The Ghost(英文版)-第45部分

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　　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’s　that？”

　　“Oh；　it　doesn’t　matter。　I’ll　tell　you　if　I　see　you。　Perhaps　we’ll　get　the　opportunity　to　talk　at　the

　　reception　tonight。”

　　“What　reception？”

　　She　laughed。　“Yourreception；　you　idiot。　The　launch　of　your　book。　Don’t　tell　me　you　haven’t　been

　　invited。”

　　I　hadn’t　spoken　to　anyone　in　a　long　while。　It　took　me　a　second　or　two　to　reply。

　　“I　don’t　know　whether　I　have　or　not。　To　be　honest；　I　haven’t　checked　my　post　in　a　while。”

　　“You　must　have　been　invited。”

　　“Don’t　you　believe　it。　Authors　tend　to　be　funny　about　having　their　ghosts　staring　at　them　over　the

　　canapés。”

　　“Well；　the　author　isn’t　going　to　be　there；　is　he？”　she　said。　She　wanted　to　sound　brisk；　but　she　came　across　as　desperately　hollow　and　strained。　“You　should　go；　whether　you’ve　been　invited　or　not。　In　fact；　if　you　really　haven’t　been　invited；　you　can　come　as　my　guest。　My　invitation　has　‘Amelia　Bly　plus

　　one’　written　on　it。”

　　The　prospect　of　returning　to　society　made　my　heartbeat　start　to　race　again。

　　“But　don’t　you　want　to　take　someone　else？　What　about　your　husband？”

　　“Oh；　him。　That　didn’t　work　out；　I’m　afraid。　I　hadn’t　realized　quite　how　bored　he　was　with　being

　　my　‘plus　one。’”

　　“I’m　sorry　to　hear　that。”

　　“Liar；”　she　said。　“I’ll　meet　you　at　the　end　of　Downing　Street　at　seven　o’clock。　The　party’s　just

　　across　Whitehall。　I’ll　only　wait　five　minutes；　so　if　you　decide　you　do　want　to　come；　don’t　be　late。”

　　AFTER　I　FINISHED　SPEAKINGto　Amelia；　I　went　through　my　weeks　of　accumulated　mail　carefully。　There　was　no　invitation　to　the　party。　Bearing　in　mind　the　circumstances　of　my　last　encounter　with　Ruth；　I　wasn’t　too　surprised。　There　was；　however；　a　copy　of　the　finished　book。　It　was　nicely　produced。　The　cover；　with　an　eye　to　the　American　market；　was　a　photograph　of　Lang；　looking　debonair；　addressing　a　joint　session　of　the　U。S。　Congress。　The　photographs　inside　did　not　include　any　of　the　ones　from　Cambridge　that　McAra　had　discovered；　I　hadn’t　passed　them　on　to　the　picture　researcher。　I　flicked　through　to　the　acknowledgments；　which　I　had　written　in　Lang’s　voice：

　　This　book　would　not　exist　without　the　dedication；　support；　wisdom；　and　friendship　of　the　late　Michael　McAra；　who　collaborated　with　me　on　its　composition　from　the　first　page　to　the　last。　Thank　you；　Mike—for　everything。

　　My　name　wasn’t　mentioned。　Much　to　Rick’s　annoyance；　I’d　forgone　my　collaborator　credit。　I　didn’t　tell　him　why；　which　was　that　I　thought　it　was　safer　that　way。　The　expurgated　contents　and　my　anonymity　would；　I　hoped；　serve　as　a　message　to　whoever　out　there　might　be　paying　attention　that　there　would　be　no　further　trouble　from　me。

　　I　soaked　in　the　bath　for　an　hour　that　afternoon　and　contemplated　whether　or　not　to　go　to　the　reception。　As　usual；　I　was　able　to　spin　out　my　procrastination　for　hours。　I　told　myself　I　still　hadn’t　necessarily　made　up　my　mind　as　I　shaved　off　my　beard；　and　as　I　dressed　in　a　decent　dark　suit　and　white　shirt；　and　as　I　went　out　into　the　street　and　hailed　a　taxi；　and　even　as　I　stood　on　the　corner　of　Downing　Street　at　five　minutes　to　seven；　it　still　wasn’t　too　late　to　turn　back。　Across　the　broad；　ceremonial　boulevard　of　Whitehall；　I　could　see　the　cars　and　taxis　pulling　up　outside　the　Banqueting　House；　where　I　guessed　the　party　must　be　taking　place。　Photographers’　flashbulbs　winked　in　the　evening　sunshine；　a　pale　reminder　of　Lang’s　old　glory　days。

　　I　kept　looking　for　Amelia；　up　the　street　toward　the　mounted　sentry　outside　Horse　Guards；　and　down　it　again；　past　the　Foreign　Office；　to　the　Victorian　Gothic　madhouse　of　the　Palace　of　Westminster。　A　sign　on　the　opposite　side　of　the　entrance　to　Downing　Street　pointed　to　the　Cabinet　War　Rooms；　with　a　drawing　of　Churchill；　complete　with　V　sign　and　cigar。　Whitehall　always　reminds　me　of　the　Blitz。　I　can　picture　it　from　the　images　I　was　brought　up　on　as　a　child：　the　sandbags；　the　white　tape　across　the　windows；　the　searchlights　blindly　fingering　the　darkness；　the　drone　of　the　bombers；　the　crump　of　high　explosive；　the　red　glow　from　the　fires　in　the　East　End。　Thirty　thousand　dead　in　London　alone。　Nowthat　；　as　my　father　would　have　said；　is　what　you　call　awar　—not　this　drip；　drip；　drip　of　inconvenience　and　anxiety　and　folly。　Yet　Churchill　used　to　stroll　to　parliament　through　St。　James’s　Park；　raising　his　hat　to　passersby；　with　just　a　solitary　detective　walking　ten　feet　behind　him。

　　I　was　still　thinking　about　it　when　Big　Ben　finished　chiming　the　hour。　I　peered　left　and　right　again；　but　there　was　still　no　sign　of　Amelia；　which　surprised　me；　as　I　had　her　down　as　the　punctual　type。　But　then　I　felt　a　touch　on　my　sleeve　and　turned　to　find　her　standing　behind　me。　She　had　emerged　from　the　sunless　canyon　of　Downing　Street　in　her　dark　blue　suit；　carrying　a　briefcase。　She　looked　older；　faded；　and　just　for　an　instant　I　glimpsed　her　future：　a　tiny　flat；　a　smart　address；　a　cat。　We　exchanged　poli