The Ghost(英文版)- 第27部分

　　Put　in　those　terms；　it　wasn’t　a　choice。　I　steeled　myself　to　ignore　both　McAra’s　lingering　traces　in　the　room　and　Ruth’s　more　corporeal　presence　next　door。　I　took　the　manuscript　from　its　box　and　placed　it　on　the　table　next　to　the　window；　opened　my　shoulder　bag；　and　took　out　my　laptop　and　the　transcripts　from　yesterday’s　interviews。　There　wasn’t　a　lot　of　room　to　work；　but　that　didn’t　bother　me。　Of　all　human　activities；　writing　is　the　one　for　which　it　is　easiest　to　find　excuses　not　to　begin—the　desk’s　too　big；　the　desk’s　too　small；　there’s　too　much　noise；　there’s　too　much　quiet；　it’s　too　hot；　too　cold；　too　early；　too　late。　I　had　learned　over　the　years　to　ignore　them　all　and　simply　to　start。　I　plugged　in　my　laptop；　switched　on　the　lamp；　and　contemplated　the　blank　screen　and　its　pulsing　cursor。

　　A　book　unwritten　is　a　delightful　universe　of　infinite　possibilities。　Set　down　one　word；　however；　and　immediately　it　becomes　earthbound。　Set　down　one　sentence　and　it’s　halfway　to　being　just　like　every　other　bloody　book　that’s　ever　been　written。　But　the　best　must　never　be　allowed　to　drive　out　the　good。　In　the　absence　of　genius　there　is　always　craftsmanship。　One　can　at　least　try　to　write　something　that　will　arrest　the　readers’　attention；　that　will　encourage　them；　after　reading　the　first　paragraph；　to　take　a　look　at　the　second；　and　then　the　third。　I　picked　up　McAra’s　manuscript　to　remind　myself　of　how　not　to　begin　a　ten…million…dollar　autobiography：

　　CHAPTERONE

　　Early　Years

　　Langs　are　Scottish　folk　originally；　and　proud　of　it。　Our　name　is　a　derivation　of　“long；”　the　Old　English　word　for　“tall；”　and　it　is　from　north　of　the　border　that　my　forefathers　hail。　It　was　in　the　sixteenth　century　that　the　first　of　the　Langs…

　　God　help　us！　I　ran　my　pen　through　it；　and　then　zigzagged　a　thick　blue　line　through　all　the　succeeding　paragraphs　of　Lang　ancestral　history。　If　you　want　a　family　tree；　go　to　a　garden　center—that’s　what　I　advise　my　clients。　Nobody　else　is　interested。　Maddox’s　instruction　was　to　begin　the　book　with　the　war　crimes　allegations；　which　was　fine　by　me；　although　it　could　serve　only　as　a　kind　of　long　prologue。　At　some　point；　the　memoir　proper　would　have　to　begin；　and　for　this　I　wanted　to　find　a　fresh　and　original　note；　something　that　would　make　Lang　sound　like　a　normal　human　being。　The　fact　that　he　wasn’t　a　normal　human　being　was　neither　here　nor　there。

　　From　Ruth　Lang’s　room　came　the　sound　of　footsteps；　and　then　her　door　opened　and　closed。　I　thought　at　first　she　might　be　coming　to　investigate　who　was　moving　around　next　door；　but　instead　I　heard　her　walking　away。　I　put　down　McAra’s　manuscript　and　turned　my　attention　to　the　interview　transcripts。　I　knew　what　I　wanted。　It　was　there　in　our　first　session：

　　I　remember　it　was　a　Sunday　afternoon。　Raining。　I　was　still　in　bed。　And　someone　starts　knocking　on　the　door…

　　If　I　tidied　up　the　grammar；　the　account　of　how　Ruth　had　canvassed　Lang　for　the　local　elections　and　so　drawn　him　into　politics　would　make　a　perfect　opening。　Yet　McAra；　with　his　characteristic　tone　deafness　for　anything　of　human　interest；　had　failed　even　to　mention　it。　I　rested　my　fingers　on　the　keys　of　my　laptop；　then　started　to　type：

　　CHAPTERONE

　　Early　Years

　　I　became　a　politician　out　of　love。　Not　love　for　any　particular　party　or　ideology；　but　love　for　a　woman　who　came　knocking　on　my　door　one　wet　Sunday　afternoon…

　　You　may　object　that　this　was　corny；　but　don’t　forget　（A）　that　corn　sells　by　the　ton；　（B）　that　I　had　only　two　weeks　to　rework　an　entire　manuscript；　and　（C）　that　it　sure　as　hell　was　a　lot　better　than　starting　with　the　derivation　of　the　name　Lang。　I　was　soon　rattling　away　as　fast　as　my　two…finger　typing　would　permit　me：

　　She　was　wringing　wet　from　the　pouring　rain；　but　she　didn’t　seem　to　notice。　Instead；　she　launched　into　a　passionate　speech　about　the　local　elections。　Until　that　point；　I’m　ashamed　to　say；　I　didn’t　even　know　there　were　any　local　elections；　but　I　had　the　good　sense　to　pretend　that　I　did…

　　I　looked　up。　Through　the　window　I　could　see　Ruth　marching　determinedly　across　the　dunes；　into　the　wind；　on　yet　another　of　her　brooding；　solitary　walks；　with　only　her　trailing　bodyguard　for　company。　I　watched　till　she　was　out　of　sight；　then　went　back　to　my　work。

　　I　CARRIED　ON　FORa　couple　of　hours；　until　about　one　o’clock　or　so；　and　then　I　heard　a　very　light　tapping　of　fingertips　on　wood。　It　made　me　jump。

　　“Mister？”　came　a　timid　female　voice。　“Sir？　You　want　lunch？”

　　I　opened　the　door　to　find　Dep；　the　Vietnamese　housekeeper；　in　her　black　silk　uniform。　She　was　about　fifty；　as　tiny　as　a　bird。　I　felt　that　if　I　sneezed　I　would　have　blown　her　from　one　end　of　the　house　to　the　other。

　　“That　would　be　very　nice。　Thanks。”

　　“Here；　or　in　kitchen？”

　　“The　kitchen　would　be　great。”

　　After　she’d　shuffled　away　on　her　slippered　feet；　I　turned　to　face　my　room。　I　knew　I　couldn’t　put　it　off　any　longer。　Treat　it　like　writing；　I　said　to　myself：　go　for　it。　I　unzipped　my　suitcase　and　laid　it　on　the　bed。　Then；　taking　a　deep　breath；　I　slid　open　the　doors　to　the　closet　and　began　removing　McAra’s　clothes　from　their　hangers；　piling　them　over　my　arm—cheap　shirts；　off…the…peg　jackets；　chain　store　trousers；　and　the　sort　of　ties　you　buy　at　the　airport：　nothing　handmade　inyour　wardrobe；　was　there；　Mike？　He　had　been　a　big　fellow；　I　realized；　as　I　felt　all　those　supersize　collars　and　great；　hooped　waistbands：　much　larger　than　I　am。　And；　of　course；　it　was　exactly　as　I’d　dreaded：　the　feel　of　the　unfamiliar　fabric；　even　the　clatter　of　the　metal　hangers　on　their　chrome…plated　rail；　was　enough　to　breach　the　barrier　of　a　quarter　of　a　century’s　careful　defenses　and　plunge　me　straight　back　into　my　parents’　bedroom；　which　I’d　steeled　myself　to　clear　three　months　after　my　mother’s　funeral。

　　It’s　the　possessions　of　the　dead　that　always　get　to　me。　Is　there　anything　sadder　than　the　clutter　they　leave　behind？　Who　says　that　all　that’s　left　of　us　is　love？　All　that　was　left　of　McAra　wasstuff　。　I　heaped　it　over　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