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.

Zaharia Elena

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestea servitoarei – Capitolul V
 

Insotita, merg pe strada. Chiar daca nu mai suntem langa cartierul Capitanului, si aici sunt case mari. In fata uneia dintre ele un Gardian tunde peluza. Peluzele sunt curate, fatadele sunt gratioase si in buna stare, sunt ca frumoasele poze pe care le tipareau candva in reviste despre case, gradini si decor interior. Este aceeasi absenta a oamenilor, acelasi aer ca si cum toata lumea ar dormi. Strada este aproape ca un muzeu, sau o strada dintr-o macheta de oras construita sa arate felul in care oamenii traiau. Ca si in acele poze, muzee, acele machete de oras, nu sunt copii.
Aceasta este inima lui Galaad, unde razboiul nu poate deranja cu exceptia televizorului.Unde sunt marginile nu suntem siguri, ele variaza in functie de atacuri si contraatacuri; dar acesta este centrul unde nimic nu misca. Republica Galaad, spunea matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste limite. Galaad este in interiorul tau.
Doctori traiau aici odata, avocati, profesori universitari, Nu mai sunt avocati si universitatea s-a inchis.
Eu si Luke obisnuiam sa mergem, cateodata, de-a lungul acestor strazi. Vorbeam despre cumpararea unei case ca acestea, o casa mare si veche, s-o reparam. Am avea gradina si leagane pentru copii. Am avea copii. Chiar daca stiam ca nu e probabil ca vreodata ne-am putea-o permite, era ceva de care ne placea sa vorbim, ca un joc de duminica. Acum asemenea libertate pare aproape imposibila.
Dam coltul spre o strada principala, unde este mai mult trafic. Masini trec pe langa noi, majoritatea negre, unele gri si maro. Sunt alte femei cu cosuri, unele in rosu, altele in verdele lipsit de stralucire al Martelor, unele in rochii decoltate, rosii si albastre si verzi si ieftine si spalacite, care marcheaza femeile barbatilor mai saraci. Sunt numite femei economice. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite in functii Trebuie sa faca totul: daca pot. Cateodata este o fameie imbracata doar in negru, o vaduva. Erau mai multe, dar acum par sa fie mai putine. Nu vezi sotiile Comandantului pe trotuare. Doar in masini.
Trotuarele aici sunt ciment. Ca un copil, evit sa calc pe crapaturi. Imi rememorez pasii pe aceste trotuare si cu ce obisnuiam sa ma incalt. Cateodata erau pantofi pentru alergat cu talpa captusita si gauri pentru aerisire si stele din material fluorescent care reflecta lumina in intuneric. Cu toate ca nu am alergat niciodata noaptea; si pe timpul zilei, doar pe langa drumurile frecventate.
Femeile nu erau protejate atunci.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli care nu erau niciodata spuse dar trebuiau stiute de fiecare femeie: Nu deschide usa unui strain chiar daca spune ca este politist. Pune-l sa-ti dea legitimatia pe sub usa. Nu te opri pe drum sa ajuti un motociclist care pretinde ca are probleme. Tine masina incuiata si continua sa mergi mai departe. Daca cineva fluiera, nu te intoarce sa te uiti. Nu te duce intr-o spalatorie de una singura, noaptea.