The Ghost(英文版)-第3章
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smudge。 I squinted more closely at him。 He looked exactly the sort of unappealing inadequate who is congenitally drawn to politics and makes people like me stick to the sports pages。 You’ll find a McAra in any country； in any system； standing behind any leader with a political machine to operate： a greasy engineer in the boiler room of power。 And this was the man who had been entrusted to ghost a ten…million…dollar memoir？ I felt professionally affronted。 I bought myself a small pile of research material and headed out of the bookshop with a growing conviction that maybe Rick was right： perhaps I was the man for the job。
It was obvious the moment I got outside that another bomb had gone off。 At Tottenham Court Road people were surging up above ground from all four exits of the tube station like storm water from a blocked drain。 A loudspeaker said something about “an incident at Oxford Circus。” It sounded like an edgy romantic comedy：Brief Encounter meets the war on terror。 I carried on up the road； unsure of how I would get home—taxis； like false friends； tending always to vanish at the first sign of trouble。 In the window of one of the big electrical shops； the crowd watched the same news bulletin relayed simultaneously on a dozen televisions： aerial shots of Oxford Circus； black smoke gushing out of the underground station； thrusts of orange flame。 An electronic ticker running across the bottom of the screen announced a suspected suicide bomber； many dead and injured； and gave an emergency number to call。 Above the rooftops a helicopter tilted and circled。 I could smell the smoke—an acrid； eye…reddening blend of diesel and burning plastic。
It took me two full hours to walk home； lugging my heavy bag of books—up to Marylebone Road and then westward toward Paddington。 As usual； the entire tube system had been shut down to check for further bombs； so had the main railway stations。 The traffic on either side of the wide street was stalled and； on past form； would remain so until evening。 （If only Hitler had known he didn’t need a whole air force to paralyze London； I thought； just a revved…up teenager with a bottle of bleach and a bag of weed killer。） Occasionally a police car or an ambulance would mount the curb； roar along the pavement； and attempt to make progress up a side street。
I trudged on toward the setting sun。
It must have been six when I reached my flat。 I had the top two floors of a high； stuccoed house in what the residents called Notting Hill and the post office stubbornly insisted was North Kensington。 Used syringes glittered in the gutter； at the halal butchers opposite they did the slaughtering on the premises。 It was grim。 But from the attic extension that served as my office I had a view across west London that would not have disgraced a skyscraper： rooftops； railway yards； motorway； and sky—a vast urban prairie sky； sprinkled with the lights of aircraft descending toward Heathrow。 It was this view that had sold me the apartment； not the estate agent’s gentrification patter—which was just as well； as the rich bourgeoisie have no more returned to this area than they have to downtown Baghdad。
Kate had already let herself in and was watching the news。 Kate： I had forgotten she was coming over for the evening。 She was my—？ I never knew what to call her。 To say she was my girlfriend was absurd； no one the wrong side of thirty has agirlfriend 。 Partner wasn’t right either； as we didn’t live under the same roof。 Lover？ How could one keep a straight face？ Mistress？ Do me a favor。 Fiancée？ Certainly not。 I suppose I ought to have realized it was ominous that forty thousand years of human language had failed to produce a word for our relationship。 （Kate wasn’t her real name； by the way； but I don’t see why she should be dragged into all this。 In any case； it suits her better than the name she does have： she looks like a Kate； if you know what I mean—sensible but sassy； girlish but always willing to be one of the boys。 She worked in television； but let’s not hold that against her。）
“Thanks for the concerned phone call；” I said。 “I’m dead； actually； but don’t worry about it。” I kissed the top of her head； dropped the books onto the sofa； and went into the kitchen to pour myself a whiskey。 “The entire tube is down。 I’ve had to walk all the way from Covent Garden。”
“Poor darling；” I heard her say。 “And you’ve been shopping。”
I topped up my glass with water from the tap； drank half； then topped it up again with whiskey。 I remembered I was supposed to have reserved a restaurant。 When I went back into the living room； she was removing one book after another from the carrier bag。 “What’s all this？” she said； looking up at me。 “You’re not interested inpolitics 。” And then she realized what was going on； because she was smart—smarter than I was。 She knew what I did for a living； she knew I was meeting an agent； and she knew all about McAra。 “Don’t tell me they wantyou to ghost his book？” She laughed。 “You cannot be serious。” She tried to make a joke of it—“Youcannot be serious” in an American accent； like that tennis player a few years ago—but I could see her dismay。 She hated Lang； felt personally betrayed by him。 She used to be a party member。 I had forgotten that； too。
“It’ll probably come to nothing；” I said and drank some more whiskey。
She went back to watching the news； only now with her arms tightly folded； always a warning sign。 The ticker announced that the death toll was seven and likely to rise。
“But if you’re offered it you’ll do it？” she asked； without turning to look at me。
I was spared having to reply by the newsreader announcing that they were cutting live to New York to get the reaction of the former prime minister； and suddenly there was Adam Lang； at a podium marked “Waldorf…Astoria；” where it looked as though he had been addressing a lunch。 “You will all by now have heard the tragic news from London；” he said； “where once again the forces of fanaticism and intolerance…”
Nothing he uttered that night warrants reprinting。 It was almost a parody of what a politician might say after a terrorist attack。 Yet； watching him； you would have thought his own wife and children had been eviscerated in the blast。 This was his genius： to refresh and elevate the clichés of politics by the sheer force of his performance。 Even Kate was briefly silenced。 Only when he had finished and his largely female； mostly elderly audience was rising to applaud did she mutter； “What’s he doing in New York； anyway？”
“Lecturing？”
“Why can’t he lecture here？”
“I suppose because no one here would pay him a hundred thousand dollars a throw。”
She pressed Mute。
“There was a time；” said Kate slowly； after what felt like a very long silence； “when princes taking their countries to war were supposed to risk their lives in battle—you know； lead by example。 Now they travel around in bombproof cars with armed bodyguards and make fortunes three thousand miles away； while the rest of us are stuck with the consequences of their actions。 I just don’t understand you；” she went on； turning to look at me properly for the first time。 “All the things I’ve said about him over the past few years—‘war criminal’ and the rest of it—and you’ve sat there nodding and agreeing。 And now you’re going to write his propaganda for him； and make him richer。 Did none of it ever mean anything to you at all？”
“Hold on a minute；” I said。 “You’re a fine one to talk。 You’ve been trying to get an interview with him for months。 What’s the difference？”
“What’s the difference？ Christ！” She clenched her hands—those slim white hands I knew so well—and raised them in frustration； half claw； half fist。 The sinews stood out in her arms。 “What’s the difference？We want to hold him to account—that’s the difference！ To ask him proper questions！ About torturing and bombing and lying！ Not ‘How does it feel？’Christ！ This is a complete bloody waste of time。”
She got up then and went into the bedroom to collect the bag she always brought on the nights she pl
