The Ghost(英文版)- 第10部分

　　“Which　is　which？”

　　“Duc　is　the　man。　Obviously。”

　　She　produced　a　key　from　the　pocket　of　her　well…cut　jacket　and　unlocked　a　big　gunmetal　filing　cabinet；　from　which　she　withdrew　a　box　file。

　　“This　is　not　to　be　removed　from　this　room；”　she　said；　laying　it　on　the　desk。　“It　is　not　to　be　copied。　You　can　make　notes；　but　I　must　remind　you　that　you’ve　signed　a　confidentiality　agreement。　You　have　six　hours　to　read　it　before　Adam　gets　in　from　New　York。　I’ll　have　a　sandwich　sent　up　to　you　for　lunch。　Alice；　come　on。　We　don’t　want　to　cause　him　any　distractions；　do　we？”

　　After　they’d　gone；　I　sat　down　in　the　leather　swivel　chair；　took　out　my　laptop；　switched　it　on；　and　created　a　document　titled　“Lang　ms。”　Then　I　loosened　my　tie　and　unfastened　my　wristwatch　and　laid　it　on　the　desk　beside　the　file。　For　a　few　moments　I　allowed　myself　to　swing　back　and　forth　in　Rhinehart’s　chair；　savoring　the　ocean　view　and　the　general　sensation　of　being　world　dictator。　Then　I　flipped　open　the　lid　of　the　file；　pulled　out　the　manuscript；　and　started　to　read。

　　ALL　GOOD　BOOKS　AREdifferent　but　all　bad　books　are　exactly　the　same。　I　know　this　to　be　a　fact　because　in　my　line　of　work　I　read　a　lot　of　bad　books—books　so　bad　they　aren’t　even　published；　which　is　quite　a　feat；　when　you　consider　what　is　published。

　　And　what　they　all　have　in　common；　these　bad　books；　be　they　novels　or　memoirs；　is　this：　they　don’t　ring　true。　I’m　not　saying　that　a　good　bookis　true　necessarily；　just　that　itfeels　true　for　the　time　you’re　reading　it。　A　publishing　friend　of　mine　calls　it　the　seaplane　test；　after　a　movie　he　once　saw　about　people　in　the　City　of　London　that　opened　with　the　hero　arriving　for　work　in　a　seaplane　he　landed　on　the　Thames。　From　then　on；　my　friend　said；　there　was　no　point　in　watching。

　　Adam　Lang’s　memoir　failed　the　seaplane　test。

　　It　wasn’t　that　the　facts　in　it　were　wrong—I　wasn’t　in　a　position　to　judge　at　that　stage—it　was　rather　that　the　whole　book　somehow　felt　false；　as　if　there　was　a　hollow　at　its　center。　It　consisted　of　sixteen　chapters；　arranged　chronologically：　“Early　Years；”　“Into　Politics；”　“Challenge　for　the　Leadership；”　“Changing　the　Party；”　“Victory　at　the　Polls；”　“Reforming　Government；”　“Northern　Ireland；”　“Europe；”　“The　Special　Relationship；”　“Second　Term；”　“The　Challenge　of　Terror；”　“The　War　on　Terror；”　“Sticking　the　Course；”　“Never　Surrender；”　“Time　to　Go；”　and　“A　Future　of　Hope。”　Each　chapter　was　between　ten　and　twenty　thousand　words　long　and　hadn’t　been　written　so　much　as　cobbled　together　from　speeches；　official　minutes；　communiqués；　memoranda；　interview　transcripts；　office　diaries；　party　manifestos；　and　newspaper　articles。　Occasionally；　Lang　permitted　himself　a　private　emotion（“I　was　overjoyed　when　our　third　child　was　born”）　or　a　personal　observation（“the　American　president　was　much　taller　than　I　had　expected”）　or　a　sharp　remark（“as　foreign　secretary；　Richard　Rycart　often　seemed　to　prefer　presenting　the　foreigners’　case　to　Britain　rather　than　the　other　way　round”）　but　not　very　often；　and　not　to　any　great　effect。　And　where　was　his　wife？　She　was　barely　mentioned。

　　“A　crock　of　shit；”　Rick　had　called　it。　But　actually　this　was　worse。　Shit；　to　quote　Gore　Vidal；　has　its　own　integrity。　This　was　a　crock　of　nothing。　It　was　strictly　accurate　and　yet　overall　it　was　a　lie—it　had　to　be；　I　thought。　No　human　being　could　pass　through　life　and　feel　so　little。　Especially　Adam　Lang；　whose　political　stock…in…trade　was　emotional　empathy。　I　skipped　ahead　to　the　chapter　called　“The　War　on　Terror。”　If　there　was　going　to　be　anything　to　interest　American　readers　it　must　surely　be　here。　I　skimmed　it；　searching　for　words　like　“rendition；”　“torture；”　“CIA。”　I　found　nothing；　and　certainly　no　mention　of　Operation　Tempest。　What　about　the　war　in　the　Middle　East？　Surely　some　mild　criticism　here　of　the　U。S。　president；　or　the　defense　secretary；　or　the　secretary　of　state；　some　hint　of　betrayal　or　letdown；　some　behind…the…scenes　scoop　or　previously　classified　document？　No。　Nowhere。　Nothing。　I　took　a　gulp；　literally　and　metaphorically；　and　began　reading　again　from　the　top。

　　At　some　point　the　secretary；　Alice；　must　have　brought　me　in　a　tuna　sandwich　and　a　bottle　of　mineral　water；　because　later　in　the　afternoon　I　noticed　them　at　the　end　of　the　desk。　But　I　was　too　busy　to　stop；　and　besides　I　wasn’t　hungry。　In　fact；　I　was　beginning　to　feel　nauseous　as　I　shuffled　those　sixteen　chapters；　scanning　the　sheer　white　cliff　face　of　featureless　prose　for　any　tiny　handhold　of　interest　I　could　cling　to。　No　wonder　McAra　had　thrown　himself　off　the　Martha’s　Vineyard　ferry。　No　wonder　Maddox　and　Kroll　had　flown　to　London　to　try　to　rescue　the　project。　No　wonder　they　were　paying　me　fifty　thousand　dollars　a　week。　All　these　seemingly　bizarre　events　were　rendered　entirely　logical　by　the　direness　of　the　manuscript。　And　now　it　would　bemy　reputation　that　would　come　spiraling　down；　strapped　into　the　backseat　of　Adam　Lang’s　kamikaze　seaplane。　I　would　be　the　one　pointed　out　at　publishing　parties—assuming　I　was　ever　invited　to　another　publishing　party—as　the　ghost　who　had　collaborated　on　the　biggest　flop　in　publishing　history。　In　a　sudden　shaft　of　paranoid　insight；　I　fancied　I　saw　my　real　role　in　the　operation：　designated　fall　guy。

　　I　finished　the　last　of　the　six　hundred　and　twenty…one　pages（“Ruth　and　I　look　forward　to　the　future；　whatever　it　may　hold”）　in　midafternoon；　and　when　I　laid　down　the　manuscript　I　pressed　my　hands　to　my　cheeks　and　opened　my　mouth　and　eyes　wide；　in　a　reasonable　imitation　of　Edvard　Munch’s　The　Scream。

　　That　was　when　I　heard　a　cough　in　the　doorway　and　looked　up　to　see　Ruth　Lang　watching　me。　To　this　day　I　don’t　know　how　long　she’d　been　there。　She　raised　a　thin　black　eyebrow。

　　“As　bad　as　that？”　she　said。

　　SHE　WAS　WEARING　Aman’s　thick；　shapeless　white　sweater；　so　long　in　the　sleeves　that　only　her　chewed　fingernails　were　visible；　and　once　we　got　downstairs　she　pulled　on　top　of　this　a　pale　blue　hooded　windbreaker；　disappearing　for　a　while　as　she　tugged　it　over　her　head；　her　pale　face　emerging　at　last　with　a　frown。　Her　short　dark　hair　stuck　up　in　Medusa…like　spikes。

　　It　was　she　who　had　proposed　a　walk。　She　said　I　looked　as　though　I　needed　one；　which　was　true　enough。　She　found　me　her　husband’s　windproof　jacket；　which　fitted　perfectly；　and　a　pair　of　waterproof　boots　belonging　to　the　house；　and　together　we　stepped　out　into　the　blustery　Atlantic　air。　We　followed　the　path　around　the　edge　of　the　lawn　and　climbed　up　onto　the　dunes。　To　our　right　was　the　pond；　with　a　jetty；　and　next　to　that　a　rowboat　that　had　been　hauled　above　the　reed　beds　and　laid　upside　down。　To　our　left　was　the　gray　ocean。　Ahead　of　us；　bare　white　sand　stretched　for　a　couple　of　miles；　and　when　I　looked　behind；　the　picture　was　the　same；　except　that　a　policeman　in　an　overcoat　was　following　about　fifty　yards　distant。

　　“You　must　get　sick　of　this；”　I　said；　nodding　to　our　escort。

　　“It’s　been　going　on　so　long　I’ve　stopped　noticing。”

　　We　pressed　on　into　the　wind。　Close　up；　the　beach　didn’t　look　so　idyllic。　Strange　pieces　of　broken　plastic；　lumps　of　tar；　a　dark　blue　canvas　shoe　stiff　with　salt；　a　wooden　cable　drum；　dead　birds；　skeletons；　and　bits　of　bone—it　was　like　walking　along　the　side　of　a　six…lane　highway。　The　big　waves　came　in　with　a　roar　and　receded　like　passing　trucks。

　　“So；”　said　Ruth；　“how　bad　is　it？”

　　“You　haven’t　read　it？”

　　“Not　all　of　it。”

　　“Well；”　I　said；　politely；　“it　needs　some　work。”

　　“How　much？”

　　The　words　“Hiroshima”　and　“nineteen　forty…five”　floated　briefly　into　my　mind。　“It’s　fixable；”　I　said；　which　I　suppose　it　was：　even　Hiroshima　was　fixed　eventually。　“It’s　the　deadline　that’s　the　trouble。　We　absolutely　have　to　do　it　in　four　weeks；　and　that’s　less　than　two　days　for　each　chapter。”

　　“Four　weeks！”　She　had　a　deep；　rather　dirty　laugh。　“You’ll　never　get　him　to　sit　still　for　as　long　as　that！”

　　“He　doesn’t　have　to　write　it；　as　such。　That’s　what　I’m　being　paid　for。　He　just　has　to　talk　to　me。”

　　She　had　pulled　up　her　hood。　I　couldn’t　see　her　face；　only　the　sharp　white　tip　of　her　nose　was　visible。　Everyone　said　she　was　smarter　than　her　husband　and　that　she’d　loved　their　life　at　the　top　even　more　than　he　had。　If　there　was　an　official　visit　to　some　foreign　country；　she　usually　went　with　him：　she　refused　to　be　left　at　home。　You　only　had　to　watch　them　on　TV　together　to　see　how　she　bathed　in　his　success。　Adam　and　Ruth　Lang：　the　Power　and　the　Glory。　Now　she　stopped　and　turned　to　face　the　ocean；　her　hands　thrust　deep　in　her　pockets。　Along　the　beach；　as　if　playing　Grandma’s　footsteps；　the　policeman　also　stopped。

　　“You　were　my　idea；”　she　said。

　　I　swayed　in　the　wind。　I　almost　fell　over。　“I　was？”

　　“Yes。　You　were　the　one　who　wrote　Christy’s　book　for　him。”

　　It　took　me　a　moment　to　work　out　who　she　meant。　Christy　Costello。　I　hadn’t　thought　of　him　in　a　long　while。　He　was　my　first　bestseller。　The　intimate　memoirs　of　a　seventies　rock　star。　Drink；　drugs；　girls；　a　near…fatal　car　crash；　surgery；　and　finally　rehab　and　redemp　in　the　arms　of　a　good　woman。　It　had　everything。　You　could　give　it　at　Christmas　to　your　grungy　teenager　or　your　churchgoing　granny；　and　each　would　be　equally　happy。　It　sold　three　hundred　thousand　copies　in　hardcover　in　the　UK　alone。

　　“You　knowChristy　？”　It　seemed　so　unlikely。

　　“We　stayed　at　his　house　on　Mustique　last　winter。　I　read　his　memoirs。　They　were　by　the　bed。”

　　“Now　I’m　embarrassed。”

　　“No。　Why？　They　were　brilliant；　in　a　horrible　kind　of　a　way。　Listening　to　his　scrambled　stories　over　dinner　and　then　seeing　how　you’d　turned　them　into　something　resembling　a　life—I　said　to　Adam　then：　‘This　is　the　man　you　need　to　write　your　book。’”

　　I　laughed。　I　couldn’t　stop　myself。　“Well；　I　hope　your　husband’s　recollections　aren’t　quite　as　hazy　as　Christy’s。”

　　“Don’t　count　on　it。”　She　pulled　back　her　hood　and　took　a　deep　breath。　She　was　better　looking　in　the　flesh　than　she　was　on　television。　The　camera　hated　her　almost　as　much　as　it　loved　her　husband。　It　didn’t　catch　her　amused　alertness；　t