MARGARET ATWOOD

The Handmaid’s Tale
 

Doubled, I walk the street. Though we are no longer in the Commanders' compound, there are large houses here also. In front of one of them a Guardian is mowing the lawn. The lawns are tidy, the facades are gracious, in good repair; they're like the beautiful pictures they used to print in the magazines about homes and gardens and interior decoration. There is the same absence of people, the same air of being asleep. The street is almost like a museum, or a street in a model town constructed to show the way people used to live. As in those pictures, those museums, those model towns, there are no children. This is the heart of Gilead, where the war cannot intrude except on television. Where the edges are we aren't sure, they vary, according to the attacks and counterattacks; but this is the center, where nothing moves. The Republic of Gilead, said Aunt Lydia, knows no bounds. Gilead is within you.Doctors lived here once, lawyers, university professors. There are no lawyers anymore, and the university is closed. Luke and I used to walk together, sometimes, along these streets. We used to talk about buying a house like one of these, an old big house, fixing it up. We would have a garden, swings for the Children. We would have children. Although we knew it wasn't too likely we could ever afford it, it was something to talk about, a game for Sundays. Such freedom now seems almost weightless. We turn the corner onto a main street, where there's more traffic. Cars go by, black most of them, some gray and brown. There are other women with baskets, some in red, some in the dull green of the Marthas, some in the striped dresses, red and blue and green and cheap and skimpy, that mark the women of the poorer men. Econowives, they're called. These women are not divided into functions. They have to do everything; if they can. Sometimes there is a woman all in black, a widow. There used to be more of them, but they seem to be diminishing. You don't see the Commanders' Wives on the sidewalks. Only in cars.The sidewalks here are cement. Like a child, I avoid stepping on the cracks. I'm remembering my feet on these sidewalks, in the time before, and what I used to wear on them. Sometimes it was shoes for running, with cushioned soles and breathing holes, and stars of fluorescent fabric that reflected light in the darkness. Though I never ran at night; and in the daytime, only beside well-frequented roads.Women were not protected then.I remember the rules, rules that were never spelled out but that every woman knew: Don't open your door to a stranger, even if he says he is the police. Make him slide his ID under the door. Don't stop on the road to help a motorist pretending to be in trouble. Keep the locks on and keep going. If anyone whistles, don't turn to look. Don't go into a laundromat, by yourself, at night.

Iacob Cristina

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestirea servitoarei – Capitolul V
 

Insotita, merg pe strada. Desi nu mai suntem in tabara Comandantului, si pe aici sunt case mari. In fata uneia dintre ele un paznic tuned peluza. Peluzele sunt curate, fatadele sunt gratioase, recent reparate; sunt ca pozele minunate care erau tiparite de obicei in revistele despre case, gradini si decoratiuni interioare. Cu o aceeasi absenta tipica a oamenilor, o aceeasi senzatie de aromeala. Strada este aproape ca un muzeu, sau ca o strada dintr-un oras macheta, construit pentru a arata felul in care oamenii obisnuiau sa traiasca. Ca in acele imagini, acele muzee, acele orase macheta, acolo nu exista copii.
Aceasta este inima Galaad-ului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde, decat la televizor. Unde sunt marginile, nu suntem siguri. Ele variaza, in functie de atacuri si contra-atacuri; dar acesta este centrul, unde totul este amortit. Republica Galaad, spuse matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste limite. Galaadul este inlauntrul tau.
Aici locuiau candva doctori, avocati, profesori universitari. Avocati nu mai sunt, iar universitatea s-a inchis.
Eu si Luke obisnuiam sa mergem impreuna, uneori, de-a lungul acestor strazi. Faceam planuri sa cumparam o casa ca acelea, o casa mare si veche, pe care aveam sa o reparam. Am fi avut o gradina, leagane pentru copii. Am avea si noi copii. Chiar daca stiam ca era foarte putin probabil sa ne-o putem permite vreodata, era un subiect de discutie, o joaca de duminica. Asemenea libertate acum pare aproape utopica.
Am cotit intr-o strada principala, unde exista mai mult trafic. Masini trec pe langa noi, majoritatea negre, unele gri, altele maro. Sunt unele femei cu cosuri, unele in rosu, altele in verdele sumbru al celor cu numele de Marta, altele in rochii dungate, rosii si albastre si verzi si ieftine si economice, care le reprezinta pe femeile barbatilor mai saraci. Econoneveste sunt numite. Aceste femei nu sunt repartizate pe functii. Ele trebuie sa faca de toate; daca pot. Cateodata e o femeie imbracata toata in negru, o vaduva. De obicei erau mai multe, dar numarul lor pare sa se micsoreze. Nu ai cum sa vezi nevestele Comandantilor pe trotuare. Doar in masini.
Trotuarele aici sunt cimentate. Ca un copil, evit sa calc pe crapaturi. Imi amintesc de talpile mele pe aceste trotuare, undeva in trecut, si cu ce obisnuiam sa ma incalt. Cateodata erau pantofi pentru alergat, cu talpi pe pernite si gauri de aerisire, si stele din material fosforescent, care reflectau lumina in intuneric. Cu toate ca niciodata nu alergam noaptea; iar ziua, doar pe langa strazi foarte frecventate.
Femeile nu erau protejate atunci.
Imi aduc aminte regulile, legile nescrise, dar pe care fiecare femeie le stia: Nu deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca spune ca este de la politie. Pune-l sa-ti strecoare pe sub usa legitimatia. Nu te opri pe strada sa ajuti un motociclist care pare sa aiba probleme. Tine usile incuiate si continua sa mergi. Daca cineva fluiera, nu te intoarce sa privesti. Nu te duce intr-o spalatorie, singura, pe timp de noapte.