The Ghost(英文版)- 第19部分

　　“Good　idea。　I’ll　call　Sid　now。　In　the　meantime；　I　want　you　to　accelerate　the　timetable。”

　　“Accelerate？”　In　the　empty　room　my　voice　sounded　thin　and　hollow。

　　“Sure。　Accelerate。　As　in　speed　things　up。　Right　at　this　moment；　Lang　is　hot。　People　are　starting　to　get　interested　in　him　again。　We　can’t　afford　to　let　this　opportunity　slip。”

　　“Are　you　now　saying　you　want　the　book　inless　than　a　month？”

　　“I　know　it’s　tough。　And　it’ll　probably　mean　settling　for　just　a　polish　on　a　lot　of　the　manuscript　rather　than　a　total　rewrite。　But　what　the　hell。　No　one’s　going　to　read　most　of　that　stuff　anyway。　The　earlier　we　go；　the　more　we’ll　sell。　Think　you　can　do　it？”

　　No；　was　the　answer。　No；　you　bald…headed　bastard；　you　psychopathic　prick—have　you　seriously　read　this　junk？　You　must　be　out　of　your　fucking　mind。　“Well；　John；”　I　said　mildly；　“I　can　try。”

　　“Good　man。　And　don’t　worry　about　your　own　deal。　We’ll　pay　you　just　as　much　for　two　weeks’　work　as　we　would　for　four。　I　tell　you；　if　this　war　crimes　thing　comes　off；　it　could　be　the　answer　to　our　prayers。”

　　By　the　time　he　hung　up；　two　weeks　had　somehow　ceased　to　be　a　figure　plucked　at　random　from　the　air　and　had　become　a　firm　deadline。　I　would　no　longer　conduct　forty　hours　of　interviews　with　Lang；　ranging　over　his　whole　life。　I　would　get　him　to　focus　specifically　on　the　war　on　terror；　and　we　would　begin　the　memoir　with　that。　The　rest　I　would　do　my　best　to　improve；　rewriting　where　I　could。

　　“What　if　Adam　isn’t　keen　on　this？”　I　asked；　in　what　proved　to　be　our　final　exchange。

　　“He　will　be；”　said　Maddox。　“And　if　he　isn’t；　then　you　can　just　remindAdam　”—his　tone　implied　we　were　just　a　pair　of　faggoty　Englishmen—“of　his　contractual　obligation　to　produce　a　book　that　gives　us　a　full　and　frank　account　of　the　war　on　terror。　I’m　relying　on　you。　Okay？”

　　It’s　a　melancholy　place　to　be；　a　solarium　when　there’s　no　sun。　I　could　see　the　gardener　in　exactly　the　same　spot　where　he　had　been　working　the　day　before；　stiff　and　clumsy　in　his　thick　outdoor　clothes；　still　piling　leaves　in　his　wheelbarrow。　No　sooner　had　he　cleared　away　one　lot　of　detritus　than　the　wind　blew　in　more。　I　permitted　myself　a　brief　moment　of　despair；　leaning　against　the　wall；　my　head　tilted　to　the　ceiling；　pondering　the　fleeting　nature　of　summer　days　and　of　human　happiness。　I　tried　to　call　Rick；　but　his　assistant　said　he　was　out　for　the　afternoon；　so　I　left　a　message　asking　him　to　ring　me　back。　Then　I　went　in　search　of　Amelia。

　　She　wasn’t　in　the　office；　where　the　secretaries　were　still　fielding　calls；　or　the　passage；　or　the　kitchen。　To　my　surprise；　one　of　the　policemen　told　me　she　was　outside。　It　must　have　been　after　four　by　now　and　getting　cold。　She　was　standing　in　the　turning　circle　in　front　of　the　house。　In　the　January　gloom；　the　tip　of　her　cigarette　glowed　bright　red　as　she　inhaled；　then　faded　to　nothing。

　　“I　wouldn’t　have　guessed　you　were　a　smoker；”　I　said。

　　“I　only　ever　allow　myself　one。　And　then　only　at　times　of　great　stress　or　great　contentment。”

　　“Which　is　this？”

　　“Very　funny。”

　　She　had　buttoned　her　jacket　against　the　chilly　dusk　and　was　smoking　in　that　curious　noli　me　tangere　way　that　a　certain　kind　of　woman　does；　with　one　arm　held　loosely　against　her　waist　and　the　other—the　one　with　the　hand　holding　the　cigarette—slanted　across　her　breast。　The　fragrant　smell　of　the　burning　tobacco　in　the　open　air　made　me　crave　a　cigarette　myself。　It　would　have　been　my　first　in　more　than　a　decade；　and　it　would　have　started　me　back　on　forty　a　day　for　sure；　but　still；　at　that　moment；　if　she’d　offered　me　one；　I　would　have　taken　it。

　　She　didn’t。

　　“John　Maddox　just　called；”　I　said。　“Now　he　wants　the　book　in　two　weeks　instead　of　four。”

　　“Christ。　Good　luck。”

　　“I　don’t　suppose　there’s　the　faintest　chance　of　my　sitting　down　with　Adam　for　another　interview　today；　is　there？”

　　“What　do　you　think？”

　　“In　that　case；　could　I　have　a　lift　back　to　my　hotel？　I’ll　do　some　work　there　instead。”

　　She　exhaled　smoke　through　her　nose　and　scrutinized　me。　“You’re　not　planning　to　take　that　manuscript　out　of　here；　are　you？”

　　“Of　course　not！”　My　voice　always　rises　an　octave　when　I　tell　a　lie。　I　could　never　have　become　a　politician：　I’d　have　sounded　like　Donald　Duck。　“I　just　want　to　write　up　what　we　did　today；　that’s　all。”

　　“Because　you　do　realize　how　serious　this　is　getting；　don’t　you？”

　　“Of　course。　You　can　check　my　laptop　if　you　want。”

　　She　paused　just　long　enough　to　convey　her　suspicion。　“All　right；”　she　said；　finishing　her　cigarette。　“I’ll　trust　you。”　She　dropped　the　stub　and　extinguished　it　delicately　with　the　pointed　toe　of　her　shoe；　then　stooped　and　retrieved　it。　I　imagined　her　at　school；　similarly　removing　the　evidence：　the　head　girl　who　was　never　caught　smoking。　“Collect　your　stuff。　I’ll　get　one　of　the　boys　to　take　you　into　Edgartown。”

　　We　walked　back　into　the　house　and　parted　in　the　corridor。　She　headed　back　to　the　ringing　telephones。　I　climbed　the　stairs　to　the　study；　and　as　I　came　closer；　I　could　hear　Ruth　and　Adam　Lang　shouting　at　one　another。　Their　voices　were　muffled；　and　the　only　words　I　heard　distinctly　came　at　the　tail　end　of　her　final　rant：　“…spending　the　rest　of　my　bloody　life　here！”　The　door　was　ajar。　I　hesitated。　I　didn’t　want　to　interrupt；　but　on　the　other　hand　I　didn’t　want　to　hang　around　and　be　caught　looking　as　if　I　were　eavesdropping。　In　the　end　I　knocked　lightly；　and　after　a　pause　I　heard　Lang　say　wearily；　“Come。”

　　He　was　sitting　at　the　desk。　His　wife　was　at　the　other　end　of　the　room。　They　were　both　breathing　heavily；　and　I　sensed　that　something　momentous—some　long…pent…up　explosion—had　just　occurred。　I　could　understand　now　why　Amelia　had　fled　outside　to　smoke。

　　“Sorry　to　interrupt；”　I　said；　gesturing　toward　my　belongings。　“I　wanted　to—”

　　“Fine；”　said　Lang。

　　“I’m　going　to　call　the　children；”　said　Ruth　bitterly。　“Unless　of　course　you’ve　already　done　it？”

　　Lang　didn’t　look　at　her；　he　looked　at　me。　And；　oh；　what　layers　of　meaning　there　were　to　be　read　in　those　glaucous　eyes！　He　invited　me；　in　that　long　instant；　to　see　what　had　become　of　him：　stripped　of　his　power；　abused　by　his　enemies；　hunted；　homesick；　trapped　between　his　wife　and　mistress。　You　could　write　a　hundred　pages　about　that　one　brief　look　and　still　not　get　to　the　end　of　it。

　　“Excuse　me；”　said　Ruth　and　pushed　past　me　quite　roughly；　her　small；　hard　body　banging　into　mine。　At　the　same　moment；　Amelia　appeared　in　the　doorway；　holding　a　telephone。

　　“Adam；”　she　said；　“it’s　the　White　House。　They　have　the　president　of　the　United　States　on　the　line　for　you。”　She　smiled　at　me　and　ushered　me　toward　the　door。　“Would　you　mind？　We　need　the　room。”

　　IT　WAS　PRETTY　WELLdark　by　the　time　I　got　back　to　the　hotel。　There　was　just　enough　light　in　the　sky　to　show　up　the　big；　black　storm　clouds　massing　over　Chappaquiddick；　rolling　in　from　the　Atlantic。　The　girl　in　reception；　in　her　little　lace　mobcap；　said　there　was　a　run　of　bad　weather　on　the　way。

　　I　went　up　to　my　room　and　stood　in　the　shadows　for　a　while；　listening　to　the　creaking　of　the　old　inn　sign　and　the　relentlessboom…hiss；　boom…hiss　of　the　surf　beyond　the　empty　road。　The　lighthouse　switched　itself　on　at　the　precise　moment　when　the　beam　was　pointing　directly　at　the　hotel；　and　the　sudden　eruption　of　red　into　the　room　jerked　me　out　of　my　reverie。　I　turned　on　the　desk　lamp　and　took　my　laptop　out　of　my　shoulder　bag。　We　had　traveled　a　long　way　together；　that　laptop　and　I。　We　had　endured　rock　stars　who　believed　themselves　messiahs　with　a　mission　to　save　the　planet。　We　had　survived　footballers　whose　monosyllabic　grunts　would　make　a　silverback　gorilla　sound　as　if　he　were　reciting　Shakespeare。　We　had　put　up　with　soon…to…be…forgotten　actors　who　had　egos　the　size　of　a　Roman　emperor’s；　and　entourages　to　match。　I　gave　the　machine　a　comradely　pat。　Its　once　shiny　metal　case　was　scratched　and　dented：　the　honorable　wounds　of　a　dozen　campaigns。　We　had　got　through　those。　We　would　somehow　get　through　even　this。

　　I　hooked　it　up　to　the　hotel　telephone；　dialed　my　internet　service　provider；　and；　while　the　connection　was　going　through；　went　into　the　bathroom　for　a　glass　of　water。　The　face　that　stared　back　at　me　from　the　mirror　was　a　deterioration　even　on　the　specter　of　the　previous　evening。　I　pulled　down　my　lower　eyelids　and　examined　the　yolky　whites　of　my　eyes；　before　moving　on　to　the　graying　teeth　and　hair；　and　the　red　filigrees　of　my　cheeks　and　nose。　Martha’s　Vineyard　in　midwinter　seemed　to　be　aging　me。　It　was　Shangri…La　in　reverse。

　　From　the　other　room　I　heard　the　familiar　announcement：　“You　have　email。”

　　I　saw　at　once　that　something　was　wrong。　There　was　the　usual　queue　of　a　dozen　junk　messages；　offering　me　everything　from　penis　enlargement　to　theWall　Street　Journal　；　plus　an　email　from　Rick’s　office　confirming　the　payment　of　the　first　part　of　the　advance。　Just　about　the　only　thing　that　wasn’t　listed　was　the　email　I　had　sent　myself　that　afternoon。

　　For　a　few　moments；　I　stared　stupidly　at　the　screen；　then　I　opened　the　separate　filing　cabinet　on　the　laptop’s　hard　drive　that　automatically　stores　every　piece　of　email；　incoming　and　outgoing。　And　there；　sure　enough；　to　my　immense　relief；　at　the　top　of　the　“Email　you　have　sent”　queue　was　one　titled　“no　subject；”　to　which　I　had　attached　the　manuscript　of　Adam　Lang’s　memoirs。　But　when　I　opened　the　blank　email　and　clicked　on　the　box　labeled　“download；”　all　I　received　was　a　message　saying；　“That　file　is　not　currently　available。”　I　tried　a　few　more　times；　always　with　the　same　result。

　　I　took　out　my　mobile　and　called　the　internet　company。

　　I　shall　spare　you　a　full　account　of　the　sweaty　half　hour　that　followed—the　endless　selecting　from　lists　of　options；　the　queuing；　the　listening　to　Muzak；　the　increasingly　panicky　conversation　with　the　company’s　representative　in　Uttar　Pradesh　or　wherever　the　hell　he　was　speaking　from。

　　The　bottom　line　was　that　the　manuscript　had　vanished；　and　the　company　had　no　record　of　its　ever　having　existed。

　　I　lay　down　on　the　bed。

　　I　am