The Ghost(英文版)-第31部分

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ver　the　armchair；　then　reached　up　to　the　shelf　above　the　clothes　rail　to　pull　down　his　suitcase。　I’d　expected　it　would　be　empty　but；　as　I　took　hold　of　the　handle；　something　slid　around　inside。　Ah；　I　thought。　At　last。　The　secret　document。

　　The　case　was　huge　and　ugly；　made　of　molded　red　plastic；　too　bulky　for　me　to　manage　easily；　and　it　hit　the　floor　with　a　thud。　It　seemed　to　reverberate　through　the　quiet　house。　I　waited　a　moment；　then　gently　laid　the　suitcase　flat　on　the　floor；　knelt　in　front　of　it；　and　pressed　the　catches。　They　flew　up　with　a　loud　and　simultaneous　snap。

　　It　was　the　kind　of　luggage　that　hasn’t　been　made　for　more　than　a　decade；　except　perhaps　in　the　less　fashionable　parts　of　Albania。　Inside　it　had　a　hideously　patterned；　shiny　plastic　lining；　from　which　dangled　frilly　elastic　bands。　The　contents　consisted　of　a　single　large　padded　envelope　addressed　to　M。　McAra　Esq。；　care　of　a　post　office　box　number　in　Vineyard　Haven。　A　label　on　the　back　showed　that　it　had　come　from　the　Adam　Lang　Archive　Centre　in　Cambridge；　England。　I　opened　it　and　pulled　out　a　handful　of　photographs　and　photocopies；　together　with　a　compliments　slip　from　Julia　Crawford…Jones；　PhD；　Director。

　　One　of　the　photographs　I　recognized　at　once：　Lang　in　his　chicken　outfit；　from　the　Footlights　Revue　in　the　early　nineteen　seventies。　There　were　a　dozen　other　production　stills　showing　the　whole　cast；　a　set　of　photographs　of　Lang　punting；　wearing　a　straw　boater　and　a　striped　blazer；　and　three　or　four　of　him　at　a　riverside　picnic；　apparently　taken　on　the　same　day　as　the　punting。　The　photocopies　were　of　various　Footlights　programs　and　theater　reviews　from　Cambridge；　plus　a　lot　of　local　newspaper　reports　of　the　Greater　London　Council　elections　of　May　1977；　and　Lang’s　original　party　membership　card。　It　was　only　when　I　saw　the　date　on　the　card　that　I　rocked　back　on　my　heels。　It　was　from　1975。

　　I　started　to　reexamine　the　package　with　more　care　now；　beginning　with　the　election　stories。　At　first　glance　I　thought　they’d　come　from　the　LondonEvening　Standard　；　but　I　saw　they　were　from　the　news　sheet　of　a　political　party—Lang’s　party—and　that　he　was　actually　pictured　in　a　group　as　an　election　volunteer。　It　was　hard　to　make　him　out　in　the　poorly　reproduced　photocopy。　His　hair　was　long；　his　clothes　were　shabby。　But　that　was　him；　all　right；　one　of　a　team　knocking　on　doors　in　a　council　estate。　“Canvasser：　A。　Lang。”

　　I　was　more　irritated　than　anything。　It　certainly　didn’t　strike　me　as　sinister。　Everybody　tends　to　heighten　his　own　reality。　We　start　with　a　private　fantasy　about　our　lives　and　perhaps　one　day；　for　fun；　we　turn　it　into　an　anecdote。　No　harm　is　done。　Over　the　years；　the　anecdote　is　repeated　so　regularly　it　becomes　accepted　as　a　fact。　Quite　soon；　to　contradict　this　fact　would　be　embarrassing。　In　time；　we　probably　come　to　believe　it　was　true　all　along。　And　by　these　slow　accretions　of　myth；　like　a　coral　reef；　the　historical　record　takes　shape。　I　could　see　how　it　would　have　suited　Lang　to　pretend　he’d　gone　into　politics　only　because　he’d　fancied　a　girl。　It　flattered　him；　by　making　him　look　less　ambitious；　and　it　flattered　her；　by　making　her　look　more　influential　than　she　probably　was。　Audiences　liked　it。　Everyone　was　happy。　But　now　the　question　arose：　what　was　I　supposed　to　do？

　　It’s　not　an　uncommon　dilemma　in　the　ghosting　business；　and　the　etiquette　is　simple：　you　draw　the　discrepancy　to　the　author’s　attention　and　leave　it　up　to　him　to　decide　how　to　resolve　it。　The　collaborator’s　responsibility　is　not　to　insist　on　the　absolute　truth。　If　it　were；　our　end　of　the　publishing　industry　would　collapse　under　the　dead　weight　of　reality。　Just　as　the　beautician　doesn’t　tell　her　client　that　she　has　a　face　like　a　sack　of　toads；　so　the　ghost　doesn’t　confront　the　autobiographer　with　the　fact　that　half　his　treasured　reminiscences　are　false。　Don’t　dictate；　facilitate：　that　is　our　motto。　Obviously；　McAra　had　failed　to　observe　this　sacred　rule。　He　must　have　had　his　suspicions　about　what　he　was　being　told；　ordered　up　a　parcel　of　research　from　the　archives；　and　then　removed　the　ex–prime　minister’s　most　polished　anecdote　from　his　memoirs。　What　an　amateur！　I　could　imagine　how　well　that　must　have　been　received。　No　doubt　it　helped　explain　why　relations　had　become　so　strained。

　　I　turned　my　attention　back　to　the　Cambridge　material。　There　was　a　strange　kind　of　innocence　about　these　faded　jeunesse　dorée；　stranded　in　that　lost　but　happy　valley　that　lay　somewhere　between　the　twin　cultural　peaks　of　hippiedom　and　punk。　Spiritually；　they　looked　far　closer　to　the　sixties　than　the　seventies。　The　girls　had　long　lacy　dresses　in　floral　prints；　with　plunging　necklines；　and　big　straw　hats　to　keep　off　the　sun。　The　men’s　hair　was　as　long　as　the　women’s。　In　the　only　color　picture；　Lang　was　holding　a　bottle　of　champagne　in　one　hand　and　what　looked　very　much　like　a　joint　in　the　other；　a　girl　seemed　to　be　feeding　him　strawberries；　while　in　the　background　a　bare…chested　man　gave　a　thumbs…up。

　　The　biggest　of　the　cast　photographs　showed　eight　young　people　grouped　together　under　a　spotlight；　their　arms　outstretched　as　if　they　had　just　finished　some　show…stopping　song　and　dance　routine　in　a　cabaret。　Lang　was　on　the　far　right…hand　side；　wearing　his　striped　blazer；　a　bow　tie；　and　a　straw　boater。　There　were　two　girls　in　leotards；　fishnet　tights；　and　high　heels：　one　with　short　blonde　hair；　the　other　dark　frizzy　curls；　possibly　a　redhead　（it　was　impossible　to　tell　from　the　monochrome　photo）：　both　pretty。　Two　of　the　men　apart　from　Lang　I　recognized：　one　was　now　a　famous　comedian；　the　other　an　actor。　A　third　man　looked　older　than　the　others：　a　postgraduate　researcher；　perhaps。　Everyone　was　wearing　gloves。

　　Glued　to　the　back　was　a　typed　slip　listing　the　names　of　the　performers；　along　with　their　colleges：

　　G。　W。　Syme　（Caius）；　W。　K。　Innes　（Pembroke）；　A。　Parke　（Newnham）；　P。　Emmett　（St。　John’s）；　A。　D。　Martin　（King’s）；　E。　D。　Vaux　（Christ’s）；　H。　C。　Martineau　（Girton）；　A。　P。　Lang　（Jesus）。

　　There　was　a　copyright　stamp—Cambridge　Evening　News—in　the　bottom　left…hand　corner；　and　scrawled　diagonally　next　to　it　in　blue　ballpoint　was　a　telephone　number；　prefixed　by　the　international　dialing　code。　No　doubt　McAra；　indefatigable　fact　hound　that　he　was；　had　hunted　down　one　of　the　cast；　and　I　wondered　which　of　them　it　was　and　if　he　or　she　could　remember　the　events　depicted　in　the　photographs。　Purely　on　a　whim；　I　took　out　my　mobile　and　dialed　the　number。

　　Instead　of　the　familiar　two…beat　British　ringing　tone；　I　heard　the　single　sustained　note　of　the　American。　I　let　it　ring　for　a　long　while。　Just　as　I　was　about　to　give　in；　a　man　answered；　cautiously。

　　“Richard　Rycart。”

　　The　voice；　with　its　slight　colonial　twang—“Richard　Roicart”—was　unmistakably　that　of　the　former　foreign　secretary。　He　sounded　suspicious。　“Who　is　this？”　he　asked。

　　I　hung　up　at　once。　In　fact；　I　was　so　alarmed　that　I　actually　threw　the　phone　onto　the　bed。　It　lay　there　for　about　thirty　seconds　and　then　started　to　ring。　I　darted　over　and　grabbed　it—the　incoming　number　was　listed　as　“withheld”—and　quickly　switched　it　off。　For　half　a　minute　I　was　too　stunned　to　move。

　　I　told　myself　not　to　rush　to　any　conclusions。　I　didn’t　know　for　certain　that　McAra　had　written　down　the　number；　or　even　rung　it。　I　checked　the　package　to　see　when　it　had　been　dispatched。　It　had　left　the　United　Kingdom　on　January　the　third；　nine　days　before　McAra　died。

　　It　suddenly　seemed　vitally　important　for　me　to　get　every　remaining　trace　of　my　predecessor　out　of　that　room。　Hurriedly；　I　stripped　the　last　of　his　clothes　from　the　closet；　upending　the　drawers　of　socks　and　underpants　into　his　suitcase　（I　remember　he　wore　thick　knee…length　socks　and　baggy　white　Y…fronts：　this　boy　was　old…fashioned　all　the　way　through）。　There　were　no　personal　papers　that　I　could　find—no　diary　or　address　book；　letters；　or　even　books—and　I　presumed　they　must　have　been　taken　away　by　the　police　immediately　after　his　death。　From　the　bathroom　I　removed　his　blue　plastic　disposable　razor；　toothbrush；　comb；　and　the　rest　of　it；　and　then　the　job　was　done：　all　tangible　effects　of　Michael　McAra；　former　aide　to　the　Right　Hono