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.

Cojoaca Bianca

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestea Servitoarei – Capitolul V
 

Merg pe strada insotita. Desi nu suntem in Cartierul Comandantilor, exista de asemenea case mari. In fata uneia dintre ele, un gardian tunde peluza. Peluzele sunt curate, fatadele sunt elegante, bine intretinute; arata ca frumoasele imagini publicate in revistele despre case, gradini si decoratiuni interioare. Se simte aceeasi absenta a oamenilor, acelasi aer de atmosfera adormita. Strada arata aproape ca un muzeu sau ca o strada dintr-un macheta de oras, construit pentru a arata felul in care oamenii obisnuiau sa traiasca. La fel ca in acele imagini, acele muzee sau in acea macheta de oras, nu exista copii.
Aceasta este inima Galaad-ului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde decat prin intermediul televiziunii. Nu suntem siguri unde sunt limitele, ele variaza, in functie de atacuri si contraatacuri; dar acesta este centrul, unde nimic nu se misca. Republica Galaad,, spunea matusa Lidia, nu cunoaste margini. Galaad exista in tine .
Doctori, avocati, profesori universitari locuiau aici odinioara. In zilele noastre nu mai exista avocati si universitatea e inchisa.
Cateodata, Luke si cu mine obisnuiam sa ne plimbam de-a lungul acestor strazi. Obisnuiam sa vorbim despre cumpararea unei case ca una dintre acestea, o casa mare si veche, pe care s-o reparam. Am avea o gradina, leagane pentru copii. Am avea copii. Chiar daca stiam ca era prea putin probabil sa ne putem permite vreodata asa ceva, era un subiect despre care puteam vorbi, un joc de duminica. Asemenea privilegiu pare acum aproape imposibil.
Am cotit pe o strada principala, unde este mai mult trafic. Trec masini, cele mai multe dintre ele negre, altele gri si maro. Sunt alte femei cu cosuri, unele imbracate in rosu, altele in verdele celor cu numele de Martha, lipsit de stralucire, cateva in rochii cu dungi rosii, albastre si verzi, rochii ieftine si prea scurte, indiciul femeii omului sarac. Ele sunt numite „Neveste economice”. Acestor femei nu le sunt impartite sarcini. Ele trebuie sa faca orice; daca pot. Uneori, vezi cate o femeie imbracata in negru, o vaduva. Acolo, obisnuiau sa fie mai multe dintre acestea, dar se pare ca numarul lor se micsoreaza. Nu vezi sotiile Comandantilor pe trotuare. Doar in masini.
Trotuarele sunt din ciment. Ca si un copil, evit sa calc pe sparturi. Imi amintesc de picioarele mele pe aceste trotuare, in timpurile dinainte si cu ce obisnuiam sa ma incalt. Cateodata erau pantofi de alergare, cu talpi de amortizare, gauri de aerisire si stele din material fluorescent ce reflectau lumina in intuneric. Cu toate acestea, nu am alergat niciodata noaptea; iar in timpul zilei, doar pe langa strazile foarte circulate.
Femeile nu erau protejate atunci.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli care nu au fost niciodata explicate, dar pe care fiecare femeie le stia: nu deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca acesta spune ca este de la politie. Cere-i sa-si strecoare actul de identitate pe sub usa. Nu opri pe strada ca sa ajuti un motociclist care pretinde ca are probleme. Tine incuietorile masinii inchise si continua sa mergi. Daca cineva fluiera, nu intoarce capul. Nu intra intr-o spalatorie automata, de una singura, noaptea.