a　proper　writer。”

　　I　was　conscious　of　her　watching　me　carefully。　I　put　on　a　pair　of　boxer　shorts；　pulling　them　up　under　my　robe。

　　“Ah；”　she　said　dryly；　“the　modesty　of　the　morning　after。”

　　“A　bit　late　for　that；”　I　said。

　　I　took　off　the　dressing　gown　and　reached　for　a　shirt；　and　as　the　hanger　rang　its　hollow　chime；　I　thought　that　this　was　exactly　the　sort　of　miserable　scene　that　the　discreet　nocturnal　departure　was　invented　to　avoid。　How　typical　of　her　not　to　sense　er　intimacy　lay　between　us　like　a　shadow。　The　silence　lengthened；　and　hardened；　until　I　could　feel　her　resentment　as　an　almost　solid　barrier。　I　could　no　more　have　gone　across　and　kissed　her　now　than　I　could　on　the　day　we　met。

　　“What　are　you　going　to　do？”　she　said。

　　“Leave。”

　　“That’s　not　necessary　as　far　as　I’m　concerned。”

　　“I’m　afraid　it　is；　as　far　as　I　am。”

　　I　pulled　on　my　trousers。

　　“Are　you　going　to　tell　Adam　about　this？”　she　said。

　　“Oh；　for　God’s　sake！”　I　cried。　“What　do　you　think？”

　　I　laid　my　suitcase　on　the　bed　and　unzipped　it。

　　“Where　will　you　go？”　She　looked　as　if　she　might　be　about　to　cry　again。　I　hoped　not；　I　couldn’t

　　take　it。

　　“Back　to　the　hotel。　I　can　work　much　better　there。”　I　started　throwing　in　my　clothes；　not　bothering　to　fold　them；　such　was　my　eagerness　to　get　away。　“I’m　sorry。　I　should　never　have　stayed　in　a　client’s

　　house。　It　always　ends—”　I　hesitated。

　　“With　you　fucking　the　client’s　wife？”

　　“No；　of　course　not。　It　just　makes　it　hard　to　keep　a　professional　distance。　Anyway；　it　wasn’t

　　entirely　my　idea；　if　you　recall。”

　　“That’s　not　very　gentlemanly　of　you。”

　　I　didn’t　answer。　I　carried　on　packing。　Her　gaze　followed　my　every　move。

　　“And　the　things　I　told　you　last　night？”　she　said。　“What　do　you　propose　to　do　about　them？”

　　“Nothing。”

　　“You　can’t　simply　ignore　them。”

　　“Ruth；”　I　said；　stopping　at　last；　“I’m　his　ghostwriter；　not　an　investigative　reporter。　If　he　wants　to　tell

　　the　truth　about　what’s　been　going　on；　I’m　here　to　help　him。　If　he　doesn’t；　fine。　I’m　morally　neutral。”

　　“It　isn’t　morally　neutral　to　conceal　the　facts　if　you　know　something　illegal　has　happened—that’s　criminal。”

　　“But　I　don’t　know　that　anything　illegalhas　happened。　All　I　have　is　a　phone　number　on　the　back　of　a　photograph　and　gossip　from　some　old　man　who　may　well　be　senile。　If　anyone　has　any　evidence；　it’s　you。　That’s　the　real　question；　actually：　what　areyou　going　to　do　about　it？”

　　“I　don’t　know；”　she　said。　“Perhaps　I’ll　write　my　own　memoirs。　‘Ex–Prime　Minister’s　Wife　Tells

　　All。’”

　　I　resumed　packing。

　　“Well；　if　ever　you　do　decide　to　do　that；　give　me　a　call。”

　　She　emitted　one　of　her　trademark　full…throated　laughs。

　　“Do　you　really　think　I　need　someone　likeyou　to　enable　me　to　produce　a　book？”

　　She　stood　up　then　and　undid　her　belt；　and　for　an　instant　I　thought　she　was　about　to　undress；　but　she　was　only　loosening　it　in　order　to　wrap　the　robe　more　closely　around　herself。　She　drew　the　belt　very　tight　and　knotted　it；　and　the　finality　of　the　gesture　somehow　restored　her　superiority　over　me。　My　rights　of　access　were　hereby　revoked。　Her　resolve　was　so　firm　I　felt　almost　wistful；　and　if　she　had　held　out　her　arms　it　would　have　been　my　turn　to　fall　against　her；　but　instead；　she　turned　and；　in　the　practiced　manner　of　a　prime　minister’s　wife；　pulled　the　nylon　cord　to　open　the　curtains。

　　“I　declare　this　day　officially　open；”　she　said。　“God　bless　it；　and　all　who　have　to　get　through　it。”

　　“Well；”　I　said；　looking　out　at　the　scene；　“that　really　is　the　morning　after　the　night　before。”

　　The　rain　had　turned　to　sleet　and　the　lawn　was　covered　with　debris　from　the　storm—small　branches；　twigs；　a　white　cane　chair　thrown　on　its　side。　Here　and　there；　around　the　edges　of　the　door；　where　it　was　sheltered　the　sleet　had　stuck　together　and　frozen　into　strips；　like　bits　of　polystyrene　packaging。　The　only　brightness　in　the　murk　was　the　reflection　of　our　bedroom　light。　It　resembled　a　flying　saucer　hovering　above　the　dunes。　I　could　see　Ruth’s　face　quite　clearly　in　the　glass：　watchful；　brooding。

　　“I’m　not　going　to　give　you　an　interview；”　she　said。　“I　don’t　want　to　be　in　his　bloody　book；　being　patronized　and　thanked　by　him；　using　your　words。”　She　turned　and　brushed　past　me。　At　the　bedroom　door　she　paused。　“He’s　on　his　own　now。　I’ll　get　a　divorce。　And　then　she　can　do　the　prison　visits。”

　　I　listened　to　the　sound　of　her　own　door　opening　and　closing；　and　shortly　afterward　the　barely　audible　sound　of　a　toilet　flushing。　I　had　almost　finished　packing。　I　folded　the　clothes　she　had　lent　me　the　previous　evening　and　laid　them　on　the　chair；　put　my　laptop　into　my　shoulder　bag；　and　then　the　only　thing　left　was　the　manuscript。　It　sat　in　a　thick　pile　on　the　table　where　she　had　left　it；　three　sullen　inches　of　it—my　millstone；　my　albatross；　my　meal　ticket。　I　couldn’t　make　any　progress　without　it；　yet　I　wasn’t　supposed　to　take　it　from　the　house。　It　occurred　to　me　that　perhaps　I　could　argue　the　war　crimes　investigation　had　changed　the　circumstances　of　Lang’s　life　so　completely　that　the　old　rules　no　longer　applied。　At　any　rate；　I　could　use　that　as　an　excuse。　I　certainly　couldn’t　face　the　embarrassment　of　staying　here　and　running　into　Ruth　every　few　hours。　I　put　the　manuscript　into　my　suitcase；　along　with　the　package　from　the　archive；　zipped　them　up；　and　went　out　into　the　corridor。

　　Barry　was　sitting　with　his　Harry　Potter　novel　in　the　chair　by　the　front　door。　He　raised　his　great　slab　of　a　face　from　the　pages　and　gave　me　a　look　of　weary　disapproval；　tinged　with　a　sneer　of　amused　contempt。

　　“Morning；　sir；”　he　said。　“Finished　for　the　night；　have　we？”

　　I　thought；　he　knows。　And　then　I　thought；　of　course　he　knows；　you　bloody　fool；　it’s　his　job　to　know。　In　a　flash　I　saw　his　sniggering　conversations　with　his　colleagues；　the　log　of　his　official　observations　passed　to　London；　a　discreet　entry　in　a　file　somewhere；　and　I　felt　a　thrust　of　fury　and　resentment。　Perhaps　I　should　have　responded　with　a　wink　or　a　colluding　quip—“Well；　officer；　you　know　what　they　say：　there’s　many　a　good　tune　played　on　an　old　fiddle；”　or　something　of　the　sort—but　instead　I　said；　coldly；　“Why　don’t　you　just　fuck　off？”

　　It　wasn’t　exactly　Oscar　Wilde；　but　it　got　me　out　of　the　house。　I　walked　through　the　door　and　set　off　toward　the　track；　only　belatedly　registering　that；　unfortunately；　high　moral　dudgeon　offers　no　protection　against　stinging　squalls　of　sleet。　I　trudged　on　with　an　effort　at　dignity　for　a　few　more　yards；　then　ducked　for　cover　into　the　lee　of　the　house。　Rainwater　was　overflowing　from　the　gutter　and　drilling　into　the　sandy　soil。　I　took　off　my　jacket　and　held　it　over　my　head；　and　considered　how　I　was　going　to　reach　Edgartown。　That　was　when　the　idea　of　borrowing　the　tan…colored　Ford　Escape　SUV　popped　helpfully　into　my　mind。

　　How　different—how　very　different—the　course　of　my　life　would　have　been　if　I　hadn’t　immediately　gone　running　toward　that　garage；　dodging　the　puddles；　the　tent　of　my　jacket　raised　over　me　with　one　hand；　the　other　dragging　my　little　suitcase。　I　see　myself　now　as　if　in　a　movie；　or　perhaps；　more　aptly；　in　one　of　those　filmed　reconstructions　on　a　TV　crime　show：　the　victim　skipping　unknowingly　toward　his　fate；　as　ominous　chords　underscore　the　portentousness　of　the　scene。　The　door　was　still　unlocked　from　the　previous　day　and　the　keys　of　the　Ford　were　in　the　ignition—after　all；　who　worries　about　robbers　when　you　live　at　the　end　of　a　two…mile　track　protected　by　si