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that there were other matters that could not be made public , as though Dickie were an anxious spy or an underworld kingpin in some hard-boiled novel with a lurid cover. Trying not to stare at the man’s remarkable features, Winston let his eyes wander the room, booming and festive now with sodden conversations. Snatches of song burst from a distant table. He briefly considered that Dickie might be soft in the head, an example of that odd breed of men who sit at bus depots and café counters and in barbershops and ramble on about nearly anything to anyone within listening range.
    After smoothing down his hair with his palms—a completely unnecessary gesture since not a strand had broken free—Dickie made a sudden announcement: “I’ve got a sight you do not want to miss. C’mon.” He raised and lowered his eyebrows in quick succession, jokingly and yet persuasive.
    Winston hesitated. He could feel the pull of curiosity as well as the force of routine: there was a novel waiting to be read in his hotel room, but it wasn’t going to stand up and walk out the door if he didn’t make time for it that very night. Besides, the room held no other promise. He could not recall the last time he’d met a complete stranger. Certainly no one in years—if ever at all—had asked him to take a walk in the middle of the night to an unknown destination. The thought that he might be shanghaied bubbled up and burst. Dickie could not be a criminal; the idea was laughable. Besides, what use would they have for a librarian with soft hands? Winston told himself that briny ocean air would be a bracing tonic, and marveled at his sudden come-what-may attitude. His mother might be right about getting out and making acquaintances. Perhaps the only trouble had been the Bend’s pool of farmers and loggers.
    They hurried along one busy street and then another, Winston a head taller yet hurrying to keep up with Dickie’s determined stride. After the first two turns, Winston snorted, knowing he was lost; he had no idea if they were heading toward the Pacific or the Atlantic. Now the bet tipped in Alberta’s favour, Winston thought.
    At eight p.m., the Bend would have already turned in for the night. The city’s neon whir of nightlife exhilarated Winston, though he noticed that the flow of traffic eased considerably as they walked further from the beer parlour. Their footfalls echoed. Past the squat russet block of the Woodward’s department store—from a distance its electric W rotated silently in the black sky—the city was older and frugally lit. As Winston grew accustomed to the stillness he began to taste the saltwater air instead of the sooty gasoline fumes that poured from cars.
    Here, the compact brick buildings were not proud and had little apparent vitality to attract respectable businesses. Winston imagined their rents would be modest, enticing to shady pawnshops and struggling family enterprises. The silent men they passed looked as though they were moving toward no place in particular. Vagrants. With a spinning hand gesture, Dickie indicated that they should pick up their pace.
    Dickie proceeded to talk and talk, now effusive and gesturing crazily about any subject. To Winston, the sheer volume of his revelation was incredible. He’d learned more from this man in five minutes than he’d ever heard from Mr. Reynolds, who’d been the principal of the Bend’s high school for over a decade. The outpouring was indiscriminate, promiscuous, manic. Dickie lead Winston through the many facets of working in the men’s department at the Hudson’s Bay Company department store. His voice became particularly intense when he talked about those customers who treated shop clerks like servants— I mean, who do they think they are? —and those nameless others who freely granted themselves five finger discounts . And he gossiped mercilessly about the other men