The Ghost(英文版)-第40部分

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of　photographs。　I　took　in　Emmett　with　Bill　Clinton　and　Al　Gore；　Emmett　with　Margaret　Thatcher　and　Nelson　Mandela。　I’d　tell　you　the　names　of　the　others　if　I　knew　who　they　were。　A　German　chancellor。　A　French　president。　There　was　also　a　picture　of　him　with　Lang；　a　grin…and…grip　at　what　seemed　to　be　a　cocktail　party。　He　saw　me　looking。

　　“The　wall　of　ego；”　he　said。　“We　all　have　them。　Think　of　it　as　the　equivalent　of　the　orthodontist’s　fish　tank。　Do　take　a　seat。　I’m　afraid　I　can　only　spare　a　few　minutes；　unfortunately。”

　　I　perched　on　the　unyielding　brown　sofa　while　he　took　the　captain’s　chair　behind　his　desk。　It　rolled　easily　back　and　forth。　He　swung　his　feet　up　onto　the　desk；　giving　me　a　fine　view　of　the　slightly　scuffed

　　soles　of　his　brogues。

　　“So；”　he　said。　“The　picture。”

　　“I’m　working　with　Adam　Lang　on　his　memoirs。”

　　“I　know。　You　said。　Poor　Lang。　It’s　a　very　bad　business；　this　posturing　by　The　Hague。　As　for　Rycart—the　worst　foreign　secretary　since　the　war；　in　my　view。　It　was　a　terrible　error　to　appoint　him。　But　if　the　ICC　continues　to　behave　so　foolishly；　they　will　succeed　merely　in　making　Lang　first　a　martyr　and　then　a　hero；　and　thus；”　he　added；　gesturing　graciously　toward　me；　“a　bestseller。”

　　“How　well　do　you　know　him？”

　　“Lang？　Hardly　at　all。　You　look　surprised。”

　　“Well；　for　a　start；　he　mentions　you　in　his　memoirs。”

　　Emmett　appeared　genuinely　taken　aback。　“Now　it’s　my　turn　to　be　surprised。　What　does　he　say？”

　　“It’s　a　quote；　at　the　start　of　the　final　chapter。”　I　pulled　the　relevant　page　from　my　bag。　“‘As　long　as　these　nations’—that’s　everyone　who　speaks　English—‘stand　together；’”　I　read；　“‘freedom　is　safe；　whenever　they　have　faltered；　tyranny　has　gathered　strength。’　And　then　Lang　says；　‘I　profoundly　agree　with　this　sentiment。’”

　　“Well；　that’s　decent　of　him；”　said　Emmett。　“And　his　instincts　as　prime　minister　were　good；　in　my　judgment。　But　that　doesn’t　mean　I　know　him。”

　　“And　then　there’s　that；”　I　said；　pointing　to　the　wall　of　ego。

　　“Oh；that　。”　Emmett　waved　his　hand　dismissively。　“That　was　just　taken　at　a　reception　at　Claridge’s；　to　mark　the　tenth　anniversary　of　the　Arcadia　Institution。”

　　“The　Arcadia　Institution？”　I　repeated。

　　“It’s　a　little　organization　I　used　to　run。　It’s　very　select。　No　reason　why　you　should　have　heard　of　it。　The　prime　minister　graced　us　with　his　presence。　It　was　purely　professional。”

　　“But　you　must　have　known　Adam　Lang　at　Cambridge；”　I　persisted。

　　“Not　really。　One　summer　term；　our　paths　crossed。　That　was　it。”

　　“Can　you　remember　much　about　him？”　I　took　out　my　notebook。　Emmett　eyed　it　as　if　I’d　just　pulled　out　a　revolver。　“I’m　sorry；”　I　said。　“Do　you　mind？”

　　“Not　at　all。　Go　ahead。　I’m　just　rather　bewildered。　No　one’s　ever　mentioned　the　Cambridge　connection　between　us　in　all　these　years。　I’ve　barely　thought　about　it　myself　until　this　moment。　I　don’t　think　I　can　tell　you　anything　worth　writing　down。”

　　“But　you　performed　together？”

　　“In　one　production。　The　summer　revue。　I　can’t　even　remember　now　what　it　was　called。　There

　　were　a　hundred　members；　you　know。”

　　“So　he　made　no　impression　on　you？”

　　“None。”

　　“Even　though　he　became　prime　minister？”

　　“Obviously　if　I’d　known　he　was　going　to　do　that；　I’d　have　taken　the　trouble　to　get　to　know　him

　　better。　But　in　my　time　I’ve　met　eight　presidents；　four　popes；　and　five　British　prime　ministers；　and　none　of　them　was　what　I　would　describe　as　personally　truly　outstanding。”

　　Yes；　I　thought；　and　has　it　ever　occurred　to　you　they　might　not　have　reckoned　you　were　up　to　much；　either？　But　I　didn’t　say　that。　Instead　I　said；　“Can　I　show　you　something　else？”

　　“If　you　really　think　it　will　be　of　interest。”　He　ostentatiously　checked　his　watch。

　　I　took　out　the　other　photographs。　Now　that　I　looked　at　them　again；　it　was　clear　that　Emmett　featured　in　several。　Indeed；　he　was　unmistakably　the　man　on　the　summer　picnic；　giving　the　thumbs…up　behind　Lang’s　back；　while　the　future　prime　minister　did　a　Bogart　with　his　joint　and　was　fed　strawberries　and　champagne。

　　I　reached　across　and　handed　them　to　Emmett；　who　performed　his　affected　little　piece　of　stage　business　again；　pushing　up　his　glasses　so　that　he　could　study　the　pictures　with　his　naked　eyes。　I　can　see　him　now：　sleek　and　pink　and　imperturbable。　His　expression　didn’t　flicker；　which　struck　me　as　peculiar；　because　mine　certainly　would　have　done；　in　similar　circumstances。

　　“Oh　my；”　he　said。　“Is　that　what　I　think　it　is？　Let’s　hope　he　didn’t　inhale。”

　　“But　that　is　you　standing　behind　him；　isn’t　it？”

　　“I　do　believe　it　is。　And　I　do　believe　I’m　on　the　point　of　issuing　a　stern　warning　to　him　on　the　perils　of　drug　abuse。　Can’t　you　just　sense　it　forming　on　my　lips？”　He　gave　the　pictures　back　to　me　and　pulled　his　spectacles　back　down　onto　his　nose。　Tilting　farther　back　in　his　chair；　he　scrutinized　me。　“Does　Mr。　Lang　really　want　these　published　in　his　memoirs？　If　so；　I　would　prefer　it　if　I　weren’t　identified。　My　children　would　be　mortified。　They’re　so　much　more　puritanical　than　we　were。”

　　“Can　you　tell　me　the　names　of　any　of　the　others　in　the　picture？　The　girls；　perhaps？”

　　“I’m　sorry。　That　summer　is　just　a　blur；　a　long　and　happy　blur。　The　world　may　have　been　going　to　pieces　around　us；　but　we　were　making　merry。”

　　His　words　reminded　me　of　something　that　Ruth　had　said；　about　all　the　things　that　were　going　on　at　the　time　the　picture　was　taken。

　　“You　must　have　been　lucky；”　I　said；　“given　you　were　at　Yale　in　the　late　sixties；　to　avoid　being　drafted　to　Vietnam。”

　　“You　know　the　old　saying：　‘if　you　had　the　dough；　you　didn’t　have　to　go。’　I　got　a　student　deferment。　Now；”　he　said；　twirling　in　his　chair　and　lifting　his　feet　off　the　desk。　He　was　suddenly　much　more　businesslike。　He　picked　up　a　pen　and　opened　a　notebook。　“You　were　going　to　tell　me　where　you　got　those　pictures。”

　　“Does　the　name　Michael　McAra　mean　anything　to　you？”

　　“No。　Should　it？”　He　answered　just　a　touch　too　quickly；　I　thought。

　　“McAra　was　my　predecessor　on　the　Lang　memoirs；”　I　said。　“He　was　the　one　who　ordered　the　pictures　from　England。　He　drove　up　here　to　see　you　nearly　three　weeks　ago　and　died　a　few　hours　afterward。”

　　“Drove　up　to　seeme　？”　Emmett　shook　his　head。　“I’m　afraid　you’re　mistaken。　Where　was　he　driving　from？”

　　“Martha’s　Vineyard。”

　　“Martha’s　Vineyard！　My　dear　fellow；nobody　is　on　Martha’s　Vineyard　at　this　time　of　year。”

　　He　was　teasing　me　again：　anyone　who　had　watched　the　news　the　previous　day　would　have　known　where　Lang　had　been　staying。

　　I　said；　“The　vehicle　McAra　was　driving　had　your　address　programmed　into　its　navigation　system。”

　　“Well；　I　can’t　think　why　that　should　be　the　case。”　Emmett　stroked　his　chin　and　seemed　to　weigh　the　matter　carefully。　“No；　I　really　can’t。　And　even　if　it’s　true；　it　certainly　doesn’t　prove　he　actually　made　the　journey。　How　did　he　die？”

　　“He　drowned。”

　　“I’m　very　sorry　to　hear　it。　I’ve　never　believed　the　myth　that　death　by　drowning　is　painless；　have　you？　I’m　sure　it　must　be　agonizing。”

　　“The　police　never　said　anything　to　you　about　this？”

　　“No。　I’ve　had　no　contact　with　the　police　whatsoever。”

　　“Were　you　here　that　weekend？　This　would　have　been　January　the　eleventh　and　twelfth。”

　　Emmett　sighed。　“A　less　equable　man　than　I　would　start　to　find　your　questions　impertinent。”　He　came　out　from　behind　his　desk　and　went　over　to　the　door。　“Nancy！”　he　called。　“Our　visitor　wishes　to　know　where　we　were　on　the　weekend　of　the　eleventh　and　twelfth　of　January。　Do　we　possess　that　information？”　He　stood　holding　the　door　open　and　gave　me　an　unfriendly　smile。　When　Mrs。　Emmett　appeared；　he　didn’t　bother　to　introduce　me。　She　was　carrying　a　desk　diary。

　　“That　was　the　Colorado　weekend；”　she　said　and　showed　the　book　to　her　husband。

　　“Of　course　it　was；”　he　said。　“We　were　at　the　Aspen　Institute。”　He　flourished　the　page　at　me。

　　“‘Bipolar　Relationships　in　a　Multi…polar　World。’”

　　“Sounds　fun。”

　　“It　was。”　He　closed　the　diary　with　a　definitive　snap。　“I　was　the　main　speaker。”

　　“You　were　there　the　whole　weekend？”

　　“I　was；”　said　Mrs。　Emmett。　“I　stayed　for　the　skiing。　Emmett　flew　back　on　Sunday；　didn’t　you；

　　darling？”

　　“So　you　could　have　seen　McAra；”　I　said　to　him。

　　“I　could　have；　but　I　didn’t。”

　　“Just　to　return　to　Cambridge—”　I　began。

　　“No；”　he　said；　holding　up　his　hand。　“Please。　If　you　don’t　mind；　let’snot　return　to　Cambridge。　I’ve

　　said　all　I　have　to　say　on　the　matter。　Nancy？”　She　must　have　been　twenty　years　his　junior；　and　she　jumped　when　he　addressed　her　in　a　way　no

　　first　wife　ever　would。

　　“Emmett？”

　　“Show　our　friend　here　out；　would　you？”

　　As　we　shook　hands；　he　said；　“I　am　an　avid　reader　of　political　memoirs。　I　shall　be　sure　to　get　hold

　　of　Mr。　Lang’s　book　when　it　appears。”

　　“Perhaps　he’ll　send　you　a　copy；”　I　said；　“for　old　time’s　sake。”