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.

Irimia Stefan

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestirea cameristei – Capitolul V
 

Dublata, merg pe strada. Desi nu mai suntem in campusul comandantilor, sunt si aici case mari. In fata uneia dintre ele un gradinar tundea iarba. Iarba este aranjata, fatadele sunt gratioase, in stare buna. Sunt ca frumoasele imagini pe care obisnuiau sa le arate in revistele despre casa si gradina si decoratiuni interioare. Este aceeasi absenta a oamenilor, acelasi aer adormit.
Strada este aproape ca un muzeu, sau o strada intr-o macheta a unui oras contruit sa arate felul in care oameni obisnuiau sa traiasca. Ca in acele picturi, acele muzee, acele machete ale oraselor, copiii neexistand.
Acesta este inima Galaad-ului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde decat prin televiziune. Unde se afla marginile nu suntem siguri, ele pot varia, in functie de atacuri si contraatacuri; dar acesta este centrul, unde nimic nu se misca. Republica Galaad, spunea matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste limite. Galaad se afla in tine.
Doctori au trait aici odata, avocati, profesori universitari. Nu mai exista avocati, si universitatea s-a inchis.
Luke si cu mine obisnuiam sa ne plimbam impreuna, cateodata, pe strazile acestea. Obisnuiam sa vorbim despre cumpararea unei case ca acestea, o casa mare si veche, pe care noi am renova-o. Am avea o gradina, un leagan pentru copii. Am avea copii. Totusi stiam ca e putin probabil sa ne permitem vreodata, era doar un subiect de discutat, ca un joc pentru sambata. Asemea libertate acum pare aproape imposibila.
Dam coltul cu strada principala unde e mai mult trafic. Masinile trec, negre majoritatea, unele gri sau maro. Mai sunt si alte femei cu cosuri, unele in rosu, alte in verdele plicticos al Marthelor, unele in rochii in dungi, rosii si albastre si verzi si ieftine si fade,ce marcheaza femeile barbatilor saraci. Acestea erau numite femeile economice. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite in functii. Ele trebuie sa faca totul - asta daca pot. Cateodata mai trece cate o femeie imbracata in negru, o vaduva. Obisnuiau sa fie mai multe dar se pare ca numarul lor diminueaza. Nu vezi sotiile Comandantilor pe trotuar.
Aici trotuarul este din asfalt. Exact ca un copil evit sa calc pe crapaturi. Imi amintesc picioarele mele pe aceste trotuare, inainte, si ce incaltaminte purtam. Cateodata erau adidasi pentru alergare cu talpi ergonomice si gauri de aerisire si stele fosforescente ce reflecta lumina in intuneric. Cu toate ca nu am alergat niciodata noaptea si ziua numai in locuri frecventate de multa lume. Femeile nu erau protejate atunci.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli care niciodata nu erau detaliate dar pe care fiecare femeie le cunostea: Nu deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca zice ce e politist. Pune-l sa iti strecoare legitimatia pe sub usa. Nu te opri pe drum pentru a ajuta un automobilist care pretinde are probleme. Tine privirea inainte si mergi. Daca cineva fluiera nu te intoarce sa te uiti. Nu te duce intr-o spalatorie, singura, in noapte.