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.

Nesu Alina

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestirea servitoarei – Capitolul V
 

Merg, insotita, pe strada. Cu toate ca nu mai suntem in tabara comandantului, si aici sunt case mari. In fata uneia din ele un gardian tunde peluza. Peluzele sunt ingrijite, fatadele sunt gratioase, in stare buna; sunt ca imaginile frumoase care obisnuiau sa fie publicate in revistele despre case, gradini si decoratiuni interioare. Este aceeasi absenta a oamenilor, acelasi aer de adormire. Strada este aproape asemeni unui muzeu, sau a unei strazi intr-un oras macheta construit pentru a arata cum obisnuiau sa traiasca oamenii. Ca in acele imagini, acele muzee, acele orase macheta, aici nu sunt copii.
Aceasta este inima Galaadului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde decat prin intermediul televizorului. Unde sunt limitele nu suntem siguri, variaza in functie de atacuri si contraatacuri; dar acesta este centrul, unde nimic nu misca. Republica Galaad, zicea matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste limite. Galaad este inauntrul tau.
Doctori locuiau aici odinioara, avocati, profesori universitari. Nu mai sunt avocati iar universitatea este inchisa.
Luke si cu mine obisnuiam sa mergem impreuna uneori de-a lungul acestor strazi. Vorbeam despre cum am cumpara o casa ca acestea, o casa mare si veche, cum am renova-o. Am avea o gradina, leagane pentru copii. Am avea copii. Desi stiam ca nu era prea probabil sa ne permitem vreodata asta, era un subiect de discutie, un joc pentru duminici. O asemenea libertate pare acum lipsita de greutate.
Dam coltul catre o strada principala unde este mai mult trafic. Trec masini, majoritatea negre, cateva gri sau maro. Sunt si alte femei cu panere, unele in rosu, altele in verdele pal al Marthasului, unele in rochiile ieftine si sumare, dungate cu rosu, albastru si verde, marcand femeile barbatilor mai saraci. Econosotiile, asa sunt numite. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite in functii. Ele trebuie sa faca de toate; daca pot. Uneori mai este cate o femeie imbracata toata in negru, o vaduva. Erau mai multe, dar se pare ca numarul lor se diminueaza. Nu mai vezi sotiile comandantilor pe trotuare. Numai in masini.
Trotuarele de aici sunt din ciment. Asemeni unui copil evit sa calc pe crapaturi. Imi amintesc picioarele mele pe aceste trotuare inainte, si cu ce obisnuiam sa le incalt. Cateodata erau pantofi pentru alergat, cu talpi cu pernite si gauri pentru aerisire si cu stele din material fluorescent ce reflectau lumina in intuneric. Desi niciodata nu alergam noaptea; iar ziua numai in de-a lungul strazilor foarte frecventate.
Femeile nu erau protejate pe atunci.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli ce nu erau niciodata spuse, dar pe care fiecare femeie le cunostea: nu deschide usa niciunui strain, chiar daca spune ca este politist. Pune-l sa isi strecoare actul de identitate pe sub usa. Nu opri pe sosea ca sa ajuti un automobilist ce pretinde ca are probleme. Tine portierele incuiate si continua-ti drumul. Daca cineva fluiera, nu te intoarce sa te uiti cine era. Nu intra int-o spalatorie singura, noaptea.