The Ghost(英文版)-第54部分

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ed　away　at　me　as　I　lay　in　the　darkness。　I　just　couldn’t　erase　the　memory　of　how　bleak　he　had　looked　on　the　plane　at　the　very　end。

　　“Mrs。　Bly　wonders　if　Mr。　Lang　didn’t　actually　recognize　his　assassin　and　deliberately　head　toward　him；　knowing　that　something　like　this　might　happen…”

　　“Yes；”　I　said　to　Rick。　“Yes；　I　did　like　him。”

　　“Well；　there　you　go。　You　owe　it　to　him。　And　besides；　there’s　another　consideration。”

　　“Which　is　what？”

　　“Sid　Kroll　says　that　if　you　don’t　fulfill　your　contractual　obligations　and　finish　the　book；　they’ll　sue

　　your　ass　off。”

　　AND　SO　I　RETURNEDto　London；　and　for　the　next　six　weeks　I　barely　emerged　from　my　flat；　except　once；　early　on；　to　go　out　for　dinner　with　Kate。　We　met　in　a　restaurant　in　Notting　Hill　Gate；　midway　between　our　homes—territory　as　neutral　as　Switzerland　and　about　as　expensive。　The　manner　of　Adam　Lang’s　death　seemed　to　have　silenced　even　her　hostility；　and　I　suppose　a　kind　of　glamour　attached　to　me　as　an　eyewitness。　I　had　turned　down　a　score　of　requests　to　give　interviews；　so　that　she　was　the　first　person；　apart　from　the　FBI　and　MI5；　to　whom　I　described　what　had　happened。　I　desperately　wanted　to　tell　her　about　my　final　conversation　with　Lang。　I　would　have　done；　too。　But　in　the　way　of　these　things；　just　as　I　was　about　to　broach　it；　the　waiter　came　over　to　discuss　dessert；　and　when　he　left　she　announced　she　had　something　she　wanted　to　tell　me；　first。

　　She　was　engaged　to　be　married。

　　I　confess　it　was　a　shock。　I　didn’t　like　the　other　man。　You’d　know　him　if　I　mentioned　his　name：　craggy；　handsome；　soulful。　He　specializes　in　flying　briefly　into　the　world’s　worst　trouble　spots　and　flying　out　again　with　moving　descriptions　of　human　suffering；　usually　his　own。

　　“Congratulations；”　I　said。

　　We　skipped　dessert。　Our　affair；　our　relationship—ourthing　—whatever　it　was—ended　ten　minutes　later　with　a　peck　on　the　cheek　on　the　pavement　outside　the　restaurant。

　　“You　were　going　to　tell　me　something；”　she　said；　just　before　she　got　into　her　taxi。　“I’m　sorry　I　cut　you　off。　I　only　didn’t　want　you　to　say　anything；　you　know…too　personal…without　telling　you　first　about　how　things　were　with　me　and—”

　　“It　doesn’t　matter；”　I　said。

　　“Are　you　sure　you’re　all　right？　You　seem…different。”

　　“I’m　fine。”

　　“If　you　ever　need　me；　I’ll　always　be　there　for　you。”

　　“There？”　I　said。　“I　don’t　know　about　you；　but　I’m　here。　Where’s　there？”

　　I　held　open　the　door　of　her　cab　for　her。　I　couldn’t　help　overhearing　that　the　address　she　gave　the　driver　wasn’t　hers。

　　After　that；　I　withdrew　from　the　world。　I　spent　my　every　waking　hour　with　Lang；　and　now　that　he　was　dead；　I　found　I　suddenly　had　his　voice。　It　was　more　a　Ouija　board　than　a　keyboard　that　I　sat　down　to　every　morning。　If　my　fingers　typed　out　a　sentence　that　sounded　wrong；　I　could　almost　physically　feel　them　being　drawn　to　the　Delete　key。　I　was　like　a　screenwriter　producing　lines　with　a　particularly　demanding　star　in　mind：　I　knew　he　might　say　this；　but　not　that；　might　do　this　scene；　never　that。

　　The　basic　structure　of　the　story　remained　McAra’s　sixteen　chapters。　My　method　was　to　work　always　with　his　manuscript　on　my　left；　to　retype　it　completely；　and　in　the　process　of　passing　it　through　my　brain　and　fingers　and　on　to　my　computer；　to　strain　it　of　my　predecessor’s　lumpy　clichés。　I　made　no　mention　of　Emmett；　of　course；　cutting　even　the　anodyne　quote　of　his　that　had　opened　the　final　chapter。　The　image　of　Adam　Lang　that　I　presented　to　the　world　was　very　much　the　character　he’d　always　chosen　to　play：　the　regular　guy　who　fell　into　politics　almost　by　accident　and　who　rose　to　power　because　he　was　neither　tribal　nor　ideological。　I　reconciled　this　with　the　chronology　by　taking　up　Ruth’s　suggestion　that　Lang　had　turned　to　politics　as　solace　for　his　depression　when　he　first　arrived　in　London。　I　didn’t　really　need　to　play　up　the　misery　here。　Lang　was　dead；　after　all；　his　whole　memoir　suffused　by　the　reader’s　knowledge　of　what　was　to　come。　That　ought　to　be　sufficient；　I　reckoned；　to　keep　the　ghouls　happy。　But　it　was　still　useful　to　have　a　page　or　two　of　heroic　struggle　against　inner　demons；　etc。；　etc。

　　In　the　superficially　tedious　business　of　politics　I　found　solace　for　my　hurt。　I　found　activity；　companionship；　an　outlet　for　my　love　of　meeting　new　people。　I　found　a　cause　that　was　bigger　than　myself。　Most　of　all；　I　found　Ruth…

　　In　my　telling　of　his　story；　Lang’s　political　involvement　really　got　going　only　when　Ruth　came　knocking　at　his　door　two　years　later。　It　sounded　plausible。　Who　knows？　It　might　even　have　been　true。

　　I　started　writingMemoirs　by　Adam　Lang　on　February　the　tenth　and　promised　Maddox　I’d　have　the　whole　thing　done；　all　one　hundred　and　sixty　thousand　words；　by　the　end　of　March。　That　meant　I　had　to　produce　thirty…four　hundred　words　a　day；　every　day。　I　had　a　chart　on　the　wall　and　marked　it　up　each　morning。　I　was　like　Captain　Scott　returning　from　the　South　Pole：　I　had　to　make　those　daily　distances；　or　I’d　fall　irrevocably　behind　and　perish　in　a　white　wilderness　of　blank　pages。　It　was　a　hard　slog；　especially　as　almost　no　lines　of　McAra’s　were　salvageable；　except；　curiously；　the　very　last　one　in　the　manuscript；　which　had　made　me　groan　aloud　when　I　read　it　on　Martha’s　Vineyard：“Ruth　and　I　look　forward　to　the　future；　whatever　it　may　hold。”　Read　that；　you　bastards；　I　thought；　as　I　typed　it　in　on　the　evening　of　the

　　thirtieth　of　March：　read　that；　and　close　this　book　without　a　catch　in　your　throat。　I　added　“The　End”　and　then；　I　guess；　I　had　a　kind　of　nervous　breakdown。

　　I　DISPATCHED　ONE　COPYof　the　manuscript　to　New　York　and　another　to　the　office　of　the　Adam　Lang　Foundation　in　London；　for　the　personal　attention　of　Mrs。　Ruth　Lang—or；　as　I　should　more　properly　have　styled　her　by　then；　Baroness　Lang　of　Calder…thorpe；　the　government　having　just　given　her　a　seat　in　the　House　of　Lords　as　a　mark　of　the　nation’s　respect。

　　I　hadn’t　heard　anything　from　Ruth　since　the　assassination。　I’d　written　to　her　while　I　was　still　in　hospital；　one　of　more　than　a　hundred　thousand　correspondents　who　were　reported　to　have　sent　their　condolences；　so　I　wasn’t　surprised　that　all　I　got　back　was　a　standard　printed　reply。　But　a　week　after　she　received　the　manuscript；　a　handwritten　message　arrived　on　the　red…embossed　notepaper　of　the　House　of　Lords：

　　You　have　done　all　that　I　ever　hoped　you　wd　do—and　more！　You　have　caught　his　tone　beautifully　&　brought　him　back　to　life—all　his　wonderful　humor　&　compassion　&　energy。　Pls。　come　&　see　me　here　in　the　HoL　when　you　have　a　spare　moment。　It　wd　be　great　to　catch　up。　Martha’s　V。　seems　a　v　long　time　ago；　&　a　long　way　away！　Bless　you　again　for　yr　talent。　And　it　is　aproper　book　！！

　　Much　love；

　　R。

　　Maddox　was　equally　effusive；　but　without　the　love。　The　first　printing　was　to　be　four　hundred　thousand　copies。　The　publication　date　was　the　end　of　May。

　　So　that　was　that。　The　job　was　done。

　　It　didn’t　take　me　long　to　realize　I　was　in　a　bad　state。　I’d　been　kept　going；　I　suppose；　by　Lang’s　“wonderful　humor　&　compassion　&　energy；”　but　once　he　was　written　out　of　me；　I　collapsed　like　an　empty　suit　of　clothes。　For　years　I　had　survived　by　inhabiting　one　life　after　another。　But　Rick　had　insisted　we　wait　until　the　Lang　memoirs　were　published—my　“breakthrough　book；”　he　called　it—before　negotiating　new　and　better　contracts；　with　the　result　that；　for　the　first　time　I　could　remember；　I　had　no　work　to　go　to。　I　was　afflicted　by　a　horrible　combination　of　lethargy　and　panic。　I　could　barely　summon　the　energy　to　get　out　of　bed　before　noon；　and　when　I　did　I　moped　on　the　sofa　in　my　dressing　gown；　watching　daytime　television。　I　didn’t　eat　much。　I　stopped　opening　my　letters　or　answering　the　phone。　I　didn’t　shave。　I　left　the　flat　for　any　length　of　time　only　on　Mondays　and　Thursdays；　to　avoid　seeing　my　cleaner—I　wanted　to　fire　her；　but　I　didn’t　have　the　nerve—and　then　I　either　sat　in　a　park；　if　it　was　fine；　or　in　a　nearby　greasy　café；　if　it　wasn’t；　and　this　being　England；　it　mostly　wasn’t。

　　And　yet；　paradoxically；　at　the　same　time　as　being　sunk　in　a　stupor　I　was　also　permanently　agitated。　Nothing　was　in　proportion。　I　fretted　absurdly　about　trivialities—where　I’d　put　a　pair　of　shoes；　or　if　it　was　wise　to　keep　all　my　money　with　the　same　bank。　This　nerviness　made　me　feel　physically　shaky；　often　breathless；　and　it　was　in　this　spirit；　late　one　night；　about　two　months　after　I　finished　the　book；　that　I　made　what　to　me；　in　my　condition；　was　a　calamitous　discovery。

　　I’d　run　out　of　whiskey　and　knew　I　had　about　ten　minutes　to　get　to　the　little　supermarket　on　Ladbroke　Grove　before　it　closed。　It　was　toward　the　end　of　May；　dark　and　raining。　I　grabbed　the　nearest　jacket　and　was　halfway　down　the　stairs　when　I　realized　it　was　the　one　I’d　been　wearing　when　Lang　was　killed。　It　was　torn　at　the　front　and　stained　with　blood。　In　one　pocket　was　the　recording　of　my　final　interview　with　Adam；　and　in　the　other　the　keys　to　the　Ford　Escape　SUV。

　　The　car！　I　had　forgotten　all　about　it。　It　was　still　parked　at　Logan　Airport！　It　was　costing　eighteen　dollars　a　day！　I　must