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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 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