The Ghost(英文版)-第6部分

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—a　flute　in　the　symphony—as　a　foot　trod　on　my　hand；　and　something　was　torn　away。

　　Surely　one　of　the　most　inadequate　words　in　the　English　language　is　“winded；”　suggestive　as　it　is　of　something　light　and　fleeting—a　graze；　perhaps；　or　a　touch　of　breathlessness。　But　I　hadn’t　been　winded。　I　had　been　whumped　and　whacked　and　semiasphyxiated；　knocked　to　the　ground；　and　humiliated。　My　solar　plexus　felt　as　though　it　had　been　stuck　with　a　knife。　Sobbing　for　air；　I　was　convinced　I　had　been　stabbed。　I　was　aware　of　people　taking　my　arms　and　pulling　me　up　into　a　sitting　position。　I　was　propped　against　a　tree；　its　hard　bark　jabbing　into　my　spine；　and　when　at　last　I　managed　to　gulp　some　oxygen　into　my　lungs；　I　immediately　started　blindly　patting　my　stomach；　feeling　for　the　gaping　wound　I　knew　must　be　there；　imagining　my　intestines　strewn　around　me。　But　when　I　inspected　my　moist　fingers　for　blood；　there　was　only　dirty　London　rainwater。　It　must　have　taken　a　minute　for　me　to　realize　that　I　wasn’t　going　to　die—that　I　was；　essentially；　intact—and　then　all　I　wanted　was　to　get　away　from　these　good…hearted　folk　who　had　gathered　around　me　and　were　producing　mobile　phones　and　asking　me　about　calling　the　police　and　an　ambulance。

　　The　thrill　of　having　to　wait　ten　hours　to　be　examined　in　casualty；　followed　by　half　a　day　spent　hanging　around　the　local　police　station　to　make　a　statement；　was　enough　to　propel　me　out　of　the　gutter；　up　the　stairs；　and　into　my　flat。　I　locked　the　door；　peeled　off　my　outer　clothes；　and　went　and　lay　on　the　sofa；　trembling。　I　didn’t　move　for　perhaps　an　hour；　as　the　cold　shadows　of　that　January　afternoon　gradually　gathered　in　the　room。　Then　I　went　into　the　kitchen　and　was　sick　in　the　sink；　after　which　I　poured　myself　a　very　large　whiskey。

　　I　could　feel　myself　moving　now　out　of　shock　and　into　euphoria。　Indeed；　with　a　little　alcohol　inside　me　I　felt　positively　merry。　I　checked　my　inside　jacket　pocket　and　then　my　wrist：　I　still　had　my　wallet　and　my　watch。　The　only　thing　that　had　gone　was　the　yellow　plastic　bag　containing　Senator　Alzheimer’s　memoirs。　I　laughed　out　loud　as　I　pictured　the　thieves　running　down　Ladbroke　Grove　and　stopping　in　some　alleyway　to　check　their　haul：“My　advice　to　any　young　person　seeking　to　enter　public　life　today…”　It　wasn’t　until　I’d　had　another　drink　that　I　realized　this　could　be　awkward。　Old　Alzheimer　might　not　mean　anything　to　me；　but　Sidney　Kroll　might　view　matters　differently。

　　I　took　out　his　card。　Sidney　L。　Kroll　of　Brinkerhof　Lombardi　Kroll；　attorneys；　M　Street；　Washington；　DC。　After　thinking　about　it　for　ten　minutes　or　so；　I　went　back　and　sat　on　the　sofa　and　called　his　cell　phone。　He　answered　on　the　second　ring：　“Sid　Kroll。”

　　I　could　tell　by　his　inflection　he　was　smiling。

　　“Sidney；”　I　said；　trying　to　sound　natural　using　his　first　name；　“you’ll　never　guess　what’s　happened。”

　　“Some　guys　just　stole　my　manuscript？”

　　For　a　moment　I　couldn’t　speak。　“My　God；”　I　said；　“is　there　nothing　you　don’t　know？”

　　“What？”　His　tone　changed　abruptly。　“Jesus；　I　was　kidding。　Is　thatreally　what　happened？　Are　you　okay？　Where　are　you　now？”

　　I　explained　what　had　happened。　He　said　not　to　worry。　The　manuscript　wastotally　unimportant。　He’d　given　it　to　me　only　because　he　thought　it　might　be　of　interest　to　me　in　a　professional　capacity。　He’d　get　another　sent　over。　What　was　I　going　to　do？　Was　I　going　to　call　the　police？　I　said　I　would　if　he　wanted；　but　as　far　as　I　was　concerned　bringing　in　the　police　was　generally　more　trouble　than　it　was　worth。　I　preferred　to　view　the　episode　as　just　another　round　on　the　gaudy　carousel　of　urban　life：　“You　knobed　one　day；　mugged　the　next。”

　　He　agreed。　“It　was　a　real　pleasure　to　meet　with　you　today。　It’s　great　that　you’re　on　board。　Cheerio；”　he　said；　just　before　he　hung　up；　and　there　was　that　little　smile　in　his　voice　again。Cheerio　。

　　I　went　into　the　bathroom　and　opened　my　shirt。　A　livid　red　horizontal　mark　was　branded　into　my　flesh；　just　above　my　stomach　and　below　my　rib　cage。　I　stood　in　front　of　the　mirror　for　a　better　look。　It　was　three　inches　long　and　half　an　inch　wide；　and　curiously　sharp　edged。　That　wasn’t　caused　by　flesh　and　bone；　I　thought。　I’d　say　that　was　a　knuckle…duster。　That　lookedprofessional　。　I　started　to　feel　strange　again　and　went　back　to　the　sofa。

　　When　the　phone　rang；　it　was　Rick；　to　tell　me　the　deal　was　done。　“What’s　up？”　he　said；　interrupting　himself。　“You　don’t　sound　right。”

　　“I　just　got　mugged。”

　　“No！”

　　Once　more　I　described　what　had　happened。　Rick　made　appropriately　sympathetic　noises；　but　the　moment　he　learned　I　was　well　enough　to　work；　the　anxiety　left　his　voice。　As　soon　as　he　could；　he　brought　the　conversation　round　to　what　really　interested　him。

　　“So　you’re　still　fine　to　fly　to　the　States　on　Sunday？”

　　“Of　course。　I’m　just　a　bit　shocked；　that’s　all。”

　　“Okay；　well；　here’s　another　shock　for　you。　For　one　month’s　work；　on　a　manuscript　that’s　supposedly　already　written；　Rhinehart　Inc。　are　willing　to　pay　you　two　hundred　and　fifty　thousand　dollars；　plus　expenses。”

　　“What？”

　　If　I　hadn’t　already　been　sitting　on　the　sofa　I　would　have　fallen　onto　it。　They　say　every　man　has　his　price。　A　quarter　of　a　million　dollars　for　four　weeks’　work　was　roughly　ten　times　mine。

　　“That’s　fifty　thousand　dollars　paid　weekly　for　the　next　four　weeks；”　said　Rick；　“plus　a　bonus　of　fifty　if　you　get　the　job　done　on　time。　They’ll　take　care　of　airfares　and　accommodation。And　you’ll　get　a　collaborator　credit。”

　　“On　the　title　page？”

　　“Do　me　a　favor！　In　the　acknowledgments。　But　it’ll　still　be　noticed　in　the　trade　press。　I’ll　see　to　that。　Although　for　now　your　involvement　is　strictly　confidential。　They　were　very　firm　about　that。”　I　could　hear　him　chuckling　down　the　phone　and　imagined　him　tilting　back　in　his　chair。　“Oh；　yes；　a　whole　new　wide　world　is　opening　up　for　you；　my　boy！”

　　He　was　right　there。

　　THREE

　　If　you　are　painfully　shy　or　find　it　hard　to　get　others　into　a　relaxed　and　confident　state；　then　ghosting　might　not　be　for　you。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　AMERICAN　AIRLINES　FLIGHT109　was　due　to　leave　Heathrow　for　Boston　at　ten…thirty　on　Sunday　morning。　Rhinehart　biked　round　a　one…way　business…class　ticket　on　Saturday　afternoon；　along　with　a　contract　and　the　privacy　agreement。　I　had　to　sign　both　while　the　messenger　waited。　I　trusted　Rick　to　have　got　the　contract　straight　and　didn’t　even　bother　to　read　it；　the　nondisclosure　undertaking　I　scanned　quickly　in　the　hall。　It’s　almost　funny　in　retrospect：“I　shall　treat　all　confidential　information　as　being　strictly　private　and　confidential；　and　shall　take　all　steps　necessary　to　prevent　it　from　being　disclosed　or　made　public　to　any　third　party　or　relevant　person…I　shall　not　use　or　disclose　or　permit　the　disclosure　by　any　person　of　the　confidential　information　for　the　benefit　of　any　third　party…Neither　I　nor　the

　　relevant　persons　shall　by　any　means　copy　or　part　with　possession　of　the　whole　or　any　part　of　the　confidential　information　without　prior　permission　of　the　Owner…”　I　signed　。

　　I’ve　always　liked　to　be　able　to　disappear　quickly。　It　used　to　take　me　about　five　minutes　to　put　my　London　life　into　cold　storage。　All　my　bills　were　paid　by　direct　debit。　There　were　no　deliveries　to　cancel—no　milk；　no　papers。　My　cleaner；　whom　I　hardly　ever　saw　in　any　case；　would　look　in　twice　a　week　and　retrieve　all　the　mail　from　downstairs。　I　had　cleared　my　desk　of　work。　I　had　no　appointments。　My　neighbors　I　had　never　spoken　to。　Kate　had　likely　gone　for　good。　Most　of　my　friends　had　long　since　entered　the　kingdom　of　family　life；　from　whose　distant　shores；　in　my　experience；　no　traveler　e’er　returned。　My　parents　were　dead。　I　had　no　siblings。　I　could　have　died　myself　and；　as　far　as　the　world　was　concerned；　my　life　would　have　gone　on　as　normal。　I　packed　one　suitcase　with　a　week’s　change　of　clothes；　a　sweater；　and　a　spare　pair　of　shoes。　I　put　my　laptop　and　mini–disk　recorder　into　my　shoulder　bag。　I　would　use　the　hotel　laundry。　Anything　else　I　needed　I　would　buy　on　arrival。

　　I　spent　the　rest　of　the　day　and　all　that　evening　up　in　my　study；　reading　through　my　books　on　Adam　Lang　and　making　a　list　of　questions。　I　don’t　want　to　sound　too　Jekyll　and　Hyde　about　this；　but　as　the　day　faded—as　the　lights　came　up　in　the　big　tower　blocks　across　the　railway　marshaling　yard；　and　the　red；　white；　and　green　stars　winked　and　fell　toward　the　airport—I　could　feel　myself　beginning　to　get　into　Lang’s　skin。　He　was　a　few　years　older；　but　apart　from　that　our　backgrounds　were　similar。　The　resemblances　hadn’t　struck　me　before：　an　only　child；　born　in　the　Midlands；　educated　at　the　local　grammar　school；　a　degree　from　Cambridge；　a　passion　for　student　drama；　a　complete　lack　of　interest　in　student　politics。

　　I　went　back　to　look　at　the　photographs。“Lang’s　hysterical　performance　as　a　chicken　in　charge　of　a　battery　farm　for　humans　at　the　1972　Cambridge　Footlights　Revue　earned　him　plaudits。”　I　could　imagine　us　both　chasing　the　same　girls；　taking　a　bad　show　to　the　Edinburgh　Fringe　in　the　back　of　some　beat…up　Volkswagen　van；　sharing　digs；　getting　stoned。　And　yet　somehow