The Ghost(英文版)-第33章

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　　“I　declare　this　day　officially　open；”　she　said。　“God　bless　it；　and　all　who　have　to　get　through　it。”

　　“Well；”　I　said；　looking　out　at　the　scene；　“that　really　is　the　morning　after　the　night　before。”

　　The　rain　had　turned　to　sleet　and　the　lawn　was　covered　with　debris　from　the　storm—small　branches；　twigs；　a　white　cane　chair　thrown　on　its　side。　Here　and　there；　around　the　edges　of　the　door；　where　it　was　sheltered　the　sleet　had　stuck　together　and　frozen　into　strips；　like　bits　of　polystyrene　packaging。　The　only　brightness　in　the　murk　was　the　reflection　of　our　bedroom　light。　It　resembled　a　flying　saucer　hovering　above　the　dunes。　I　could　see　Ruth’s　face　quite　clearly　in　the　glass：　watchful；　brooding。

　　“I’m　not　going　to　give　you　an　interview；”　she　said。　“I　don’t　want　to　be　in　his　bloody　book；　being　patronized　and　thanked　by　him；　using　your　words。”　She　turned　and　brushed　past　me。　At　the　bedroom　door　she　paused。　“He’s　on　his　own　now。　I’ll　get　a　divorce。　And　then　she　can　do　the　prison　visits。”

　　I　listened　to　the　sound　of　her　own　door　opening　and　closing；　and　shortly　afterward　the　barely　audible　sound　of　a　toilet　flushing。　I　had　almost　finished　packing。　I　folded　the　clothes　she　had　lent　me　the　previous　evening　and　laid　them　on　the　chair；　put　my　laptop　into　my　shoulder　bag；　and　then　the　only　thing　left　was　the　manuscript。　It　sat　in　a　thick　pile　on　the　table　where　she　had　left　it；　three　sullen　inches　of　it—my　millstone；　my　albatross；　my　meal　ticket。　I　couldn’t　make　any　progress　without　it；　yet　I　wasn’t　supposed　to　take　it　from　the　house。　It　occurred　to　me　that　perhaps　I　could　argue　the　war　crimes　investigation　had　changed　the　circumstances　of　Lang’s　life　so　completely　that　the　old　rules　no　longer　applied。　At　any　rate；　I　could　use　that　as　an　excuse。　I　certainly　couldn’t　face　the　embarrassment　of　staying　here　and　running　into　Ruth　every　few　hours。　I　put　the　manuscript　into　my　suitcase；　along　with　the　package　from　the　archive；　zipped　them　up；　and　went　out　into　the　corridor。

　　Barry　was　sitting　with　his　Harry　Potter　novel　in　the　chair　by　the　front　door。　He　raised　his　great　slab　of　a　face　from　the　pages　and　gave　me　a　look　of　weary　disapproval；　tinged　with　a　sneer　of　amused　contempt。

　　“Morning；　sir；”　he　said。　“Finished　for　the　night；　have　we？”

　　I　thought；　he　knows。　And　then　I　thought；　of　course　he　knows；　you　bloody　fool；　it’s　his　job　to　know。　In　a　flash　I　saw　his　sniggering　conversations　with　his　colleagues；　the　log　of　his　official　observations　passed　to　London；　a　discreet　entry　in　a　file　somewhere；　and　I　felt　a　thrust　of　fury　and　resentment。　Perhaps　I　should　have　responded　with　a　wink　or　a　colluding　quip—“Well；　officer；　you　know　what　they　say：　there’s　many　a　good　tune　played　on　an　old　fiddle；”　or　something　of　the　sort—but　instead　I　said；　coldly；　“Why　don’t　you　just　fuck　off？”

　　It　wasn’t　exactly　Oscar　Wilde；　but　it　got　me　out　of　the　house。　I　walked　through　the　door　and　set　off　toward　the　track；　only　belatedly　registering　that；　unfortunately；　high　moral　dudgeon　offers　no　protection　against　stinging　squalls　of　sleet。　I　trudged　on　with　an　effort　at　dignity　for　a　few　more　yards；　then　ducked　for　cover　into　the　lee　of　the　house。　Rainwater　was　overflowing　from　the　gutter　and　drilling　into　the　sandy　soil。　I　took　off　my　jacket　and　held　it　over　my　head；　and　considered　how　I　was　going　to　reach　Edgartown。　That　was　when　the　idea　of　borrowing　the　tan…colored　Ford　Escape　SUV　popped　helpfully　into　my　mind。

　　How　different—how　very　different—the　course　of　my　life　would　have　been　if　I　hadn’t　immediately　gone　running　toward　that　garage；　dodging　the　puddles；　the　tent　of　my　jacket　raised　over　me　with　one　hand；　the　other　dragging　my　little　suitcase。　I　see　myself　now　as　if　in　a　movie；　or　perhaps；　more　aptly；　in　one　of　those　filmed　reconstructions　on　a　TV　crime　show：　the　victim　skipping　unknowingly　toward　his　fate；　as　ominous　chords　underscore　the　portentousness　of　the　scene。　The　door　was　still　unlocked　from　the　previous　day　and　the　keys　of　the　Ford　were　in　the　ignition—after　all；　who　worries　about　robbers　when　you　live　at　the　end　of　a　two…mile　track　protected　by　six　armed　bodyguards？　I　heaved　my　case　into　the　front　passenger　seat；　put　my　jacket　back　on；　and　slid　behind　the　steering　wheel。

　　It　was　as　cold　as　a　morgue；　that　Ford；　and　as　dusty　as　an　old　attic。　I　ran　my　hands　over　the　unfamiliar　controls　and　my　fingertips　came　away　gray。　I　don’t　own　a　car—I’ve　never　found　much　need；　living　alone　in　London—and　on　the　rare　occasions　I　hire　one；　it　always　seems　that　another　layer　of　gadgets　has　been　added；　so　that　the　instrument　panel　of　the　average　family　sedan　now　looks　to　me　like　the　cockpit　of　a　jumbo。　There　was　a　mystifying　screen　to　the　right　of　the　wheel；　which　came　alive　when　I　switched　on　the　engine。　Pulsing　green　arcs　were　shown　radiating　upward　from　Earth　to　an　orbiting　space　station。　As　I　watched；　the　pulse　switched　direction　and　the　arcs　beamed　down　from　the　heavens。　An　instant　later；　the　screen　showed　a　large　red　arrow；　a　yellow　path；　and　a　great　patch　of　blue。

　　An　American　woman’s　voice；　soft　but　commanding；　said；　from　somewhere　behind　me：Join　the　road　as　soon　as　possible。

　　I　would　have　turned　her　off；　but　I　couldn’t　see　how；　and　I　was　conscious　that　the　noise　of　the　engine　might　soon　bring　Barry　lumbering　out　of　the　house　to　investigate。　The　thought　of　his　lubricious　gaze　was　enough　to　get　me　moving。　I　quickly　put　the　Ford　into　reverse　and　backed　out　of　the　garage。　Then　I　adjusted　the　mirrors；　switched　on　the　headlights　and　the　windscreen　wipers；　engaged　drive；　and　headed　for　the　gate。　As　I　passed　the　guard　post；　the　scene　on　the　little　satellite　navigation　monitor　swung　pleasingly；　as　if　I　were　playing　on　an　arcade　game；　and　then　the　red　arrow　settled　over　the　center　of　the　yellow　path。　I　was　away。

　　There　was　something　oddly　soothing　about　driving　along　and　seeing　all　the　little　paths　and　streams；　neatly　labeled；　appear　at　the　top　of　the　screen　and　then　scroll　down　before　disappearing　off　the　bottom。　It　made　me　feel　as　if　the　world　were　a　safe　and　tamed　place；　its　every　feature　tagged　and　measured　and　stored　in　some　celestial　control　room；　where　softly　spoken　angels　kept　a　benign　vigil　on　the　travelers　below。

　　In　two　hundred　yards；instructed　the　woman；turn　right。

　　In　fifty　yards；　turn　right。

　　And　then；Turn　right。

　　The　solitary　demonstrator　was　huddled　in　his　hut；　reading　a　newspaper。　He　stood　as　he　saw　me　at　the　junction　and　came　out　into　the　sleet。　I　noticed　he　had　a　car　parked　nearby；　a　big　old　Volkswagen　camper　van；　and　I　wondered　why　he　didn’t　shelter　in　that。　As　I　swung　right；　I　got　a　good　look　at　his　gaunt　gray　face。　He　was　immobile　and　expressionless；　taking　no　more　notice　of　the　drenching　rain　than　if　he　had　been　a　carved　wooden　figure　outside　a　drugstore。　I　pressed　my　foot　on　the　accelerator　and　headed　toward　Edgartown；　enjoying　the　slight　sense　of　adventure　that　always　comes　from　driving　in　a　foreign　country。　My　disembodied　guide　was　silent　for　the　next　four　miles　or　so；　and　I　had　forgotten　all　about　her　until；　as　I　reached　the　outskirts　of　the　town；　she　started　up　again。

　　In　two　hundred　yards；　turn　left。Her　voice　made　me　jump。

　　In　fifty　yards；　turn　left。

　　Turn　left；she　repeated；　when　we　reached　the　junction。

　　Now　she　was　beginning　to　get　on　my　nerves。

　　“I’m　sorry；”　I　muttered　and　took　a　right　toward　Main　Street。

　　Turn　around　when　possible。

　　“This　is　getting　ridiculous；”　I　said　out　loud　and　pulled　over。　I　pressed　various　buttons　on　the　navigator’s　console；　with　the　aim　of　shutting　it　down。　The　screen　changed　and　offered　me　a　menu。　I　can’t　remember　all　the　options。　one　wasENTER　A　NEW　DESTINATION　。　I　think　another　wasRETURN　TO　HOME　ADDRESS　。　And　a　third—the　one　highlighted—wasREMEMBER　PREVIOUS　DESTINATION　。

　　I　stared　at　it　for　a　while；　as　the　potential　implications　slowly　filtered　into　my　brain。　Cautiously；　I　pressedSELECT　。

　　The　screen　went　blank。　The　device　was　obviously　malfunctioning。

　　I　turned　off　the　engine　and　hunted　around　for　the　instructions。　I　even　braved　the　sleet　and　opened　up　the　back　of　the　Ford　to　see　if　they’d　been　left　there。　I　returned　empty…handed　and　turned　on　the　ignition。　Once　again　the　navigation　system　lit　up。　As　it　went　through　its　start…up　routine；　communicating　with　its　mother　ship；　I　put　the　car　into　gear　and　headed　down　the　hill。

　　Turn　around　when　possible。

　　I　tapped　the　steering　wheel　with　my　forefingers。　For　the　first　time　in　my　life　I　was　confronted　with　the　true　meaning　of　the　word　“predestination。”　I　had　just　passed　the　Victorian　whaling　church。　Before　me　the　hill　dipped　toward　the　harbor。　A　few　white　masts　were　faintly　visible　through　the　dirty　lace　curtain　of　rain。　I　was　not　far　from　my　old　hotel—from　the　girl　in　the　white　mobcap；　and　the　sailing　prints；　and　old　Captain　John　Coffin　staring　sternly　from　the　wall。　It　was　eight　o’clock。　There　was　no　traffic　on　the　road。　The　sidewalks　were　deserted。　I　carried　on　down　the　slope；　past　all　the　empty　shops　with　their　cheery　closed…for…the…winter…see…you…next…year！！　notices。

　　Turn　around　when　possible。

　　Wearily；　I　surrendered　to　fate。　I　flicked　the　indicator　and　turned　into　a　little　street　of　houses—Summer　Street；　I　think　it　was　called；　inappropriately　enough—and　braked。　The　rain　pounded　on　the　roof　of　the　Ford；　the　windscreen　wiper　thudded　back　and　forth。　A　small　black…and…white　terrier　was　defecating　in　the　gutter；　with　an　expression　of　intense　concentration　on　its　ancient　wise　face。　Its　owner；　too　thickly　swaddled　against　the　wet　and　cold　for　me　to　tell　either　age　or　sex；　turned　clumsily　to　look　at　me；　like　a　spaceman　maneuvering　himself　on　a　lunar　walk。　In　one　hand　was　a　pooperscooper；　in　the　other　a　white　plastic　scrotum　of　dog’s　crap。　I　quickly　reversed　back　out　into　Main　Street；　swinging　the　wheel　so　hard　I　briefly　mounted　the　curb。　With　a　thrilling　screech　of　tire；　I　set　off　back　up　the　hill。　The　arrow　swung　wildly；　before　settling　contentedly　over　the　yellow　route。

　　Exactly　what　I　thought　I　was　doing　I　still　don’t　really　know。　I　couldn’t　even　be　sure　that　McAra　had　been　the　last　driver　to　enter　an　address。　It　might　have　been