The Ghost(英文版)-第4部分

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　　“How　many’ve　you　seen？”

　　“Five。　You’re　the　last。”

　　I　knew　Roy　Quigley　fairly　well；　well　enough　to　know　he　disapproved　of　me。　He　must　have　been　about　fifty；　tall　and　tweedy。　In　a　happier　era　he　would　have　smoked　a　pipe　and　offered　tiny　advances　to　minor　academics　over　large　lunches　in　Soho。　Now　his　midday　meal　was　a　plastic　tray　of　salad　taken　at　his　desk　overlooking　the　M4；　and　he　received　his　orders　direct　from　the　head　of　sales　and　marketing；　a　girl　of　about　sixteen。　He　had　three　children　in　private　schools　he　couldn’t　afford。　As　the　price　of　survival　he’d　actually　been　obliged　to　start　taking　an　interest　in　popular　culture；　to　wit；　the　lives　of　various　footballers；　supermodels；　and　foulmouthed　comedians　whose　names　he　pronounced　carefully　and　whose　customs　he　studied　in　the　tabloids　with　scholarly　detachment；　as　if　they　were　remote　Micronesian　tribespeople。　I’d　pitched　him　an　idea　the　year　before；　the　memoirs　of　a　TV　magician　who　had—of　course！—been　abused　in　childhood　but　who　had　used　his　skill　as　an　illusionist　to　conjure　up　a　new　life；　etc。；　etc。　He’d　turned　it　down　flat。　The　book　had　gone　straight　to　number　one：I　Came；　I　Sawed；　I　Conquered　。　He　still　bore　a　grudge。

　　“I　have　to　tell　you；”　he　said；　as　we　rose　to　the　penthouse；　“that　I　don’t　think　you’re　the　right　man　for　this　assignment。”

　　“Then　it’s　a　good　job　it’s　not　your　decision；　Roy。”

　　Oh；　yes；　I　had　Quigley’s　measure　right　enough。　His　title　was　UK　Group　Editor　in　Chief；　which　meant　he　had　all　the　authority　of　a　dead　cat。　The　man　who　really　ran　the　global　show　was　waiting　for　us　in　the　boardroom：　John　Maddox；　chief　executive　of　Rhinehart　Inc。；　a　big；　bull…shouldered　New　Yorker　with　alopecia。　His　bald　head　glistened　under　the　strip　lighting　like　a　massive；　varnished　egg。　As　a　young　man　he’d　acquired　a　wrestler’s　physique　in　order　（according　toPublishers　Weekly　）　to　tip　out　the　window　anyone　who　stared　too　long　at　his　scalp。　I　made　sure　my　gaze　never　rose　higher　than　his　superhero　chest。　Next　to　him　was　Lang’s　Washington　attorney；　Sidney　Kroll；　a　bespectacled　fortysomething　with　a　delicate　pale　face；　floppy　raven　hair；　and　the　limpest　and　dampest　handshake　I’d　been　offered　since　Dippy　the　Dolphin　bobbed　up　from　his　pool　when　I　was　twelve。

　　“And　Nick　Riccardelli　I　think　you　knopleting　the　introductions　with　just　a　hint　of　a　shudder。　My　agent；　who　was　wearing　a　shiny　gray　shirt　and　a　thin　red　leather　tie；　winked　up　at　me。

　　“Hi；　Rick；”　I　said。

　　I　felt　nervous　as　I　took　my　seat　beside　him。　The　room　was　lined；　Gatsby…like；　with　immaculate　unread　hardcover　books。　Maddox　sat　with　his　back　to　the　window。　He　laid　his　massive；　hairless　hands　on　the　glass…topped　table；　as　if　to　prove　he　had　no　intention　of　reaching　for　a　weapon　just　yet；　and　said；　“I　gather　from　Rick　you’re　aware　of　the　situation　and　that　you　know　what　we’re　looking　for。　So　perhaps　you　could　tell　us　exactly　what　you　think　you’d　bring　to　this　project。”

　　“Ignorance；”　I　said　brightly；　which　at　least　had　the　benefit　of　shock　value；　and　before　anyone　could　interrupt　I　launched　into　the　little　speech　I’d　rehearsed　in　the　taxi　coming　over。　“You　know　my　track　record。　There’s　no　point　my　trying　to　pretend　I’m　something　I’m　not。　I’ll　be　completely　honest。　I　don’t　read　political　memoirs。　So　what？”　I　shrugged。　“Nobody　does。　But　actually　that’s　not　my　problem。”　I　pointed　at　Maddox。　“That’syour　problem。”

　　“Oh；　please；”　said　Quigley　quietly。

　　“And　let　me　be　even　more　recklessly　honest；”　I　went　on。　“Rumor　has　it　you　paid　ten　million　dollars　for　this　book。　As　things　stand；　how　much　of　that　d’you　think　you’re　going　to　see　back？　Two　million？　Three？　That’s　bad　news　for　you；　and　that’s　especially　bad　news；”　I　said；　turning　to　Kroll；　“for　your　client。　Because　for　him　this　isn’t　about　money。　This　is　about　reputation。　This　is　Adam　Lang’s　opportunity　to　speak　directly　to　history；　to　get　his　case　across。　The　last　thing　he　needs　is　to　produce　a　book　that　nobody　reads。　How　will　it　look　if　his　life　story　ends　up　on　the　remainder　tables？　But　it　doesn’t　have　to　be　this　way。”

　　I　know　in　retrospect　what　a　huckster　I　sounded。　But　this　was　pitch　talk；　remember—which；　like　declarations　of　undying　love　in　a　stranger’s　bedroom　at　midnight；　shouldn’t　necessarily　be　held　against　you　the　next　morning。　Kroll　was　smiling　to　himself；　doodling　on　his　yellow　pad。　Maddox　was　staring　hard　at　me。　I　took　a　breath。

　　“The　fact　is；”　I　continued；　“a　big　name　alone　doesn’t　sell　a　book。　We’ve　all　learned　that　the　hard　way。　What　sells　a　book—or　a　movie；　or　a　song—isheart　。”　I　believe　I　may　even　have　thumped　my　chest　at　this　point。　“And　that’s　why　political　memoir　isthe　black　hole　of　publishing。　The　name　outside　the　tent　may　be　big；　but　everyone　knows　that　once　they’re　inside　they’re　just　going　to　get　the　same　old　tired　show；　and　who　wants　to　pay　twenty…five　dollars　for　that？　You’ve　got　to　put　in　some　heart；　and　that’s　what　I　do　for　a　living。　And　whose　story　has　more　heart　than　the　guy　who　starts　from　nowhere　and　ends　up　running　a　country？”

　　I　leaned　forward。　“You　see；　here’s　the　joke：　a　leader’s　autobiography　ought　to　bemore　interesting　than　most　memoirs；　notless　。　So　I　see　my　ignorance　about　politics　as　an　advantage。　Icherish　my　ignorance；　quite　frankly。　Besides；　Adam　Lang　doesn’t　need　any　help　from　me　with　the　politics　of　this　book—he’s　a　political　genius。　What　he　does　need；　in　my　humble　opinion；　is　the　same　thing　a　movie　star　needs；　or　a　baseball　player；　or　a　rock　star：　an　experienced　collaborator　who　knows　how　to　ask　him　the　questions　that　will　draw　out　his　heart。”

　　There　was　a　silence。　I　was　trembling。　Rick　gave　my　knee　a　reassuring　pat　under　the　table。　“Nicely　done。”

　　“What　utter　balls；”　said　Quigley。

　　“Think　so？”　asked　Maddox；　still　looking　at　me。　He　said　it　in　a　neutral　voice；　but　if　I　had　been　Quigley；　I　would　have　detected　danger。

　　“Oh；　John；of　course　；”　said　Quigley；　with　all　the　dismissive　scorn　of　four　generations　of　Oxford　scholars　behind　him。　“Adam　Lang　is　a　world…historical　figure；　and　his　autobiography　is　going　to　be　a　world　publishing　event。　A　piece　of　history；　in　fact。　It　shouldn’t　be　approached　like　a”—he　ransacked　his　well…stocked　mind　for　a　suitable　analogy　but　finished　lamely—“a　feature　for　a　celebrity　magazine。”

　　There　was　another　silence。　Beyond　the　tinted　windows　the　traffic　was　backing　up　along　the　motorway。　Rainwater　rippled　the　gleam　of　the　stationary　headlights。　London　still　hadn’t　returned　to　normal　after　the　bomb。

　　“It　seems　to　me；”　said　Maddox；　in　the　same　slow；　quiet　voice；　his　big　pink　mannequin’s　hands　still　resting　on　the　table；　“that　I　have　entire　warehouses　full　of　‘world　publishing　events’　that　I　somehow　can’t　figure　out　how　to　get　off　my　hands。　And　a　heck　of　a　lot　of　people　read　celebrity　magazines。　What　do　you　think；　Sid？”

　　For　a　few　seconds　Kroll　merely　carried　on　smiling　to　himself　and　doodling。　I　wondered　what　he　found　so　funny。　“Adam’s　position　on　this　is　very　straightforward；”　he　said　eventually。　（Adam：　he　tossed　the　first　name　as　casually　into　the　conversation　as　he　might　a　coin　into　a　beggar’s　cap。）　“He　takes　this　book　very　seriously—it’s　his　testament；　if　you　will。　He　wants　to　meet　his　contractual　obligations。　And　he　wants　it　to　be　a　commercial　success。　He’s　therefore　more　than　happy　to　be　guided　by　you；　John；　and　by　Marty　also；　within　reason。　Obviously；　he’s　still　very　upset　by　what　happened　to　Mike；　who　was　irreplaceable。”

　　“Obviously。”　We　all　made　the　appropriate　noises。

　　“Irreplaceable；”　he　repeated。　“And　yet—he　has　to　be　replaced。”　He　looked　up；　pleased　with　his　drollery；　and　at　that　instant　I　knew　there　was　no　horror　the　world　could　offer—no　war；　no　genocide；　no　famine；　no　childhood　cancer—to　which　Sidney　Kroll　would　not　see　the　funny　side。　“Adam　can　certainly　appreciate　the　benefits　of　trying　someone　entirely　different。　In　the　end；　it　all　comes　down　to　a　personal　bond。”　His　spectacles　flashed　in　the　strip　lights　as　he　scrutinized　me。　“Do　you　work　out；　maybe？”　I　shook　my　head。　“Pity。　Adam　likes　to　work　out。”

　　Quigley；　still　reeling　from　Maddox’s　put…down；　attempted　a　comeback。　“Actually；　I　know　quite　a　good　writer　on　theGuardian　who　uses　a　gym。”

　　“Maybe；”　said　Rick；　after　an　embarrassed　pause；　“we　could　run　over　how　you　see　this　working　practically。”

　　“First　off；　we　need　it　wrapped　up　in　a　month；”　said　Maddox。　“That’s　Marty’s　view　as　well　as　mine。”

　　“A　month？”　I　repeated。　“You　want　the　book　in　a　month？”

　　“A　completed　manuscript　does　exist；”　said　Kroll。　“It　just　needs　some　work。”

　　“A　lot　of　work；”　said　Maddox　grimly。　“Okay。　Taking　it　backward：　we　publish　in　June；　which　means　we　ship　in　May；　which　means　we　edit　and　we　print　in　March　and　April；　which　means　we　have　to　have　the　manuscript　in…house　at　the　end　of　February。　The　Germans；　French；　Italians；　and　Spanish　all　have　to　start　translating　right　away。　The　newspapers　need　to　see　it　for　the　serial　deals。　There’s　a　television　tie…in。　Publicity　tour’s　got　to　be　fixed　well　in　advance。　We　need　to　book　space　in　the　stores。　So　the　end　of　Februar