Edible Woman - Margaret Atwood [126]
She stood on the dilapidated matting, trying to look respectable, and conscious of her earrings and of the improbability of the attempt. Duncan walked over to the night clerk, a wizened shred of a man who was staring at her suspiciously through his puckers. He and Duncan had a low-voiced conversation; then Duncan came back and took her arm and they walked out.
“What did he say?” she asked when they were outside.
“He said it wasn’t that sort of place.”
“That’s rather presumptuous,” she said. She was offended, and felt quite self-righteous.
Duncan snickered. “Come now,” he said, “no outraged virtue. All it means is that we’ve got to find one that is that sort of place.”
They turned a corner and went east along a likely looking street. They passed a few more shabby-genteel establishments before they came to one that was even shabbier, but definitely not genteel. In place of the crumbled brick facade characteristic of the others, it had pink stucco with large signs painted on it: “BEDS 4$ A NITE.” “T.V. IN EVERY ROOM.”“VICTORIA AND ALBERT HOTEL.” “BEST BARGAIN IN TOWN.” It was a long building. Further down they could see the “MEN” and “LADIES AND ESCORTS” sign that signalled a beer parlour, and it seemed to have a tavern too; though both would be closed at this hour.
“I think this is it,” said Duncan.
They went in. The night clerk yawned as he took down the key. “Sort of late buddy, isn’t it?” he said. “That’ll be four.”
“Better late,” Duncan said, “than never.” He took a handful of bills out of his pocket, scattering assorted change over the carpet. As he stooped to pick it up, the night clerk looked over at Marian with an undisguised though slightly jaded leer. She drooped her eyelids at him. After all, she thought grimly, if I’m dressed like one and acting like one, why on earth shouldn’t he think I really am one?
They ascended the sparsely carpeted stairs in silence.
The room when they finally located it was the size of a large cupboard, furnished with an iron bedstead, a straight-backed chair, and a dresser whose varnish was peeling off. There was a miniature quarter-in-the-slot T. V. set bolted to the wall in one corner. On the dresser were a couple of folded threadbare towels in baby blue and pink. The narrow window opposite the bed had a blue neon sign hanging outside it; the sign flashed on and off, making an ominous buzzing noise. Behind the room door was another door that led to a cubbyhole of a bathroom.
Duncan bolted the door behind them. “Well, what do we do now?” he said. “You must know.”
Marian removed her boots, then her shoes. Her toes tingled with the pain of thawing. She looked at the gaunt face peering at her from between an upturned coat collar and a mass of windy hair; the face was dead white, all but the nose, which was red from the cold. As she watched he produced a tattered grey piece of kleenex from some recess in his clothing and wiped it.
God, she thought, what am I doing here? How did I get here anyway? What would Peter say? She walked across the room and stood in front of the window, looking out at nothing in particular.
“Oh boy,” said Duncan behind her, enthusiastically. She turned. He had discovered something new, a large ashtray that had been sitting on the dresser behind the towels. “It’s genuine.” The ashtray was in the form of a seashell, pink china with scalloped edges. “It says A Gift From Burk’s Falls on it,” he told her with glee. He turned it over to look on the bottom and some ashes fell out of it onto the floor. “Made In Japan,” he announced.
Marian felt a surge of desperation. Something had to be done. “Look,” she said, “for heaven’s sake put down that damned ashtray and take off your clothes and get into that bed!”
Duncan hung his head like a rebuked child. “Oh, alright,” he said.
He shed his clothes with such velocity that it looked as though he had concealed zippers somewhere, or