1984

           TheotherpersonwasamannamedO’Brien,amemberoftheInnerParty andholderofsomepostsoimportantandremote thatWinstonhadonlyadimideaofitsnature. AmomentaryhushpassedoverthegroupofpeopleroundthechairsastheysawtheblackoverallsofanInnerPartymemberapproaching. O’Brienwasalarge,burlymanwithathickneckandacoarse,humorous,brutalface. Inspiteofhisformidableappearancehehadacertaincharmofmanner. Hehadatrickofresettlinghisspectaclesonhisnose whichwascuriouslydisarming—insomeindefinableway,curiouslycivilized. Itwasagesturewhich,ifanyonehadstillthoughtinsuchterms, mighthaverecalledaneighteenth-centurynoblemanofferinghissnuffbox. WinstonhadseenO’Brienperhapsadozentimesinalmostasmanyyears. Hefeltdeeplydrawntohim,andnotsolely becausehewasintriguedbythecontrastbetweenO’Brien’surbanemannerandhisprize-fighter’sphysique. Muchmoreitwasbecauseofasecretlyheldbelief—orperhapsnotevenabelief, merelyahope—thatO’Brien’spoliticalorthodoxywasnotperfect. Somethinginhisfacesuggesteditirresistibly. Andagain,perhapsitwasnotevenunorthodoxythatwaswritteninhisface, butsimplyintelligence. Butatanyratehehadtheappearanceofbeingaperson thatyoucouldtalktoifsomehowyoucouldcheatthetelescreenandgethimalone. Winstonhadnevermadethesmallestefforttoverifythisguess: indeed,therewasnowayofdoingso. AtthismomentO’Brienglancedathiswrist-watch, sawthatitwasnearlyelevenhundred, andevidentlydecidedtostayintheRecordsDepartmentuntiltheTwoMinutesHatewasover. HetookachairinthesamerowasWinston,acoupleofplacesaway. Asmall,sandy-hairedwomanwhoworkedinthenextcubicletoWinstonwasbetweenthem. Thegirlwithdarkhairwassittingimmediatelybehind.