The Ghost(英文版)-第49章

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tar　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　owethousands　！

　　To　you；　no　doubt—and　indeed　to　me；　now—my　panic　seems　ridiculous。　But　I　raced　back　up　those　stairs　with　my　pulse　drumming。　It　was　after　six　in　New　York　and　Rhinehart　Inc。　had　closed　for　the　day。　There　was　no　reply　from　the　Martha’s　Vineyard　house；　either。　In　despair；　I　called　Rick　at　home　and；　without　preliminaries；　began　gabbling　out　the　details　of　the　crisis。　He　listened　for　about　thirty　seconds；　then　told　me　roughly　to　shut　up。

　　“This　was　all　sorted　out　weeks　ago。　The　guys　at　the　car　park　got　suspicious　and　called　the　cops；　and　they　called　Rhinehart’s　office。　Maddox　paid　the　bill。　I　didn’t　bother　you　with　it　because　I　knew　you　were　busy。　Now　listen　to　me；　my　friend。　It　seems　to　me　you’ve　got　a　nasty　case　of　delayed　shock。　You　need　help。　I　know　a　shrink—”

　　I　hung　up。

　　When　I　finally　fell　asleep　on　the　sofa；　I　had　my　usual　recurrent　dream　about　McAra；　the　one　in　which　he　floated　fully　clothed　in　the　sea　beside　me　and　told　me　he　wasn’t　going　to　make　it：You　go　on　without　me。　But　this　time；　instead　of　ending　with　my　waking　up；　the　dream　lasted　longer。　A　wave　took　McAra　away；　in　his　heavy　raincoat　and　rubber…soled　boots；　until　he　became　only　a　dark　shape　in　the　distance；　facedown　in　the　shallow　foam；　sliding　back　and　forth　at　the　edge　of　the　beach。　I　waded　toward　him　and　managed　to　get　my　hands　around　his　bulky　body　and；　with　a　supreme　effort；　to　roll　him　over；　and　then　suddenly　he　was　staring　up　naked　from　a　white　slab；　with　Adam　Lang　bending　over　him。

　　The　next　morning　I　left　the　flat　early　and　walked　down　the　hill　to　the　tube　station。　It　really　wouldn’t　take　much　to　kill　myself；　I　thought。　One　swift　leap　out　in　front　of　the　approaching　train；　and　then　oblivion。　Much　better　than　drowning。　But　it　was　only　the　briefest　of　impulses；　not　least　because　I　couldn’t　bear　the　idea　of　someone　having　to　clean　up　afterward。（“We　eventually　found　the　killer’s　head　on　the　terminal　roof。”）　Instead　I　boarded　the　train　and　traveled　to　the　end　of　the　line　at　Hammersmith；　then　crossed　the　road　to　the　other　platform。　Motion；　that’s　the　cure　for　depression；　I　decided。　You　have　to　keep　moving。　At　Embankment　I　changed　again　for　Morden；　which　always　sounds　to　me　like　the　end　of　the　world。　We　passed　through　Balham　and　I　got　off　two　stops　later。

　　It　didn’t　take　me　long　to　find　the　grave。　I　remembered　Ruth　had　said　the　funeral　was　at　Streatham　Cemetery。　I　looked　up　his　name　and　a　groundsman　pointed　the　way　toward　the　plot。　I　passed　stone　angels　with　vultures’　wings；　and　mossy　cherubs　with　lichened　curls；　Victorian　sarcophagi　the　size　of　garden　sheds；　and　crosses　garlanded　with　marble　roses。　But　McAra’s　contribution　to　the　necropolis　was　characteristically　plain。　No　flowery　mottoes；　no　“Say　not　the　struggle　naught　availeth”　or　“Well　done；　thou　good　and　faithful　servant”　for　our　Mike。　Merely　a　slab　of　limestone　with　his　name　and　dates。

　　It　was　a　late　spring　morning；　drowsy　with　pollen　and　petrol　fumes。　In　the　distance；　the　traffic　rolled　up　Garratt　Lane　toward　central　London。　I　squatted　on　my　haunches　and　pressed　my　palms　to　the　dewy　grass。　As　I’ve　said　before；　I’m　not　the　superstitious　type；　but　at　that　moment　I　did　feel　a　current　of　relief　pass　through　me；　as　if　I’d　closed　a　circle；　or　fulfilled　a　task。　I　sensed　he　had　wanted　me　to　come　here。

　　That　was　when　I　noticed；　resting　against　the　stone；　half　obscured　by　the　overgrown　grass；　a　small　bunch　of　shriveled　flowers。　There　was　a　card　attached；　written　in　an　elegant　hand；　just　legible　after　successive　London　downpours：　“In　memory　of　a　good　friend　and　loyal　colleague。　Rest　in　peace；　dear　Mike。　Amelia。”

　　WHEN　I　GOT　BACKto　my　flat；　I　called　her　on　her　mobile　number。　She　didn’t　seem　surprised　to　hear　from　me。

　　“Hello；”　she　said。　“I　was　just　thinking　about　you。”

　　“Why’s　that？”

　　“I’m　reading　your　book—Adam’s　book。”

　　“And？”

　　“It’s　good。　No；　actually；　it’s　better　than　good。　It’s　like　having　him　back。　There’s　only　one　element　missing；　I　think。”

　　“And　what