The Ghost(英文版)-第44部分

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　　“She’s　fine。”　He　put　the　disk　into　his　briefcase。　“Thanks。”

　　“Can　I　see　her？”

　　“She　flew　back　to　London　last　night。”　I　guess　my　disappointment　must　have　been　evident；　because　the　MI5　man　added；　with　chilly　pleasure；　“It’s　not　surprising。　She　hasn’t　seen　her　husband　since　before　Christmas。”

　　“And　what　about　Ruth？”　I　asked。

　　“She’s　accompanying　Mr。　Lang’s　body　home　right　now；”　said　Murphy。　“Your　government　sent　a　plane　to　fetch　them。”

　　“He’ll　get　full　military　honors；”　added　the　MI5　man。　“A　statue　in　the　Palace　of　Westminster；　and　a　funeral　in　the　Abbey　if　she　wants　it。　He’s　never　been　more　popular　than　since　he　died。”

　　“He　should　have　done　it　years　ago；”　I　said。　They　didn’t　smile。　“And　is　it　really　true　that　nobody

　　else　was　killed？”

　　“Nobody；”　said　Murphy；　“which　was　a　miracle；　believe　me。”

　　“In　fact；”　said　the　man　from　MI5；　“Mrs。　Bly　wonders　if　Mr。　Lang　didn’t　actually　recognize　his

　　assassin　and　deliberately　head　toward　him；　knowing　that　something　like　this　might　happen。　Can　you　shed　any　light　on　that？”

　　“It　sounds　far…fetched；”　I　said。　“I　thought　a　fuel　truck　had　exploded。”

　　“It　urphy；　clicking　his　pen　and　slipping　it　into　his　inside　pocket。　“We　eventually　found　the　killer’s　head　on　the　terminal　roof。”

　　I　WATCHED　LANG’S　FUNERALon　CNN　two　days　later。　My　eyesight　was　more　or　less　restored。　I　could　see　it　was　tastefully　done：　the　queen；　the　prime　minister；　the　U。S。　vice　president　and　half　the　leaders　of　Europe；　the　coffin　draped　in　the　Union　Jack；　the　guard　of　honor；　the　solitary　piper　playing　a　lament。　Ruth　looked　very　good　in　black；　I　thought；　it　was　definitely　her　color。　I　kept　a　lookout　for　Amelia；　but　I　didn’t　see　her。　During　a　lull　in　proceedings；　there　was　even　an　interview　with　Richard　Rycart。　Naturally；　he　hadn’t　been　invited　to　the　service；　but　he’d　gone　to　the　trouble　of　putting　on　a　black　tie　and　paid　a　very　moving　tribute　from　his　office　in　the　United　Nations：　a　great　colleague…a　true　patriot…we　had　our　disagreements…remained　friends…my　heart　goes　out　to　Ruth　and　the　family…as　far　as　I’m　concerned　the　whole　chapter　is　closed。

　　I　found　the　mobile　phone　he　had　given　me　and　threw　it　out　the　window。

　　The　next　day；　when　I　was　due　to　be　discharged　from　hospital；　Rick　came　up　from　New　York　to　say　good…bye　and　take　me　to　the　airport。

　　“Do　you　want　the　good　news　or　the　good　news？”　he　said。

　　“I’m　not　sure　your　idea　of　good　news　is　the　same　as　mine。”

　　“Sid　Kroll　just　called。　Ruth　Lang　still　wants　you　to　finish　the　memoirs；　and　Maddox　will　give　you　an　extra　month　to　work　on　the　manuscript。”

　　“And　the　good　news　is？”

　　“Very　cute。　Listen；　don’t　be　so　goddamned　snooty　about　it。　This　is　a　really　hot　book　now。　This　is　Adam　Lang’s　voice　from　the　grave。　You　don’t　have　to　work　on　it　here　anymore；　you　can　finish　it　in　London。　You　look　terrible；　by　the　way。”

　　“His　‘voice　from　the　grave’？”　I　repeated　incredulously。　“So　now　I’m　to　be　the　ghost　of　a　ghost？”

　　“Come　on；　the　whole　situation　is　rich　with　possibilities。　Think　about　it。　You　can　write　what　you　like；　within　reason。　Nobody’s　going　to　stop　you。　And　you　liked　him；　didn’t　you？”

　　I　thought　about　that。　In　fact；　I　had　been　thinking　about　it　ever　since　I　came　round　from　the　sedative。　Worse　than　the　pain　in　my　eyes　and　the　buzzing　in　my　ears；　worse　even　than　my　fear　that　I　would　never　emerge　from　the　hospital；　was　my　sense　of　guilt。　That　may　seem　odd；　given　what　I’d　learned；　but　I　couldn’t　work　up　any　sense　of　self…justification　or　resentment　against　Lang。　I　was　the　one　at　fault。　It　wasn’t　just　that　I’d　betrayed　my　client；　personally　and　professionally；　it　y　actions　had　set　in　motion。　If　I　hadn’t　gone　to　see　Emmett；　Emmett　wouldn’t　have　contacted　Lang　to　warn　him　about　the　photograph。　Then　maybe　Lang　wouldn’t　have　insisted　on　flying　back　to　Martha’s　Vineyard　that　night　to　see　Ruth。　Then　I　wouldn’t　have　had　to　tell　him　about　Rycart。　And　then；　and　then…？　It　nagged　away　at　me　as　I　lay　in　the　darkness。　I　just　couldn’t　erase　the　memory　of　how　bleak　he　had　looked　on　the　plane　at　the　very　end。

　　“Mrs。　Bly　wonders　if　Mr。　Lang　didn’t　actually　recognize　his　assassin　and　deliberately　head　toward　him；　knowing　that　something　like　this　might　happen…”

　　“Yes；”　I　said　to　Rick。　“Yes；　I　did　like　him。”

　　“Well；　there　you　go。　You　owe　it　to　him。　And　besides；　there’s　another　consideration。”

　　“Which　is　what？”

　　“Sid　Kroll　says　that　if　you　don’t　fulfill　your　contractual　obligations　and　finish　the　book；　they’ll　sue

　　your　ass　off。”

　　AND　SO　I　RETURNEDto　London；　and　for　the　next　six　weeks　I　barely　emerged　from　my　flat；　except　once；　early　on；　to　go　out　for　dinner　with　Kate。　We　met　in　a　restaurant　in　Notting　Hill　Gate；　midway　between　our　homes—territory　as　neutral　as　Switzerland　and　about　as　expensive。　The　manner　of　Adam　Lang’s　death　seemed　to　have　silenced　even　her　hostility；　and　I　suppose　a　kind　of　glamour　attached　to　me　as　an　eyewitness。　I　had　turned　down　a　score　of　requests　to　give　interviews；　so　that　she　was　the　first　person；　apart　from　the　FBI　and　MI5；　to　whom　I　described　what　had　happened。　I　desperately　wanted　to　tell　her　about　my　final　conversation　with　Lang。　I　would　have　done；　too。　But　in　the　way　of　these　things；　just　as　I　was　about　to　broach　it；　the　waiter　came　over　to　discuss　dessert；　and　when　he　left　she　announced　she　had　something　she　wanted　to　tell　me；　first。

　　She　was　engaged　to　be　married。

　　I　confess　it　was　a　shock。　I　didn’t　like　the　other　man。　You’d　know　him　if　I　mentioned　his　name：　craggy；　handsome；　soulful。　He　specializes　in　flying　briefly　into　the　world’s　worst　trouble　spots　and　flying　out　again　with　moving　descriptions　of　human　suffering；　usually　his　own。

　　“Congratulations；”　I　said。

　　We　skipped　dessert。　Our　affair；　our　relationship—ourthing　—whatever　it　was—ended　ten　minutes　later　with　a　peck　on　the　cheek　on　the　pavement　outside　the　restaurant。

　　“You　were　going　to　tell　me　something；”　she　said；　just　before　she　got　into　her　taxi。　“I’m　sorry　I　cut　you　off。　I　only　didn’t　want　you　to　say　anything；　you　know…too　personal…without　telling　you　first　about　how　things　were　with　me　and—”

　　“It　doesn’t　matter；”　I　said。

　　“Are　you　sure　you’re　all　right？　You　seem…different。”

　　“I’m　fine。”

　　“If　you　ever　need　me；　I’ll　always　be　there　for　you。”

　　“There？”　I　said。　“I　don’t　know　about　you；　but　I’m　here。　Where’s　there？”

　　I　held　open　the　door　of　her　cab　for　her。　I　couldn’t　help　overhearing　that　the　address　she　gave　the　driver　wasn’t　hers。

　　After　that；　I　withdrew　from　the　world。　I　spent　my　every　waking　hour　with　Lang；　and　now　that　he　was　dead；　I　found　I　suddenly　had　his　voice。　It　was　more　a　Ouija　board　than　a　keyboard　that　I　sat　down　to　every　morning。　If　my　fingers　typed　out　a　sentence　that　sounded　wrong；　I　could　almost　physically　feel　them　being　drawn　to　the　Delete　key。　I　was　like　a　screenwriter　producing　lines　with　a　particularly　demanding　star　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；”