The Ghost(英文版)-第2章

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　　“Accident？　Suicide？”　He　casually　flicked　his　hand。　“Who’ll　ever　know？　What　does　it　matter？　It　was　the　book　that　killed　him。”

　　“That’s　encouraging；”　I　said。

　　While　Rick　went　on　with　his　pitch；　I　stared　at　my　plate　and　imagined　the　former　prime　minister　looking　down　at　his　assistant’s　cold　white　face　in　the　mortuary—staring　down　at　his　ghost；　I　suppose　one　could　say。　How　did　it　feel？　I　am　aly　clients。　I　must　ask　it　a　hundred　times　a　day　during　the　interview　phase：　How　did　it　feel？How　did　it　feel？　And　mostly　they　can’t　answer；　which　is　why　they　have　to　hire　me　to　supply　their　memories；　by　the　end　of　a　successful　collaboration　I　am　more　them　than　they　are。　I　rather　enjoy　this　process；　to　be　honest：　the　brief　freedom　of　being　someone　else。　Does　that　sound　creepy？　If　so；　let　me　add　that　real　craftsmanship　is　required。　I　not　only　extract　from　people　their　life　stories；　I　impart　a　shape　to　those　lives　that　was　often　invisible；　sometimes　I　give　them　lives　they　never　even　realized　they　had。　If　that　isn’t　art；　what　is？

　　I　said；　“Should　I　have　heard　of　McAra？”

　　“Yes；　so　let’s　not　admit　you　haven’t。　He　was　some　kind　of　aide　when　Lang　was　prime　minister。　Speechwriting；　policy　research；　political　strategy。　When　Lang　resigned；　McAra　stayed　with　him；　to　run　his　office。”

　　I　grimaced。　“I　don’t　know；　Rick。”

　　Throughout　lunch　I’d　been　half　watching　an　elderly　television　actor　at　the　next　table。　He’d　been　famous　when　I　was　a　child　for　playing　the　single　parent　of　teenage　girls　in　a　sitcom。　Now；　as　he　rose　unsteadily　and　started　to　shuffle　toward　the　exit；　he　looked　as　though　he’d　been　made　up　to　act　the　role　of　his　own　corpse。　That　was　the　type　of　person　whose　memoirs　I　ghosted：　people　who　had　fallen　a　few　rungs　down　the　celebrity　ladder；　or　who　had　a　few　rungs　left　to　climb；　or　who　were　just　about　clinging　to　the　top　and　were　desperate　to　cash　in　while　there　was　still　time。　I　was　abruptly　overwhelmed　by　the　ridiculousness　of　the　whole　idea　that　I　might　collaborate　on　the　memoirs　of　a　prime　minister。

　　“I　don’t　know—”　I　began　again；　but　Rick　interrupted　me。

　　“Rhinehart　Inc。　are　getting　frantic。　They’re　holding　a　beauty　parade　at　their　London　office　tomorrow　morning。　Maddox　himself　is　flying　over　from　New　York　to　represent　the　company。　Lang’s　sending　the　lawyer　who　negotiated　the　original　deal　for　him—the　hottest　fixer　in　Washington；　a　very　smart　guy　by　the　name　of　Sidney　Kroll。　I’ve　other　clients　I　could　put　in　for　this；　so　if　you’re　not　up　for　it；　just　tell　me　now。　But　from　the　way　they’ve　been　talking；　I　think　you’re　the　best　fit。”

　　“Me？　You’re　kidding。”

　　“No。　I　promise　you。　They　need　to　do　something　radical—take　a　risk。　It’s　a　great　opportunity　for　you。　And　the　money　will　be　good。　The　kids　won’t　starve。”

　　“I　don’t　have　any　kids。”

　　“No；”　said　Rick　with　a　wink；　“but　I　do。”

　　WE　PARTED　ON　THEsteps　of　the　club。　Rick　had　a　car　waiting　outside　with　its　engine　running。　He　didn’t　offer　to　drop　me　anywhere；　which　made　me　suspect　he　was　off　to　see　another　client；　to　whom　he　would　make　exactly　the　same　pitch　he　had　just　made　to　me。　What　is　the　collective　noun　for　a　group　of　ghosts？　A　train？　A　town？　A　haunt？　At　any　rate；　Rick　had　plenty　of　us　on　his　books。　Take　a　look　at　the　bestseller　lists：　you　would　be　amazed　how　much　of　it　is　the　work　of　ghosts；　novels　as　well　as　nonfiction。　We　are　the　phantom　operatives　who　keep　publishing　going；　like　the　unseen　workers　beneath　Walt　Disney　World。　We　scuttle　along　the　subterranean　tunnels　of　celebrity；　popping　up　here　and　there；　dressed　as　this　character　or　that；　preserving　the　seamless　illusion　of　the　Magic　Kingdom。

　　“See　you　tomorrow；”　he　said；　and　dramatically；　in　a　puff　of　exhaust　fumes；　he　was　gone：　Mephistopheles　on　a　fifteen　percent　commission。　I　stood　for　a　minute；　undecided；　and　if　I　had　been　in　another　part　of　London　it　is　still　just　possible　things　might　have　gone　differently。　But　I　was　in　that　narrow　zone　where　Soho　washes　up　against　Covent　Garden：　a　trash…strewn　strip　of　empty　theaters；　dark　alleys；　red　lights；　snack　bars；　and　bookshops—so　many　bookshops　you　can　start　to　feel　ill　just　looking　at　them；　from　the　tiny　little　rip…off　specialist　dealers　in　Cecil　Court　to　the　cut…price　behemoths　of　Charing　Cross　Road。　I　often　drop　into　one　of　the　latter；　to　see　how　my　titles　are　displayed；　and　that　was　what　I　did　that　afternoon。　Once　inside；　it　was　only　a　short　step　across　the　scuffed　red　carpet　of　the　“Biography　&　Memoir”　department；　and　suddenly　I　had　gone　from　“Celebrity”　to　“Politics。”

　　I　was　surprised　by　how　much　they　had　on　the　former　prime　minister—an　entire　shelf；　everything　from　the　early　hagiography；Adam　Lang：　Statesman　for　Our　Time　；　to　a　recent　hatchet　job　titledWould　You　Adam　and　Eve　It？　The　Collected　Lies　of　Adam　Lang　；　both　by　the　same　author。　I　took　down　the　thickest　biography　and　opened　it　at　the　photographs：　Lang　as　a　toddler；　feeding　a　bottle　of　milk　to　a　lamb　beside　a　drystone　wall；　Lang　as　Lady　Macbeth　in　a　school　play；　Lang　dressed　as　a　chicken　in　a　Cambridge　University　Footlights　revue；　Lang　as　a　distinctly　stoned…looking　merchant　banker　in　the　nineteen　seventies；　Lang　with　his　wife　and　young　children　on　the　doorstep　of　a　new　house；　Lang　wearing　a　rosette　and　waving　from　an　open…topped　bus　on　the　day　he　was　elected　to　parliament；　Lang　with　his　colleagues；　Lang　with　world　leaders；　with　pop　stars；　with　soldiers　in　the　Middle　East。　A　bald　customer　in　a　scuffed　leather　coat　browsing　the　shelf　next　to　me　stared　at　the　cover。　He　held　his　nose　with　one　hand　and　mimed　flushing　a　toilet　with　the　other。

　　I　moved　around　the　corner　of　the　bookcase　and　looked　up　McAra；　Michael　in　the　index。　There　were　only　five　or　six　innocuous　references—no　reason；　in　other　words；　why　anyone　outside　the　party　or　the　government　need　ever　have　heard　of　him；　so　to　hell　with　you；　Rick；　I　thought。　I　flicked　back　to　the　photograph　of　the　prime　minister　seated　smiling　at　the　cabinet　table；　with　his　Downing　Street　staff　arrayed　behind　him。　The　caption　identified　McAra　as　the　burly　figure　in　the　back　row。　He　was　slightly　out　of　focus—a　pale；　unsmiling；　dark…haired　smudge。　I　squinted　more　closely　at　him。　He　looked　exactly　the　sort　of　unappealing　inadequate　who　is　congenitally　drawn　to　politics　and　makes　people　like　me　stick　to　the　sports　pages。　You’ll　find　a　McAra　in　any　country；　in　any　system；　standing　behind　any　leader　with　a　political　machine　to　operate：　a　greasy　engineer　in　the　boiler　room　of　power。　And　this　was　the　man　who　had　been　entrusted　to　ghost　a　ten…million…dollar　memoir？　I　felt　professionally　affronted。　I　bought　myself　a　small　pile　of　research　material　and　headed　out　of　the　bookshop　with　a　growing　conviction　that　maybe　Rick　was　right：　perhaps　I　was　the　man　for　the　job。

　　It　was　obvious　the　moment　I　got　outside　that　another　bomb　had　gone　off。　At　Tottenham　Court　Road　people　were　surging　up　above　ground　from　all　four　exits　of　the　tube　station　like　storm　water　from　a　blocked　drain。　A　loudspeaker　said　something　about　“an　incident　at　Oxford　Circus。”　It　sounded　like　an　edgy　romantic　comedy：Brief　Encounter　meets　the　war　on　terror。　I　carried　on　up　the　road；　unsure　of　how　I　would　get　home—taxis；　like　false　friends；　tending　always　to　vanish　at　the　first　sign　of　trouble。　In　the　window　of　one　of　the　big　electrical　shops；　the　crowd　watched　the　same　news　bulletin　relayed　simultaneously　on　a　dozen　televisions：　aerial　shots　of　Oxford　Circus；　black　smoke　gushing　out　of　the　underground　station；　thrusts　of　orange　flame。　An　electronic　ticker　running　across　the　bottom　of　the　screen　announced　a　suspected　suicide　bomber；　many　dead　and　injured；　and　gave　an　emergency　number　to　call。　Above　the　rooftops　a　helicopter　tilted　and　circled。　I　could　smell　the　smoke—an　acrid；　eye…reddening　blend　of　diesel　and　burning　plastic。

　　It　took　me　two　full　hours　to　walk　home；　lugging　my　heavy　bag　of　books—up　to　Marylebone　Road　and　then　westward　toward　Paddington。　As　usual；　the　entire　tube　system　had　been　shut　down　to　check　for　further　bombs；　so　had　the　main　railway　stations。　The　traffic　on　either　side　of　the　wide　street　was　stalled　and；　on　past　form；　would　remain　so　until　evening。　（If　only　Hitler　had　known　he　didn’t　need　a　whole　air　force　to　paralyze　London；　I　thought；　just　a　revved…up　teenager　with　a　bottle　of　bleach　and　a　bag　of　weed　killer。）　Occasionally　a　police　car　or　an　ambulance　would　mount　the　curb；　roar　along　the　pavement；　and　attempt　to　make　progress　up　a　side　street。

　　I　trudged　on　toward　the　setting　sun。

　　It　must　have　been　six　when　I　reached　my　flat。　I　had　the　top　two　floors　of　a　high；　stuccoed　house　in　what　the　residents　called　Notting　Hill　and　the　post　office　stubbornly　insisted　was　North　Kensington。　Used　syringes　glittered　in　the　gutter；　at　the　halal　butchers　opposite　they　did　the　slaughtering　on　the　premises。　It　was　grim。　But　from　the　attic　extension　that　served　as　my　office　I　had　a　view　across　west　London　that　would　not　have　disgraced　a　skyscraper：　rooftops；　railway　yards；　motorway；　and　sky—a　vast　urban　prairie　sky；　sprinkled　with　the　lights　of　aircraft　descending　toward　Heathrow。　It　was　this　view　that　had　sold　me　the　apartment；　not　the　estate　agent’s　gentrification　patter—which　was　just　as　well；　as　the　rich　bourgeoisie　have　no　more　returned　to　this　area　than　they　have　to　downtown　Baghdad。

　　Kate　had　already　let　herself　in　and　was　watching　the　news。　Kate：　I　had　forgotten　she　was　coming　over　for　the　evening。　She　was　my—？　I　never　knew　what　to　call　her。　To　say　she　was　my　girlfriend　was　absurd；　no　one　the　wrong　side　of　thirty　has　agirlfriend　。　Partner　wasn’t　right　either；　as　we　didn’t　live　under　the　same　roof。　Lover？　How　could　one　keep　a　straight　face？　Mistress？　Do　me　a　favor。　Fiancée？　Certainly　not。　I　suppose　I　ought　to　have　realized　it　was　ominous　that　forty　thousand　years　of　human　language　had　failed　to　produce　a　word　for　our　relationship。　（Kate　wasn’t　her　real　name；　by　the　way；　but　I　don’t　see　why　she　should　be　dragged　into　all　this。　In　any　case；　it　suits　her　better　than　the　name　she　does　have：　she　looks　like　a　Kate；　if　you　know　what　I　mean—sensible　but　sassy；　girlish　but　always　willing　to　be　one　of　the　boys。　She　worked　in　television；　but　let’s　not　hold