The Ghost(英文版)-第4章

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　　She　got　up　then　and　went　into　the　bedroom　to　collect　the　bag　she　always　brought　on　the　nights　she　planned　to　stay。　I　heard　her　filling　it　noisily　with　lipstick；　toothbrush；　perfume　spray。　I　knew　if　I　went　in　I　could　retrieve　the　situation。　She　was　probably　expecting　it；　we’d　had　worse　rows。　I’d　have　been　obliged　to　concede　that　she　was　right；　acknowledge　my　unsuitability　for　the　task；　affirm　her　moral　and　intellectual　superiority　in　this　as　in　all　things。　It　needn’t　even　have　been　a　verbal　confession；　a　meaningful　hug　would　probably　have　been　enough　to　get　me　a　suspended　sentence。　But　the　truth　was；　at　that　moment；　given　a　choice　between　an　evening　of　her　smug　left…wing　moralizing　and　the　prospect　of　working　with　a　so…called　war　criminal；　I　preferred　the　war　criminal。　So　I　simply　carried　on　staring　at　the　television。

　　Sometimes　I　have　a　nightmare　in　which　all　the　women　I　have　ever　slept　with　assemble　together。　It’s　a　respectable　rather　than　a　huge　number—were　it　a　drinks　party；　say；　my　living　room　could　accommodate　them　quite　comfortably。　And　if；　God　forbid；　this　gathering　were　ever　to　occur；　Kate　would　be　the　undisputed　guest　of　honor。　She　is　the　one　for　whom　a　chair　would　be　fetched；　who　would　have　her　glass　refilled　by　sympathetic　hands；　who　would　sit　at　the　center　of　a　disbelieving　circle　as　my　moral　and　physical　flaws　were　dissected。　She　was　the　one　who　had　stuck　it　the　longest。

　　She　didn’t　slam　the　door　as　she　left　but　closed　it　very　carefully。　That　was　stylish；　I　thought。　On　the　television　screen　the　death　toll　had　just　increased　to　eight。

　　TWO

　　A　ghost　who　has　only　a　lay　knowledge　of　the　subject　will　be　able　to　keep　asking　the　same　questions　as　the　lay　reader；　and　will　therefore　open　up　the　potential　readership　of　the　book　to　a　much　wider　audience。

　　Ghostwritin　g

　　RHINEHART　PUBLISHING　UK　CONSISTEDof　five　ancient　firms　acquired　during　a　vigorous　bout　of　corporate　kleptomania　in　the　nineteen　nineties。　Wrenched　out　of　their　Dickensian　garrets　in　Bloomsbury；　upsized；　downsized；　rebranded；　renamed；　reorganized；　modernized；　and　merged；　they　had　finally　been　dumped　in　Hounslow；　in　a　steel…and…smoked…glass　office　block　with　all　its　pipes　on　the　outside。　It　nestled　among　the　pebble…dash　housing　estates　like　an　abandoned　spacecraft　after　a　fruitless　mission　to　find　intelligent　life。

　　I　arrived；　with　professional　punctuality；　five　minutes　before　noon；　only　to　discover　the　main　door　locked。　I　had　to　buzz　for　entry。　A　notice　board　in　the　foyer　announced　that　the　terrorism　alert　was　ORANGE/HIGH　。　Through　the　darkened　glass　I　could　see　the　security　men　in　their　dingy　aquarium　checking　me　on　a　monitor。　When　I　finally　got　inside　I　had　to　turn　out　my　pockets　and　pass　through　a　metal　detector。

　　Quigley　was　waiting　for　me　by　the　lifts。

　　“Who’re　you　expecting　to　bomb　you？”　I　asked。　“Random　House？”

　　“We’re　publishing　Lang’s　memoirs；”　replied　Quigley　in　a　stiff　voice。　“That　alone　makes　us　a　target；　apparently。　Rick’s　already　upstairs。”

　　“How　many’ve　you　seen？”

　　“Five。　You’re　the　last。”

　　I　knew　Roy　Quigley　fairly　well；　well　enough　to　know　he　disapproved　of　me。　He　must　have　been　about　fifty；　tall　and　tweedy。　In　a　happier　era　he　would　have　smoked　a　pipe　and　offered　tiny　advances　to　minor　academics　over　large　lunches　in　Soho。　Now　his　midday　meal　was　a　plastic　tray　of　salad　taken　at　his　desk　overlooking　the　M4；　and　he　received　his　orders　direct　from　the　head　of　sales　and　marketing；　a　girl　of　about　sixteen。　He　had　three　children　in　private　schools　he　couldn’t　afford。　As　the　price　of　survival　he’d　actually　been　obliged　to　start　taking　an　interest　in　popular　culture；　to　wit；　the　lives　of　various　footballers；　supermodels；　and　foulmouthed　comedians　whose　names　he　pronounced　carefully　and　whose　customs　he　studied　in　the　tabloids　with　scholarly　detachment；　as　if　they　were　remote　Micronesian　tribespeople。　I’d　pitched　him　an　idea　the　year　before；　the　memoirs　of　a　TV　magician　who　had—of　course！—been　abused　in　childhood　but　who　had　used　his　skill　as　an　illusionist　to　conjure　up　a　new　life；　etc。；　etc。　He’d　turned　it　down　flat。　The　book　had　gone　straight　to　number　one：I　Came；　I　Sawed；　I　Conquered　。　He　still　bore　a　grudge。

　　“I　have　to　tell　you；”　he　said；　as　we　rose　to　the　penthouse；　“that　I　don’t　think　you’re　the　right　man　for　this　assignment。”

　　“Then　it’s　a　good　job　it’s　not　your　decision；　Roy。”

　　Oh；　yes；　I　had　Quigley’s　measure　right　enough。　His　title　was　UK　Group　Editor　in　Chief；　which　meant　he　had　all　the　authority　of　a　dead　cat。　The　man　who　really　ran　the　global　show　was　waiting　for　us　in　the　boardroom：　John　Maddox；　chief　executive　of　Rhinehart　Inc。；　a　big；　bull…shouldered　New　Yorker　with　alopecia。　His　bald　head　glistened　under　the　strip　lighting　like　a　massive；　varnished　egg。　As　a　young　man　he’d　acquired　a　wrestler’s　physique　in　order　（according　toPublishers　Weekly　）　to　tip　out　the　window　anyone　who　stared　too　long　at　his　scalp。　I　made　sure　my　gaze　never　rose　higher　than　his　superhero　chest。　Next　to　him　was　Lang’s　Washington　attorney；　Sidney　Kroll；　a　bespectacled　fortysomething　with　a　delicate　pale　face；　floppy　raven　hair；　and　the　limpest　and　dampest　handshake　I’d　been　offered　since　Dippy　the　Dolphin　bobbed　up　from　his　pool　when　I　was　twelve。

　　“And　Nick　Riccardelli　I　think　you　knopleting　the　introductions　with　just　a　hint　of　a　shudder。　My　agent；　who　was　wearing　a　shiny　gray　shirt　and　a　thin　red　leather　tie；　winked　up　at　me。

　　“Hi；　Rick；”　I　said。

　　I　felt　nervous　as　I　took　my　seat　beside　him。　The　room　was　lined；　Gatsby…like；　with　immaculate　unread　hardcover　books。　Maddox　sat　with　his　back　to　the　window。　He　laid　his　massive；　hairless　hands　on　the　glass…topped　table；　as　if　to　prove　he　had　no　intention　of　reaching　for　a　weapon　just　yet；　and　said；　“I　gather　from　Rick　you’re　aware　of　the　situation　and　that　you　know　what　we’re　looking　for。　So　perhaps　you　could　tell　us　exactly　what　you　think　you’d　bring　to　this　project。”

　　“Ignorance；”　I　said　brightly；　which　at　least　had　the　benefit　of　shock　value；　and　before　anyone　could　interrupt　I　launched　into　the　little　speech　I’d　rehearsed　in　the　taxi　coming　over。　“You　know　my　track　record。　There’s　no　point　my　trying　to　pretend　I’m　something　I’m　not。　I’ll　be　completely　honest。　I　don’t　read　political　memoirs。　So　what？”　I　shrugged。　“Nobody　does。　But　actually　that’s　not　my　problem。”　I　pointed　at　Maddox。　“That’syour　problem。”

　　“Oh；　please；”　said　Quigley　quietly。

　　“And　let　me　be　even　more　recklessly　honest；”　I　went　on。　“Rumor　has　it　you　paid　ten　million　dollars　for　this　book。　As　things　stand；　how　much　of　that　d’you　think　you’re　going　to　see　back？　Two　million？　Three？　That’s　bad　news　for　you；　and　that’s　especially　bad　news；”　I　said；　turning　to　Kroll；　“for　your　client。　Because　for　him　this　isn’t　about　money。　This　is　about　reputation。　This　is　Adam　Lang’s　opportunity　to　speak　directly　to　history；　to　get　his　case　across。　The　last　thing　he　needs　is　to　produce　a　book　that　nobody　reads。　How　will　it　look　if　his　life　story　ends　up　on　the　remainder　tables？　But　it　doesn’t　have　to　be　this　way。”

　　I　know　in　retrospect　what　a　huckster　I　sounded。　But　this　was　pitch　talk；　remember—which；　like　declarations　of　undying　love　in　a　stranger’s　bedroom　at　midnight；　shouldn’t　necessarily　be　held　against　you　the　next　morning。　Kroll　was　smiling　to　himself；　doodling　on　his　yellow　pad。　Maddox　was　staring　hard　at　me。　I　took　a　breath。

　　“The　fact　is；”　I　continued；　“a　big　name　alone　doesn’t　sell　a　book。　We’ve　all　learned　that　the　hard　way。　What　sells　a　book—or　a　movie；　or　a　song—isheart　。”　I　believe　I　may　even　have　thumped　my　chest　at　this　point。　“And　that’s　why　political　memoir　isthe　black　hole　of　publishing。　The　name　outside　the　tent　may　be　big；　but　everyone　knows　that　once　they’re　inside　they’re　just　going　to　get　the　same　old　tired　show；　and　who　wants　to　pay　twenty…five　dollars　for　that？　You’ve　got　to　put　in　some　heart；　and　that’s　what　I　do　for　a　living。　And　whose　story　has　more　heart　than　the　guy　who　starts　from　nowhere　and　ends　up　running　a　country？”

　　I　leaned　forward。　“You　see；　here’s　the　joke：　a　leader’s　autobi