The Ghost

Emmett himself was waiting. The extent of the land and the encroaching trees provided a deep sense of seclusion. The only sound of civilization was a big jet, invisible in the low cloud, dropping toward the airport. I parked in front of the garage, next to the Emmetts’ car, and got out carrying my bag.
    “You must forgive me if I seem a little groggy,” said Emmett after we’d shaken hands. “We just flew in from Washington and I’m feeling somewhat tired. I normally never see anyone without an appointment. But your mention of a photograph did rather stimulate my curiosity.”
    He dressed as precisely as he spoke. His spectacles had fashionably modern tortoiseshell frames, his jacket was dark gray, his shirt was duck egg blue, his bright red tie had a motif of pheasants on the wing, there was a matching silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. Now I was closer to him, I could discern the younger man staring out from the older: age had merely blurred him, that was all. He couldn’t keep his eyes off my bag. I knew he wanted me to produce the photograph right there on the doorstep. But I was too canny for that. I waited, and kept on waiting, so that eventually he had to say, “Fine. Please, do come in.”
    The house had polished wood floors and smelled of wax polish and dried flowers. It had an uninhabited chill about it. A grandfather clock ticked very loudly on the landing. I could hear his wife on the telephone in another room. “Yes,” she said, “he’s here now.” Then she must have moved away. Her voice became indistinct and faded altogether.
    Emmett closed the front door behind us.
    “May I?” he said.
    I took out the cast photograph and gave it to him. He pushed his glasses up onto his silvery thatch of hair and wandered over with it to the hall window. He looked fit for his age and I guessed he played some regular sport: squash, probably; golf, definitely.
    “Well, well,” he said, holding the monochrome image up to the weak winter light, tilting it this way and that, peering at it down his long nose, like an expert checking a painting for authenticity, “I have literally no recollection of this.”
    “But it is you?”
    “Oh, yes. I was on the board of the Dramat in the sixties. Which was quite a time, as you can imagine.” He shared a complicit chuckle with his youthful image. “Oh, yes.”
    “The Dramat?”
    “I’m sorry.” He looked up. “The Yale Dramatic Association. I thought I’d maintain my theatrical interests when I went over to Cambridge for my doctoral research. Alas, I only managed a term in the Footlights before pressure of work put an end to my dramatic career. May I keep this?”
    “I’m afraid not. But I’m sure I can get you a copy.”
    “Would you? That would be very kind.” He turned it over and inspected the back. “The Cambridge Evening News . You must tell me how you came by it.”
    “I’d be happy to,” I said. And again I waited. It was like playing a hand of cards. He would not yield a trick unless I forced him. The big clock ticked back and forth a few times.
    “Come into my study,” he said.
    He opened a door and I followed him into a room straight out of Rick’s London club: dark green wallpaper, floor-to-ceiling books, library steps, overstuffed brown leather furniture, a big brass lectern in the shape of an eagle, a Roman bust, a faint odor of cigars. One wall was devoted to memorabilia: citations, prizes, honorary degrees, and a lot of photographs. I took in Emmett with Bill Clinton and Al Gore, Emmett with Margaret Thatcher and Nelson Mandela. I’d tell you the names of the others if I knew who they were. A German chancellor. A French president. There was also a picture of him with Lang, a grin-and-grip at what seemed to be a cocktail party. He saw me looking.
    “The wall of ego,” he said. “We all have them. Think of it as the equivalent of the orthodontist’s fish tank. Do take a seat. I’m afraid I can only spare a few minutes, unfortunately.”
    I perched on the unyielding brown sofa while he took the captain’s chair behind his desk. It rolled easily back and forth. He swung his feet up onto the desk, giving me a fine view of the slightly scuffed soles of his brogues.
    “So,” he said. “The picture.”
    “I’m working with Adam Lang on his memoirs.”
    “I know. You said. Poor Lang. It’s a very bad business, this posturing by The Hague. As for Rycart—the worst foreign secretary since the war, in my view. It was a