The Ghost(英文版)- 第16部分

　　“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　amazement。　Hadn’t　he　already　been　for　a　run　before　I　arrived？　What　was　he　in　training　for？　The　Olympics？

　　I　said；　in　a　jovial　way；　designed　to　show　Amelia　how　unfazed　I　was；　“So；　are　you　ready　to　get　back　to　work？”

　　He　glanced　up　at　me　furiously　and　snapped；　“You　call　what　we’re　doingwork　？”

　　It　was　the　first　time　I’d　ever　seen　a　flash　of　bad　temper　from　him；　and　it　struck　me　with　the　force　of　a　revelation　that　all　this　running　and　pressing　and　lifting　had　nothing　whatever　to　do　with　training；　he　wasn’t　even　doing　it　for　enjoyment。　It　was　simply　what　his　metabolism　demanded。　He　was　like　some　rare　marine　specimen　fished　up　from　the　depths　of　the　ocean；　which　could　live　only　under　extreme　pressure。　Deposited　on　the　shore；　exposed　to　the　thin　air　of　normal　life；　Lang　was　in　constant　danger　of　expiring　from　sheer　boredom。

　　“Well；　I　certainly　call　it　work；”　I　said　stiffly。　“For　both　of　us。　But　if　you　think　it’s　not　intellectually　demanding　enough　for　you；　we　can　stop　now。”

　　I　thought　I　might　have　gone　too　far；　but　then　with　a　great　effort　of　self…control—so　great；　you　could　practically　see　the　intricate　machinery　of　his　facial　muscles；　all　the　little　levers　and　pulleys　and　cables；　working　together—he　managed　to　hoist　a　tired　grin　back　onto　his　face。　“All　right；　man；”　he　said　tonelessly。　“You　win。”　He　flicked　me　with　his　towel。　“I　was　only　kidding。　Let’s　get　back　to　it。”

　　SEVEN

　　Quite　often；　particularly　if　you　are　helping　them　write　a　memoir　or　autobiography；　the　author　will　dissolve　into　tears　when　telling　the　story…Your　job　under　these　circumstances　is　to　pass　the　tissues；　keep　quiet　and　keep　recording。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　“WERE　YOUR　PARENTS　ATall　political？”

　　We　were　once　again　in　the　study；　in　our　usual　positions。　He　was　sprawled　out　in　the　armchair；　still　wearing　his　tracksuit；　the　towel　still　draped　round　his　neck。　He　exuded　a　faint　aroma　of　sweat。　I　sat　opposite　with　my　notebook　and　list　of　questions。　The　minirecorder　was　on　the　desk　beside　me。

　　“Not　at　all；　no。　I’m　not　sure　my　father　even　voted。　He　said　they　were　all　as　bad　as　one　another。”

　　“Tell　me　about　him。”

　　“He　was　a　builder。　Self…employed。　He　was　in　his　fifties　when　he　met　my　mother。　He’d　already　got　two　teenage　sons　by　his　first　wife—she’d　run　off　and　left　him　some　while　before。　Mum　was　a　teacher；　twenty　years　younger　than　him。　Very　pretty；　very　shy。　The　story　was　he　came　to　do　some　repair　work　on　the　school　roof；　and　they　got　talking；　and　one　thing　led　to　another；　and　they　got　married。　He　built　them　a　house　and　the　four　of　them　moved　in。　I　came　along　the　following　year；　which　was　a　shock　to　him；　I　think。”

　　“Why？”

　　“He　thought　he　was　through　with　babies。”

　　“I　get　the　impression；　reading　what’s　already　been　written；　that　you　weren’t　that　close　to　him。”

　　Lang　took　his　time　before　answering。　“He　died　when　I　was　sixteen。　He’d　already　retired　by　then；　because　of　bad　health；　and　my　stepbrothers　had　grown　up；　married；　moved　out。　And　so　that　was　the　only　time　I　remember　him　being　around　a　lot。　I　was　just　getting　to　know　him；　really；　when　he　had　his　heart　attack。　I　mean；　I　got　on　all　right　with　him。　But　if　you’re　saying　was　I　closer　to　my　mother—then　yes；　obviously。”

　　“And　your　stepbrothers？　Were　you　close　to　them？”

　　“God；　no！”　For　the　first　time　since　lunch；　Lang　gave　a　shout　of　laughter。　“Actually；　you’d　better　scrub　that。　We　can　leave　them　out；　can’t　we？”

　　“It’s　your　book。”

　　“Leave　them　out；　then。　They　both　went　into　the　building　trade；　and　neither　of　them　ever　missed　an　opportunity　to　tell　the　press　they　wouldn’t　be　voting　for　me。　I　haven’t　seen　them　for　years。　They　must　be　about　seventy　now。”

　　“How　exactly　did　he　die？”

　　“Sorry？”

　　“Your　father。　I　wondered　how　he　died。　Where　did　he　die？”

　　“Oh。　In　the　garden。　Trying　to　move　a　paving　slab　that　was　too　heavy　for　him。　Old　habits—”　He　looked　at　his　watch。

　　“Who　found　him？”

　　“I　did。”

　　“Could　you　describe　that？”　It　was　hard　going；　far　harder　than　the　morning　session。

　　“I’d　just　come　home　from　school。　It　was　a　really　beautiful　spring　day；　I　remember。　Mum　was　out　doing　something　for　one　of　her　charities。　I　got　a　drink　from　the　kitchen　and　went　out　into　the　back　garden；　still　in　my　school　uniform；　thinking　I’d　kick　a　ball　around　or　something。　And　there　he　was；　in　the　middle　of　the　lawn。　Just　a　graze　on　his　face　where　he’d　fallen。　The　doctors　told　us　he　was　probably　dead　before　he　hit　the　ground。　But　I　suspect　they　always　say　that；　to　make　it　easier　for　the　family。　Who　knows？　It　can’t　be　an　easy　thing；　can　it—dying？”

　　“And　your　mother？”

　　“Don’t　all　sons　think　their　mothers　are　saints？”　He　looked　at　me　for　confirmation。　“Well；　mine　was。　She　gave　up　teaching　when　I　was　born；　and　there　was　nothing　she　wouldn’t　do　for　anyone。　She　came　from　a　very　strong　Quaker　family。　Completely　selfless。　She　was　so　proud　when　I　got　into　Cambridge；　even　though　it　meant　she　was　left　alone。　She　never　once　let　on　how　ill　she　was—didn’t　want　to　spoil　my　time　there；　especially　when　I　started　acting　and　was　so　busy。　That　was　typical　of　her。　I’d　no　idea　how　bad　things　were　until　the　end　of　my　second　year。”

　　“Tell　me　about　that。”

　　“Right。”　Lang　cleared　his　throat。　“God。　I　knew　she　hadn’t　been　well；　but…you　know；　when　you’re　nineteen；　you　don’t　take　much　notice　of　anything　apart　from　yourself。　I　was　in　Footlights。　I　had　a　couple　of　girlfriends。　Cambridge　was　paradise　for　me。　I　used　to　call　her　once　a　week；　every　Sunday　night；　and　she　always　sounded　fine；　even　though　she　was　living　on　her　own。　Then　I　got　home　and　she　was…I　was　shocked…she　was…a　skeleton　basically—there　was　a　tumor　on　her　liver。　I　mean；　maybe　now　they　could　do　something；　but　then…”　He　made　a　helpless　gesture。　“She　was　dead　in　a　month。”

　　“What　did　you　do？”

　　“I　went　back　to　Cambridge　at　the　start　of　my　final　year　and　I…I　lost　myself　in　life；　I　suppose　you　could　say。”

　　He　was　silent。

　　“I　had　a　similar　experience；”　I　said。

　　“Really？”　His　tone　was　expressionless。　He　was　looking　out　at　the　ocean；　at　the　Atlantic　breakers　rolling　in；　his　thoughts　seemingly　far　away　over　the　horizon。

　　“Yes。”　I　don’t　normally　talk　about　myself　in　a　professional　situation；　or　in　any　situation；　for　that　matter。　But　sometimes　a　little　self…revelation　can　help　to　draw　a　client　out。　“I　lost　my　parents　at　about　that　age。　And　didn’t　you　find；　in　a　strange　way；　despite　all　the　sadness；　that　it　made　you　stronger？”

　　“Stronger？”　He　turned　away　from　the　window　and　frowned　at　me。

　　“In　the　sense　of　being　self…reliant。　Knowing　that　the　worst　thing　that　could　possibly　happen　to　you　had　happened；　and　you’d　survived　it。　That　you　could　function　on　your　own。”

　　“You　may　be　right。　I’ve　never　really　thought　about　it。　At　least　not　until　just　lately。　It’s　strange。　Shall　I　tell　you　something？”　He　leaned　forward。　“I　saw　two　dead　bodies　when　I　was　in　my　teens　and　then—despite　being　prime　minister；　with　all　that　entails：　having　to　order　men　into　battle　and　visit　the　scene　of　bomb　blasts　and　what　have　you—I　didn’t　see　another　corpse　for　thirty…five　years。”

　　“And　who　was　that？”　I　asked　stupidly。

　　“Mike　McAra。”

　　“Couldn’t　you　have　sent　one　of　the　policemen　to　identify　him？”

　　“No。”　He　shook　his　head。　“No；　I　couldn’t。　I　owed　him　that；　at　least。”　He　paused　again；　then　abruptly　grabbed　his　towel　and　rubbed　his　face。　“This　is　a　morbid　conversation；”　he　declared。　“Let’s　change　the　subject。”

　　I　looked　down　at　my　list　of　questions。　There　was　a　lot　I　wanted　to　ask　him　about　McAra。　It　was　not　that　I　intended　to　use　it　in　the　book；　necessarily；　even　I　recognized　that　a　postresignation　trip　to　the　morgue　to　identify　an　aide’s　body　was　hardly　going　to　sit　well　in　a　chapter　entitled　“A　Future　of　Hope。”　It　was　rather　to　satisfy　my　own　curiosity。　But　I　also　knew　I　didn’t　have　the　time　to　indulge　myself；　I　had　to　press　on。　And　so　I　did　as　he　requested　and　changed　the　subject。

　　“Cambridge；”　I　said。　“Let’s　talk　about　that。”

　　I’d　always　expected　that　the　Cambridge　years；　from　my　point　of　view；　were　going　to　be　the　easiest　part　of　the　book　to　write。　I’d　been　a　student　there　myself；　not　long　after　Lang；　and　the　place　hadn’t　changed　much。　It　never　changed　much：　that　was　its　charm。　I　could　do　all　the　clichés—bikes；　scarves；　gowns；　punts；　cakes；　gas　fires；　choirboys；　riverside　pubs；　porters　in　bowler　hats；　fenland　winds；　narrow　streets；　the　thrill　of　walking　on　stones　once　trodden　by　Newton　and　Darwin；　etc。；　etc。　And　it　was　just　as　well；　I　thought；　looking　at　the　manuscript；　because　once　again　my　memories　would　have　to　stand　in　for　Lang’s。　He　had　gone　up　to　read　economics；　briefly　played　football　for　his　college’s　second　eleven；　and　had　won　a　reputation　as　a　student　actor。　Yet　although　McAra　had　dutifully　assembled　a　list　of　every　production　the　ex–prime　minister　had　ever　appeared　in；　and　even　quoted　from　a　few　of　the　revue　sketches　Lang　had　performed　for　Footlights；　there　was—again—something　thin　and　rushed　about　it　all。

　　What　was　missing　was　passion。　Naturally；　I　blamed　it　on　McAra。　I　could　well　imagine　how　little　sympathy　that　stern　party　functionary　would　have　had　with　all　these　dilettantes　and　their　adolescent　posturings　in　bad　productions　of　Brecht　and　Ionescu。　But　Lang　himself　seemed　oddly　evasive　about　the　whole　period。

　　“It’s　so　long　ago；”　he　said。　“I　can　hardly　remember　anything　about　it。　I　wasn’t　much　good；　to　be　honest。　Acting　was　basically　an　opportunity　to　meet　girls—don’t　put　that　in；　by　the　way。”

　　“But　youwere　very　good；”　I　protested。　“When　I　was　in　London　I　read　interviews　with　people　who　said　you　were　good　enough　to　become　a　professional。”

　　“I　suppose　I　wouldn’t　have　minded；”　Lang　conceded；　“at　one　stage。　Except　you　don’t　change　things　by　being　an　actor。　Only　politicians　can　do　that。”　He