The Ghost(英文版)- 第18部分

　　Lang　took　his　time　before　answering。　“He　died　when　I　was　sixteen。　He’d　already　retired　by　then；　because　of　bad　health；　and　my　stepbrothers　had　grown　up；　married；　moved　out。　And　so　that　was　the　only　time　I　remember　him　being　around　a　lot。　I　was　just　getting　to　know　him；　really；　when　he　had　his　heart　attack。　I　mean；　I　got　on　all　right　with　him。　But　if　you’re　saying　was　I　closer　to　my　mother—then　yes；　obviously。”

　　“And　your　stepbrothers？　Were　you　close　to　them？”

　　“God；　no！”　For　the　first　time　since　lunch；　Lang　gave　a　shout　of　laughter。　“Actually；　you’d　better　scrub　that。　We　can　leave　them　out；　can’t　we？”

　　“It’s　your　book。”

　　“Leave　them　out；　then。　They　both　went　into　the　building　trade；　and　neither　of　them　ever　missed　an　opportunity　to　tell　the　press　they　wouldn’t　be　voting　for　me。　I　haven’t　seen　them　for　years。　They　must　be　about　seventy　now。”

　　“How　exactly　did　he　die？”

　　“Sorry？”

　　“Your　father。　I　wondered　how　he　died。　Where　did　he　die？”

　　“Oh。　In　the　garden。　Trying　to　move　a　paving　slab　that　was　too　heavy　for　him。　Old　habits—”　He　looked　at　his　watch。

　　“Who　found　him？”

　　“I　did。”

　　“Could　you　describe　that？”　It　was　hard　going；　far　harder　than　the　morning　session。

　　“I’d　just　come　home　from　school。　It　was　a　really　beautiful　spring　day；　I　remember。　Mum　was　out　doing　something　for　one　of　her　charities。　I　got　a　drink　from　the　kitchen　and　went　out　into　the　back　garden；　still　in　my　school　uniform；　thinking　I’d　kick　a　ball　around　or　something。　And　there　he　was；　in　the　middle　of　the　lawn。　Just　a　graze　on　his　face　where　he’d　fallen。　The　doctors　told　us　he　was　probably　dead　before　he　hit　the　ground。　But　I　suspect　they　always　say　that；　to　make　it　easier　for　the　family。　Who　knows？　It　can’t　be　an　easy　thing；　can　it—dying？”

　　“And　your　mother？”

　　“Don’t　all　sons　think　their　mothers　are　saints？”　He　looked　at　me　for　confirmation。　“Well；　mine　was。　She　gave　up　teaching　when　I　was　born；　and　there　was　nothing　she　wouldn’t　do　for　anyone。　She　came　from　a　very　strong　Quaker　family。　Completely　selfless。　She　was　so　proud　when　I　got　into　Cambridge；　even　though　it　meant　she　was　left　alone。　She　never　once　let　on　how　ill　she　was—didn’t　want　to　spoil　my　time　there；　especially　when　I　started　acting　and　was　so　busy。　That　was　typical　of　her。　I’d　no　idea　how　bad　things　were　until　the　end　of　my　second　year。”

　　“Tell　me　about　that。”

　　“Right。”　Lang　cleared　his　throat。　“God。　I　knew　she　hadn’t　been　well；　but…you　know；　when　you’re　nineteen；　you　don’t　take　much　notice　of　anything　apart　from　yourself。　I　was　in　Footlights。　I　had　a　couple　of　girlfriends。　Cambridge　was　paradise　for　me。　I　used　to　call　her　once　a　week；　every　Sunday　night；　and　she　always　sounded　fine；　even　though　she　was　living　on　her　own。　Then　I　got　home　and　she　was…I　was　shocked…she　was…a　skeleton　basically—there　was　a　tumor　on　her　liver。　I　mean；　maybe　now　they　could　do　something；　but　then…”　He　made　a　helpless　gesture。　“She　was　dead　in　a　month。”

　　“What　did　you　do？”

　　“I　went　back　to　Cambridge　at　the　start　of　my　final　year　and　I…I　lost　myself　in　life；　I　suppose　you　could　say。”

　　He　was　silent。

　　“I　had　a　similar　experience；”　I　said。

　　“Really？”　His　tone　was　expressionless。　He　was　looking　out　at　the　ocean；　at　the　Atlantic　breakers　rolling　in；　his　thoughts　seemingly　far　away　over　the　horizon。

　　“Yes。”　I　don’t　normally　talk　about　myself　in　a　professional　situation；　or　in　any　situation；　for　that　matter。　But　sometimes　a　little　self…revelation　can　help　to　draw　a　client　out。　“I　lost　my　parents　at　about　that　age。　And　didn’t　you　find；　in　a　strange　way；　despite　all　the　sadness；　that　it　made　you　stronger？”

　　“Stronger？”　He　turned　away　from　the　window　and　frowned　at　me。

　　“In　the　sense　of　being　self…reliant。　Knowing　that　the　worst　thing　that　could　possibly　happen　to　you　had　happened；　and　you’d　survived　it。　That　you　could　function　on　your　own。”

　　“You　may　be　right。　I’ve　never　really　thought　about　it。　At　least　not　until　just　lately。　It’s　strange。　Shall　I　tell　you　something？”　He　leaned　forward。　“I　saw　two　dead　bodies　when　I　was　in　my　teens　and　then—despite　being　prime　minister；　with　all　that　entails：　having　to　order　men　into　battle　and　visit　the　scene　of　bomb　blasts　and　what　have　you—I　didn’t　see　another　corpse　for　thirty…five　years。”

　　“And　who　was　that？”　I　asked　stupidly。

　　“Mike　McAra。”

　　“Couldn’t　you　have　sent　one　of　the　policemen　to　identify　him？”

　　“No。”　He　shook　his　head。　“No；　I　couldn’t。　I　owed　him　that；　at　least。”　He　paused　again；　then　abruptly　grabbed　his　towel　and　rubbed　his　face。　“This　is　a　morbid　conversation；”　he　declared。　“Let’s　change　the　subject。”

　　I　looked　down　at　my　list　of　questions。　There　was　a　lot　I　wanted　to　ask　him　about　McAra。　It　was　not　that　I　intended　to　use　it　in　the　book；　necessarily；　even　I　recognized　that　a　postresignation　trip　to　the　morgue　to　identify　an　aide’s　body　was　hardly　going　to　sit　well　in　a　chapter　entitled　“A　Future　of　Hope。”　It　was　rather　to　satisfy　my　own　curiosity。　But　I　also　knew　I　didn’t　have　the　time　to　indulge　myself；　I　had　to　press　on。　And　so　I　did　as　he　requested　and　changed　the　subject。

　　“Cambridge；”　I　said。　“Let’s　talk　about　that。”

　　I’d　always　expected　that　the　Cambridge　years；　from　my　point　of　view；　were　going　to　be　the　easiest　part　of　the　book　to　write。　I’d　been　a　student　there　myself；　not　long　after　Lang；　and　the　place　hadn’t　changed　much。　It　never　changed　much：　that　was　its　charm。　I　could　do　all　the　clichés—bikes；　scarves；　gowns；　punts；　cakes；　gas　fires；　choirboys；　riverside　pubs；　porters　in　bowler　hats；　fenland　winds；　narrow　streets；　the　thrill　of　walking　on　stones　once　trodden　by　Newton　and　Darwin；　etc。；　etc。　And　it　was　just　as　well；　I　thought；　looking　at　the　manuscript；　because　once　again　my　memories　would　have　to　stand　in　for　Lang’s。　He　had　gone　up　to　read　economics；　briefly　played　football　for　his　college’s　second　eleven；　and　had　won　a　reputation　as　a　student　actor。　Yet　although　McAra　had　dutifully　assembled　a　list　of　every　production　the　ex–prime　minister　had　ever　appeared　in；　and　even　quoted　from　a　few　of　the　revue　sketches　Lang　had　performed　for　Footlights；　there　was—again—something　thin　and　rushed　about　it　all。

　　What　was　missing　was　passion。　Naturally；　I　blamed　it　on　McAra。　I　could　well　imagine　how　little　sympathy　that　stern　party　functionary　would　have　had　with　all　these　dilettantes　and　their　adolescent　posturings　in　bad　productions　of　Brecht　and　Ionescu。　But　Lang　himself　seemed　oddly　evasive　about　the　whole　period。

　　“It’s　so　long　ago；”　he　said。　“I　can　hardly　remember　anything　about　it。　I　wasn’t　much　good；　to　be　honest。　Acting　was　basically　an　opportunity　to　meet　girls—don’t　put　that　in；　by　the　way。”

　　“But　youwere　very　good；”　I　protested。　“When　I　was　in　London　I　read　interviews　with　people　who　said　you　were　good　enough　to　become　a　professional。”

　　“I　suppose　I　wouldn’t　have　minded；”　Lang　conceded；　“at　one　stage。　Except　you　don’t　change　things　by　being　an　actor。　Only　politicians　can　do　that。”　He　looked　at　his　watch　again。

　　“But　Cambridge；”　I　persisted。　“It　must　have　been　hugely　important　in　your　life；　coming　from　your　background。”

　　“Yes。　I　enjoyed　my　time　there。　I　met　some　great　people。　It　wasn’t　the　real　world；　though。　It　was　fantasyland。”

　　“I　know。　That　was　what　I　liked　about　it。”

　　“So　did　I。　Just　between　the　two　of　us：　Iloved　it。”　Lang’s　eyes　gleamed　at　the　memory。　“To　go　out　onto　a　stage　and　pretend　to　be　someone　else！　And　to　have　people　applaud　you　for　doing　it！　What　could　be　better？”

　　“Great；”　I　said；　baffled　by　his　change　of　mood。　“This　is　more　like　it。　Let’s　put　that　in。”

　　“No。”

　　“Why　not？”

　　“Why　not？”　Lang　sighed。　“Because　these　are　the　memoirs　of　aprime　minister　。”　He　suddenly　pounded　his　hand　hard　against　the　side　of　his　chair。　“And　all　my　political　life；　whenever　my　opponents　have　been　really　stuck　for　something　to　hit　me　with；　they’ve　always　said　I　was　afucking　actor　。”　He　sprang　up　and　started　striding　up　and　down。　“‘Oh；　Adam　Lang；’”　he　drawled；　performing　a　pitch…perfect　caricature　of　an　upper…class　Englishman；　“‘have　you　noticed　the　way　he　changes　his　voice　to　suit　whatever　company　he’s　in？’　‘Aye’”—and　now　he　was　a　gruff　Scotsman—“‘you　can’t　believe　anything　the　wee　bastard　says。　The　man’s　a　performer；　just　piss　and　wind　in　a　suit！’”　And　now　he　became　pompous；　judicious；　hand…wringing：　“‘It　is　Mr。　Lang’s　tragedy　that　an　actor　can　only　be　as　good　as　the　part　he　is　given；　and　finally　this　prime　minister　has　run　out　of　lines。’　You’ll　recognize　that　last　one　from　your　no　doubt　extensive　researches。”

　　I　shook　my　head。　I　was　too　astonished　by　his　tirade　to　speak。

　　“It’s　from　the　editorial　in　theTimes　on　the　day　I　announced　my　resignation。　The　headline　was　‘Kindly　Leave　the　Stage。’”　He　carefully　resumed　his　seat　and　smoothed　back　his　hair。　“So　no；　if　you　don’t　mind；　we　won’t　dwell　on　my　years　as　a　student　actor。　Leave　it　exactly　the　way　that　Mike　wrote　it。”

　　For　a　little　while　neither