Read The Age of Cities for Free Online Page A

cap cushion. In the mirror he could see that no terrible row had broken out and that the two pals had resumed their drunk-loud banter. In this murky light, he observed, his silhouette was indistinct, one strand in the vast fabric of the crowd.
    Ordering a glass of beer, he wondered what gremlin had whispered in his ear to convince him that a drink in a basement filled with men would be a pleasant way to pass the evening. Alberta told him now and again, “Go out and make yourself some friends, it’ll do you a world of good,” and whenever he went to one of the Bend’s watering holes, he returned home in a sour mood, vowing to never again heed Alberta’s sibylline advice. She had no idea. The men’s easy talk—of sport, work, weather—eluded him. Nor did its slow-witted nods of agreement and platitudinous conclusions truly interest him. Time and again, he concluded that for him such superficial fraternity could serve no valuable purpose. Watching the bartender speedily towel dry a tray of beer steins, Winston calculated that one glass would not take long to finish.
    â€œHello, sailor. Are you new to port?” The man on the neighbouring stool leaned toward Winston like a straw-stuffed scarecrow. He smelled bracing if sweet from aftershave.
    â€œI’m from the Valley.” Winston remained wary and impassive, catching the man’s muted reflection. He hadn’t anticipated conversation.
    â€œSurely you have a name?”
    â€œWilson.”
    â€œRichard Williamson. But if you’re so inclined, call me Dickie like everyone else.” The man swiveled to shake Winston’s hand. He smiled: “That’s quite a fetching get-up, Mr. Wilson. Is that what they’re wearing out in the Valley these days?”
    Winston thought to upbraid the stranger for his cheeky innuendo. Turning to address him, he saw a newborn bird for an instant, a hatchling cheeping with hunger, fear, and panic, its eyes blind though calculating. He studied the translucent expanse of Dickie’s forehead and noticed shadowy veins. The man appeared delicate and vulnerable, someone with a skull that could be as easily crushed as an egg. Yet Dickie acted any way but frail. He’d have a peacock strut, Winston was sure of it. The uniform sombre suits of the tavern-goers stood in sharp contrast to Dickie’s camel coat and radiant silk tie. The man kept his hair—corn silk pale, fine, and thinning—slick with pomade and combed straight back. His eyebrows had been thinned into graceful arches. The man was strange but harmless. Trying to place him, Winston decided that Dickie was dapper, like a preening and silly though possibly malevolent English aristocrat in a Waugh novel, a creature with station and refinement, if no money. He’d have quite the collection of stories, Winston guessed, and not one about sports or weather.
    The conversation between the two men progressed with a sporadic rhythm. Dickie asked elaborate questions laced in suggestion. Winston offered terse answers, occasionally wondering with mild alarm whether Dickie was some kind of con man who planned to bilk him. He pictured his wallet and smiled at the minute pay-off it would give to any misguided swindler. When silence loomed Dickie grabbed for fresh topics—his favourite cocktail, the criminal past of the burly waiter carrying the beer tray, his fondness for sunny Doris Day. He apologized for being chatty and yet made no obvious effort to stop. From time to time Winston thought about saying he was tired and needed to return to his hotel room. The man’s determination won him over.
    â€œAre you a friend of the Queen?”
    â€œAm I a monarchist?”
    â€œNo, that’s not exactly what I mean.”
    There were moments when Winston was reminded of the podiatrist with the jokes in his voice. The nervous man’s puzzling speech ran in different directions, making one declaration while insinuating