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.

Balaban Alina

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestea menajerei – Capitolul V
 

Merg pe strada insotita. Desi nu mai suntem in complexul Comandantilor, si aici sunt case mari.In fata uneia din ele, un gardian taie iarba. Peluzele sunt ingrijite, fatadele sunt elegante, in buna conditie; ele sunt ca imaginile frumoase pe care obisnuiau sa le arate in revistele despre locuinte si gradini si decoratiuni interioare. Este aceiasi absenta a oamenilor, acelasi aer de somnolenta. Strada este aproape ca un muzeu, sau o strada intr-un oras-macheta construit pentru a arata felul in care oamenii obisnuiau sa traiasca. Ca si in acele imagini, acele muzee, acele orase machta, nu apar copii.
Aceasta este inima Galaad-ului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde decat la televiziune. Unde sunt marginile nu suntem siguri, variaza in functie de atacuri si contra-atacuri; dar acesta este centrul, unde nimic nu misca. Republica Galaad, zicea matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste granite. Galaad este in tine.
Doctori au trait candva aici, avocati, profesori universitari.In zilele noastre nu mai sunt avocati iar universitatea este inchisa.
Luke si cu mine obisnuiam sa mergem impreuna, uneori, de-a lungul acestor strazi.Vorbeam despre cumpararea unei case ca una din acestea, o casa mare si veche, sa o reparam. Am fi avut o gradina, leagane pentru Copii. Am fi avut si noi copii. Desi stiam ca nu e putin probabil ca ne-o vom putea permite vreodata, era doar ceva despre care vorbeam, un joc de duminica. Asemenea libertate pare acum aproape neinsemnata.
Cotim pe o strada principala, unde este mai mult traffic. Trec masini pe langa noi, negre cele mai multe din ele, unele gri si maro. Sunt pe strada alte femei ce duc cosuri,unele in rosu, altele in verdele intunecat al Marthelor, unele in rochii cu dungi, rosii si albastre si verzi si ieftine si prea scurte, care indica pe femeile barbatilor mai saraci. Econosotii li se spune. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite pe atributii. Trebuie sa faca totul; daca pot. Cateodata trece cate o femeie imbracata toata in negru, o vaduva. De obicei erau mai multe, dar pare sa scada numarul lor. Nu vezi sotiile Comandantilor pe trotuare. Doar in masini.
Trotuarele aici sunt de ciment. Ca un copil, evit sa calc pe fisuri.Imi aduc aminte de picioarele mele pe acele trotuare, inainte,si ce obisnuiam sa port. Uneori erau pantofi pentru alergare, cu perne de aer puse si gauri pentru aerisire, si stele din material fluorescent care reflectau lumina in intuneric. Desi nu alergam niciodata noaptea; iar in timpul zilei, numai in apropiere de drumuri destul de frecventate.
Femeile nu erau protejate atunci.
Imi aduc aminte de reguli, reguli care nu erau niciodata pronuntate, dar pe care fiecare femeie le cunostea: Nu-ti deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca spune ca e de la politie.

Fa-l sa-si strecoare legitimatia pe sub usa. Nu opri pe drum sa ajuti un automobilist care pretinde ca are probleme. Tine zavoarele incuiate si continua sa mergi. Daca cineva fluiera, nu te intoarce sa te uiti. Nu te duce la o spalatorie de rufe automata, singura, noaptea.