The Ghost(英文版)-第30章

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　at　it。

　　“It’s　Adam；　calling　to　ask　how　I　think　it　went。”　She　turned　that　off；　as　well。　“Let　him　sweat。”

　　“Does　he　always　ask　your　advice？”

　　“Always。　And　he　always　used　to　take　it。　Until　just　lately。”

　　I　poured　us　some　more　wine。　Very　slowly；　I　could　feel　it　starting　to　have　an　effect。

　　“You　were　right；”　I　said。　“He　shouldn’t　have　gone　to　Washington。　It　did　look　bad。”

　　“We　should　never　have　comehere　；”　she　said；　gesturing　with　her　wine　to　the　room。　“I　mean；　look　at　it。　And　all　for　the　sake　of　the　Adam　Lang　Foundation。　Which　is　what；　exactly？　Just　a　highclass　displacement　activity　for　the　recently　unemployed。”　She　leaned　forward。　“Shall　I　tell　you　the　first　rule　of　politics？”

　　“Please。”

　　“Never　lose　touch　with　your　base。”

　　“I’ll　try　not　to。”

　　“Shut　up。　I’m　being　serious。　You　can　reach　beyond　it；　by　all　means—you’ve　got　to　reach　beyond　it；　if　you’re　going　to　win。　But　never；　ever　lose　touch　with　it　altogether。　Because　once　you　do；　you’re　finished。　Imagine　if　those　pictures　tonight　had　been　of　him　arriving　in　London—flying　back　to　fight　these　ridiculous　people　and　their　absurd　allegations。　It　would’ve　looked　magnificent！　Instead　of　which—God！”　She　shook　her　head　and　gave　a　sigh　of　anger　and　frustration。　“Come　on。　Let’s　eat。”

　　She　pushed　herself　off　the　sofa；　spilling　a　little　wine　in　the　process。　It　spattered　the　front　of　her　red　woolen　dress。　She　didn’t　seem　to　notice；　and　I　had　a　horrible　premonition　that　she　was　going　to　get　drunk。　（I　share　the　serious　drinker’s　general　prejudice　that　there’s　nothing　more　irritating　than　a　man　drunk；　except　a　woman　drunk：　they　somehow　manage　to　let　everybody　down。）　But　when　I　offered　to　top　her　up；　she　covered　her　glass　with　her　hand。

　　“I’ve　had　enough。”

　　The　long　table　by　the　window　had　been　laid　for　two；　and　the　sight　of　Nature　raging　silently　beyond　the　thick　screen　heightened　the　sense　of　intimacy：　the　candles；　the　flowers；　the　crackling　fire。　It　felt　slightly　overdone。　Dep　brought　in　two　bowls　of　clear　soup　and　for　a　while　we　clinked　our　spoons　against　Rhinehart’s　porcelain　in　self…conscious　silence。

　　“How　is　it　going？”　she　said　eventually。

　　“The　book？　It’s　not；　to　be　honest。”

　　“Why’s　that—apart　from　the　obvious　reason？”

　　I　hesitated。

　　“Can　I　talk　frankly？”

　　“Of　course。”

　　“I　find　it　difficult　to　understand　him。”

　　“Oh？”　She　was　drinking　iced　water　now。　Over　the　rim　of　her　glass；　her　dark　eyes　gave　me　one　of

　　her　double…barreled…shotgun　looks。　“In　what　way？”

　　“I　can’t　understand　why　this　good…looking　eighteen…year…old　lad　who　goes　to　Cambridge　without　the　slightest　interest　in　politics；　and　who　spends　his　time　acting　and　drinking　and　chasing　girls；　suddenly

　　ends　up—”

　　“Married　to　me？”

　　“No；　no；　not　that。　Not　that　at　all。”　（Yes；　is　what　I　meant：　yes；　yes；　that；　of　course。）　“No。　I　don’t

　　understand　why；　by　the　time　he’s　twenty…two　or　twenty…three；　he’s　suddenly　a　member　of　a　political　party。　Where’s　that　coming　from？”

　　“Didn’t　you　ask　him？”

　　“He　told　me　he　joined　because　of　you。　That　you　came　and　canvassed　him；　and　that　he　was　attracted　to　you；　and　that　he　followed　you　into　politics　out　of　love；　essentially。　To　see　more　of　you。　I　mean；that　I　can　relate　to。　Itought　to　be　true。”

　　“But　it　isn’t？”

　　“You　know　it　isn’t。　He　was　a　party　member　for　at　least　a　year　before　he　even　met　you。”

　　“Was　he？”　She　wrinkled　her　forehead　and　sipped　some　more　water。　“But　that　story　he　always　tells　about　what　drew　him　into　politics—I　do　have　a　distinct　memory　of　that　episode；　because　I　canvassed　in　the　London　elections　of　seventy…seven；　and　I　definitely　knocked　on　his　door；　and　after　that　was　when　he　started　showing　up　at　party　meetings　regularly。　So　there　has　to　be　a　grain　of　truth　in　it。”

　　“A　grain；”　I　conceded。　“Maybe　he’d　joined　in　seventy…five；　hardly　showed　any　interest　for　two　years；　and　then　he　met　you　and　became　more　active。　It　still　doesn’t　answer　the　basic　question　of　what　took　him　into　a　political　party　in　the　first　place。”

　　“Is　it　really　that　important？”

　　Dep　arrived　to　clear　away　the　soup　plates；　and　during　the　pause　in　our　conversation　I　considered

　　Ruth’s　question。

　　“Yes；”　I　said　when　we　were　alone　again；　“oddly　enough　I　think　it　is　important。”

　　“Why？”

　　“Because　even　though　it’s　a　tiny　detail；　it　still　means　he　isn’t　quite　who　we　think　he　is。　I’m　not　even

　　sure　he’s　quite　whohe　thinks　he　is—and　that’s　really　difficult；　if　you’ve　got　to　write　the　guy’s　memoirs。　I　just　feel　I　don’t　know　him　at　all。　I　can’t　catch　his　voice。”

　　Ruth　frowned　at　the　table　and　made　minute　adjustments　to　the　placing　of　her　knife　and　fork。　She　said；　without　looking　up；　“How　do　you　know　he　joined　in　seventy…five？”

　　I　had　a　moment’s　alarm　that　I’d　said　too　much。　But　there　seemed　no　reason　not　to　tell　her。　“Mike　McAra　found　Adam’s　original　party　membership　card　in　the　Cambridge　archives。”

　　“Christ；”　she　said；　“those　archives！　They’ve　got　everything；　from　his　infant　school　reports　to　our　laundry　bills。　Typical　Mike；　to　ruin　a　good　story　by　too　much　research。”

　　“He　also　dug　out　some　obscure　party　newsletter　that　shows　Adam　canvassing　in　seventy…seven。”

　　“That　must　be　after　he　met　me。”

　　“Maybe。”

　　I　could　tell　something　was　troubling　her。　Another　volley　of　rain　burst　against　the　window　and　she　put　the　tips　of　her　fingers　to　the　heavy　glass；　as　if　she　wanted　to　trace　the　raindrops。　The　effect　of　the　lighting　in　the　garden　made　it　look　like　the　ocean　bed：　all　waving　fronds　and　thin　gray　tree　trunks；　rising　like　the　spars　of　sunken　boats。　Dep　came　in　with　the　main　course—steamed　fish；　noodles；　and　some　kind　of　obscure　pale　green　vegetable　that　resembled　a　weed；　probablywas　a　weed。　I　ostentatiously　poured　the　last　of　the　wine　into　my　glass　and　studied　the　bottle。

　　Dep　said；　“You　want　another；　sir？”

　　“I　don’t　suppose　you　have　any　whiskey；　do　you？”

　　The　housekeeper　looked　to　Ruth　for　guidance。

　　“Oh；　bring　him　some　bloody　whiskey；”　said　Ruth。

　　She　returned　with　a　bottle　of　fifty…year…old　Chivas　Regal　Royal　Salute　and　a　cut…glass　tumbler。　Ruth　started　to　eat。　I　mixed　myself　a　scotch　and　water。

　　“This　is　delicious；　Dep！”　called　Ruth。　She　dabbed　her　mouth　with　the　corner　of　her　napkin　and　then　inspected　the　smear　of　lipstick　on　the　white　linen　with　surprise；　as　if　she　thought　she　might　have　started　bleeding。　“Coming　back　to　your　question；”　she　said　to　me；　“I　don’t　think　you　should　try　to　find　mystery　where　there　is　none。　Adam　always　had　a　social　conscience—he　inherited　that　from　his　mother—and　I　know　that　after　he　left　Cambridge　and　moved　to　London　he　became　very　unhappy。　I　believe　he　was　actually　clinically　depressed。”

　　“Clinically　depressed？　He　may　have　had　treatment　for　it？　Really？”　I　tried　to　keep　the　excitement　out　of　my　voice。　If　this　was　true；　it　was　the　best　piece　of　news　I’d　received　all　day。　Nothing　sells　a　memoir　quite　so　well　as　a　good　dose　of　misery。　Childhood　sexual　abuse；　grinding　poverty；　quadriplegia：　in　the　right　hands；　these　are　money　in　the　bank。　There　ought　to　be　a　separate　section　in　bookshops　labeled　“schadenfreude。”

　　“Put　yourself　in　his　place。”　Ruth　continued　eating；　gesturing　with　her　laden　fork。　“His　mother　and　father　were　both　dead。　He’d　left　university；　which　he’d　loved。　Many　of　his　acting　friends　had　agents　and　were　getting　offers　of　work。　But　he　wasn’t。　I　think　he　was　lost；　and　I　think　he　turned　to　political　activity　to　compensate。　He　might　not　want　to　put　it　in　those　terms—he’s　not　one　for　self…analysis—but　that’s　my　reading　of　what　happened。　You’d　be　surprised　how　many　people　end　up　in　politics　because　they　can’t　succeed　in　their　first　choice　of　a　career。”

　　“So　meeting　you　must　have　been　a　very　important　moment　for　him。”

　　“Why　do　you　say　that？”

　　“Because　you　had　genuine　political　passion。　And　knowledge。　And　contacts　in　the　party。　You　must　have　given　him　the　focus　to　really　go　forward。”　I　felt　as　if　a　mist　were　clearing。　“Do　you　mind　if　I　make　a　note　of　this？”

　　“Go　ahead。　If　you　think　it’s　useful。”

　　“Oh；　it　is。”　I　put　my　knife　and　fork　together—I’m　not　really　a　fish　and　weed　man—took　out　my　notebook；　and　opened　it　to　a　new　page。　I　was　imagining　myself　in　Lang’s　place　again：　in　my　early　twenties；　orphaned；　alone；　ambitious；　talented　but　not　quite　talented　enough；　looking　for　a　path　to　follow；　taking　a　few　tentative　steps　into　politics；　and　then　meeting　a　woman　who　suddenly　made　the　future　possible。

　　“Marrying　you　was　a　real　turning　point。”

　　“I　was　certainly　a　bit　different　from　his　Cambridge　girlfriends；　all　those　Jocastas　and　Pandoras。　Even　when　I　was　a　girl　I　was　always　more　interested　in　politics　than　ponies。”

　　“Didn’t　you　ever　want　to　be　a　proper　politician　in　your　own　right？”　I　asked。

　　“Of　course。　Didn’t　you　ever　want　to　be　a　proper　writer？”

　　It　was　like　being　struck　in　the　face。　I’m　not　sure　if　I　didn’t　put　down　my　notebook。

　　“Ouch；”　I　said。

　　“I’m　sorry。　I　didn’t　mean　to　be　rude。　But　you　must　see　that　we’re　in　the　same　boat；　you　and　I。　I’ve　always　understood　more　about　politics　than　Adam。　And　you　know　more　about　writing。　But　in　the　end；　he’s　the　star；　isn’t　he？　And　we　both　know　our　job　is　to　service　the　star。　It’s　his　name　on　the　book　that’s　going　to　sell　it；　not　yours。　It　was　the　same　for　me。　It　didn’t　take　me　long　to　realize　that　he　could　go　all　the　way　in　politics。　He　had　the　looks　and　the　charm。　He　was　a　great　speaker。　People　liked　him。　Whereas　I　was　always　a　bit　of　an　ugly　duckling；　with　this　brilliant　gift　for　putting　my　foot　in　it。　As　I’ve　just　demonstrated。”　She　put　her　hand　on　mine　again。　It　was　warm　now；　fleshier。　“I’m　so　sorry。　I’ve　hurt　your　feelings。　I　suppose　even　ghosts　must　have　feelings；　just　like　the　rest　of　us？”

　　“If　you　prick　us；”　I　said；　“we　bleed。”

　　“You’ve　finished　eating？　In　that　case；　why　don’t　you　show　me　this　research　that　Mike　dug　out？　It　might　jog　my　memory。　I’m