Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [125]
“I think I may have some,” Duncan said. “I usually carry some. For emergencies.” He began to search through his pockets. “Hold this.” Into her cupped hands he piled a chocolate bar, then several neatly folded silver chocolate-bar wrappers, a few white pumpkin-seed shells, an empty cigarette package, a piece of grubby string tied in knots, a key chain with two keys, a wad of chewing gum wrapped in paper, and a shoelace. “Wrong pocket,” he said. From his other pocket he pulled, in a cascade of small change that scattered over the sidewalk, a few crumpled bills. He picked up the change and counted all the money. “Well, it won’t be the King Eddie,” he said, “but it’ll get us something. Not around here though, this is expense-account territory; it’ll have to be further downtown. Looks like this is going to be an underground movie rather than a technicolour extravaganza spectacular.” He put the money and the handfuls of junk back into his pocket.
The subway was closed down, its iron latticed gate pulled across the entrance.
“I guess we could take a bus,” Marian said.
“No; it’s too cold to stand and wait.”
They turned at the next corner and walked south down the wide empty street, past the lighted storefronts. There were few cars and fewer people. It must be really late, she thought. She tried to imagine what was going on at the party – was it over? Had Peter realized yet that she was no longer there? – but all she could picture was a confusion of noises and voices and fragments of faces and flashes of bright light.
She took Duncan’s hand. He wasn’t wearing gloves, so she put both his hand and her own into her pocket. He looked down at her then with an almost hostile expression, but he did not remove his hand. Neither of them spoke. It was getting colder and colder: her toes were beginning to ache.
They walked for what seemed hours, gently downwards toward the frozen lake although they were nowhere near it, past blocks and blocks that contained nothing but tall brick office buildings and the vacant horizontal spaces of car dealers, with their strings of coloured lights and little flags; not what they were looking for at all. “I think we’re on the wrong street,” Duncan said after a time. “We should be further over.”
They went along a dark narrow cross-street whose sidewalks were treacherous with packed snow and emerged finally on a larger street gaudy with neon signs. “This looks more like it,” said Duncan.
“What are we going to do now?” she asked, conscious of the plaintive tone in her own voice. She felt helpless to decide. He was more or less in charge. After all, he was the one with the money.
“Hell, I don’t know how one goes about these things,” he said. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Neither have I,” she said defensively. “I mean, not like this.”
“There must be an accepted formula,” he said, “but I guess we’ll just have to make it up as we go along. We’ll take them in order, from north to south.” He scanned the street. “It looks as though they get crummier as you go down.”
“Oh, I hope it’s not a real dump,” she wailed, “with bugs!”
“Oh, I don’t know, bugs might make it sort of more interesting. Anyway we’ll have to take what we can get.”
He stopped in front of a narrow red-brick building sandwiched between a formal-rental store with a gritty bride in the window and a dusty-looking florist’s. “Royal Massey Hotel,” its dangling neon sign said; underneath the writing there was a coat-of-arms. “You wait here,” Duncan said. He went up the steps.
He came back down the steps. “Door’s locked,” he said.
They walked on. The next one had a more promising aspect. It was dingier, and the stone Grecian-scrolled cornices over the windows were dark grey with soot. “The Ontario Towers,” it said, in a red sign whose preliminary “O” had gone out. “Cheap Rates.” It was open.
“I