The Ghost(英文版)-第15章

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）；　the　quiet；　apolitical　values　of　the　English　provinces　in　the　sixties；　where　the　only　sounds　to　be　heard　on　a　Sunday　were　church　bells　and　the　chimes　of　ice　cream　vans；　the　muddy　Saturday　morning　games　of　football　at　the　local　park　and　the　long　summer　afternoons　of　cricket　down　by　the　river；　his　father’s　Austin　Atlantic　and　his　own　first　Raleigh　bike；　the　comics—theEagle　and　theVictor　—and　the　radio　comedies—I’m　Sorry；　I’ll　Read　That　AgainandThe　Navy　Lark　；　the　1966　World　Cup　Final　andZ　Cars　andReady；　Steady；　Go！；　The　Guns　of　Navarone　andCarry　On；　Doctor　at　the　local　movie　theater；　Millie　singing　“My　Boy　Lollipop”　and　Beatles　singles　played　at　forty…five　RPM　on　his　mother’s　Dansette　Capri　record　player。

　　Sitting　there　in　Rhinehart’s　study；　the　minutiae　of　English　life　nearly　half　a　century　earlier　seemed　as　remote　as　bric…a…brac　in　a　Victorian　trompe　l’oeil—and；　you　might　have　thought；　about　as　relevant。　But　there　was　cunning　in　my　method；　and　Lang；　with　his　genius　for　empathy；　grasped　it　at　once；　for　this　was　not　just　his　childhood　we　were　itemizing　but　mine　and　that　of　every　boy　who　was　born　in　England　in　the　nineteen　fifties　and　who　grew　to　maturity　in　the　seventies。

　　“What　we　need　to　do；”　I　told　him；　“is　to　persuade　the　reader　to　identify　emotionally　with　Adam　Lang。　To　see　beyond　the　remote　figure　in　the　bombproof　car。　To　recognize　in　him　the　same　things　they　recognize　in　themselves。　Because　if　I　know　nothing　else　about　this　business；　I　know　this：　once　you　have　the　readers’　sympathy；　they’ll　follow　you　anywhere。”

　　“I　get　it；”　he　said；　nodding　emphatically。　“I　think　that’s　brilliant。”

　　And　so　we　swapped　memories　for　hour　after　hour；　and　I　will　not　say　we　began　toconcoct　a　childhood　for　Lang；　exactly—I　was　always　careful　not　to　depart　from　the　known　historical　record—but　we　certainly　pooled　our　experiences　to　such　an　extent　that　a　few　of　my　memories　inevitably　became　blended　into　his。　You　may　find　this　shocking。　I　was　shocked　myself；　the　first　time　I　heard　one　of　my　clients　on　television　weepily　describing　a　poignant　moment　from　his　past　that　was　actually　frommy　past。　But　there　it　is。　People　who　succeed　in　life　are　rarely　reflective。　Their　gaze　is　always　on　the　future：　that’s　why　they　succeed。　It’s　not　in　their　nature　to　remember　what　they　were　feeling；　or　wearing；　or　who　was　with　them；　or　the　scent　of　freshly　cut　grass　in　the　churchyard　on　the　day　they　were　married；　or　the　tightness　with　which　their　first　baby　squeezed　their　finger。　That’s　why　they　need　ghosts—to　flesh　them　out；　as　it　were。

　　As　it　transpired；　I　collaborated　with　Lang　for　only　a　short　while；　but　I　can　honestly　say　I　never　had　a　more　responsive　client。　We　decided　that　his　first　memory　would　be　when　he　tried　to　run　away　from　home　at　the　age　of　three　and　he　heard　the　sound　of　his　father’s　footsteps　coming　up　behind　him　and　felt　the　hardness　of　his　muscled　arms　as　he　scooped　him　back　to　the　house。　We　remembered　his　mother　ironing；　and　the　smell　of　wet　clothes　on　a　wooden　frame　drying　in　front　of　a　coal　fire；　and　how　he　liked　to　pretend　that　the　clotheshorse　was　a　house。　His　father　wore　a　vest　at　table　and　ate　pork　dripping　and　kippers；　his　mother　liked　the　occasional　sweet　sherry　and　had　a　book　calledA　Thing　of　Beauty　with　a　red…and…gold　cover。　Young　Adam　would　look　at　the　pictures　for　hours；　that　was　what　first　gave　him　his　interest　in　the　theater。　We　remembered　Christmas　pantomimes　he　had　been　to　（I　made　a　note　to　look　up　exactly　what　was　playing　in　Leicester　when　he　was　growing　up）　and　his　stage　debut　in　the　school　nativity　play。

　　“Was　I　a　wise　man？”

　　“That　sounds　a　little　smug。”

　　“A　sheep？”

　　“Not　smug　enough。”

　　“A　guiding　star？”

　　“Perfect！”

　　By　the　time　we　broke　for　lunch；　we　had　reached　the　age　of　seventeen；　when　his　performance　in　the　title　role　of　Christopher　Marlowe’sDoctor　Faustus　had　confirmed　him　in　his　desire　to　become　an　actor。　McAra；　with　typical　thoroughness；　had　already　dug　out　the　review　in　theLeicester　Mercury　；　December　1971；　describing　how　Lang　had　“held　the　audience　spellbound”　with　his　final　speech；　as　he　glimpsed　eternal　damnation。

　　While　Lang　went　off　to　play　tennis　with　one　of　his　bodyguards；　I　dropped　by　the　downstairs　office　to　check　on　the　transcription。　An　hour’s　interviewing　generally　yields　between　seven　and　eight　thousand　words；　and　Lang　and　I　had　been　at　it　from　nine　till　nearly　one。　Amelia　had　set　both　secretaries　on　the　task。　Each　was　wearing　headphones。　Their　fingers　skimmed　the　keyboards；　filling　the　room　with　a　soothing　rattle　of　plastic。　With　a　bit　of　luck　I　would　have　about　a　hundred　double…spaced　pages　of　material　to　show　for　that　morning’s　work　alone。　For　the　first　time　since　arriving　on　the　island；　I　felt　the　warm　breath　of　optimism。

　　“This　is　all　new　to　me；”　said　Amelia；　who　was　bent　over　Lucy’s　shoulder；　reading　Lang’s　words　as　they　unfurled　across　the　screen。　“I’ve　never　heard　him　mention　any　of　this　before。”

　　“The　human　memory　is　a　treasure…house；　Amelia；”　I　said；　deadpan。　“It’s　merely　a　matter　of　finding　the　right　key。”

　　I　left　her　peering　at　the　screen　and　went　into　the　kitchen。　It　was　about　as　large　as　my　London　flat；　with　enough　polished　granite　to　furnish　a　family　mausoleum。　A　tray　of　sandwiches　had　been　laid　out。　I　put　one　on　a　plate　and　wandered　around　the　back　of　the　house　until　I　came　to　a　solarium—I　suppose　that’s　what　you　would　call　it—with　a　big　sliding　glass　door　leading　to　an　outside　swimming　pool。　The　pool　was　covered　with　a　gray　tarpaulin　depressed　by　rainwater；　on　which　floated　a　brown　scum　of　rotting　leaves。　There　were　two　silvered　wooden　cube…shaped　buildings　at　the　far　end；　and　beyond　those　the　scrub　oak　and　the　white　sky。　A　small；　dark　figure—so　bundled　up　against　the　cold　he　was　almost　spherical—was　raking　leaves　and　piling　them　into　a　wheelbarrow。　I　presumed　he　must　be　the　Vietnamese　gardener；　Duc。　I　really　must　try　to　see　this　place　in　summer；　I　thought。

　　I　sat　down　on　a　lounge；　releasing　a　faded　odor　of　chlorine　and　suntan　lotion；　and　called　Rick　in　New　York。　He　was　in　a　rush；　as　usual。

　　“How’s　it　going？”

　　“We　had　a　good　morning。　The　man’s　a　pro。”

　　“Great。　I’ll　call　Maddox。　He’ll　be　glad　to　hear　it。　The　first　fifty　thousand　just　came　in；　by　the　way。　I’ll　wire　it　over。　Speak　to　you　later。”　The　line　went　dead。

　　I　finished　my　sandwich　and　went　back　upstairs；　still　clutching　my　silent　phone。　I　had　had　an　idea；　and　my　newborn　confidence　gave　me　the　courage　to　act　on　it。　I　went　into　the　study　and　closed　the　door。　I　plugged　Amelia’s　flash　drive　into　my　laptop；　then　I　attached　a　cable　from　my　computer　to　the　cell　phone　and　dialed　up　the　internet。　How　much　easier　my　life　would　be；　I　reasoned—how　much　quicker　the　job　would　be　done—if　I　could　work　on　the　book　in　my　hotel　room　each　night。　I　told　myself　I　was　doing　no　harm。　The　risks　were　minimal。　The　machine　rarely　left　my　side。　If　necessary；　it　was　small　enough　to　fit　under　my　pillow　while　I　slept。　The　moment　I　was　online；　I　addressed　an　email　to　myself；　attached　the　manuscript　file；　and　pressed　Send。

　　The　upload　seemed　to　take　an　age。　Amelia　started　calling　my　name　from　downstairs。　I　glanced　at　the　door　and　suddenly　my　fingers　were　thick　and　clumsy　with　anxiety。　“Your　file　has　been　transferred；”　said　the　female　voice　that　for　some　reason　is　favored　by　my　internet　service　provider。　“You　have　email；”　she　announced　a　fraction　later。

　　Immediately　I　yanked　the　cable　out　of　the　laptop；　and　I　had　just　removed　the　flash　drive　when　somewhere　in　the　big　house　a　klaxon　started。　At　the　same　time　there　was　a　hum　and　a　rattle　above　the　window　behind　me　and　I　spun　round　to　see　a　heavy　metal　shutter　dropping　from　the　ceiling。　It　descended　very　quickly；　blocking　first　the　view　of　the　sky；　then　the　sea　and　the　dunes；　flattening　the　winter　afternoon　to　dusk；　crushing　the　last　sliver　of　light　to　blackness。　I　groped　for　the　door　and　when　I　flung　it　open　the　unfiltered　sound　of　the　siren　was　strong　enough　to　vibrate　my　stomach。

　　The　same　process　was　happening　in　the　living　room：　one；　two；　three　shutters　falling　like　steel　curtains。　I　stumbled　in　the　gloom；　cracking　my　knee　against　a　sharp　edge。　I　dropped　my　phone。　As　I　stooped　to　retrieve　it；　the　klaxon　stalled　on　a　rising　note　and　died　with　a　moan。　I　heard　heavy　footsteps　coming　up　the　steps；　and　then　a　saber　of　light　flashed　into　the　big　room；　catching　me　in　a　furtive　crouch；　my　arms　flung　up　to　shield　my　face：　a　parody　of　guilt。

　　“Sorry；　sir；”　came　a　policeman’s　puzzled　voice　from　the　darkness。　“Didn’t　realize　there　was　anyone　up　here。”

　　IT　WAS　A　DRILL。They　held　it　once　a　week。　“Lockdown；”　I　think　they　called　it。　Rhinehart’s　security　people　had　installed　the　system　to　protect　him　against　terrorist　attack；　kidnap；　hurricanes；　unionized　labor；　the　Securities　and　Exchange　Commission；　or　whatever　passing　nightmare　currently　stalked　the　restless　nights　of　theFortune　500。　As　the　shutters　rose　and　the　pale　wash　of　Atlantic　light　was　released　back　into　the　house；　Amelia　came　into　the　living　room　to　apologize　for　not　having　warned　me。　“It　must　have　made　you　jump。”

　　“You　could　say　that。”

　　“But　then　I　did　rather　lose　track　of　you。”　There　was　an　edge　of　suspicion　to　her　manicured　voice。

　　“It’s　a　big　house。　I’m　a　big　boy。　You　can’t　keep　an　eye　on　me　all　the　time。”　I　tried　to　sound　relaxed；　but　I　knew　I　radiated　unease。

　　“A　word　of　advice。”　Her　glossy　pink　lips　parted　in　a　smile；　but　her　big；　clear　blue　eyes　were　as　cold　as　crystal。　“Don’t　go　wandering　round　too　much　on　your　own。　The　security　boys　don’t　like　it。”

　　“Gotcha。”　I　smiled　back。

　　There　was　a　squeak　of　rubber　soles　on　polished　wood　and　Lang　came　hurtling　up　the　stairs　at　a　tremendous　rate；　taking　them　two　or　three　at　a　time。　He　had　a　towel　around　his　neck。　His　face　was　flushed；　his　thick　and　wavy　hair　damped　and　darkened　by　sweat。　He　seemed　angry　about　something。

　　“Did　you　win？”　asked　Amelia。

　　“Didn’t　play　tennis　in　the　end。”　He　blew　out　his　breath；　dropped　into　the　nearby　sofa；　bent　forward；　and　started　vigorously　toweling　his　head。　“Gym。”

　　Gym？　I　looked　at　him　in　am