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.

Udrea Denisa

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestirea servitoarei – Capitolul V
 

Insotita, ma plimb pe strazi. Desi nu ne mai aflam in vila Comandantului, si aici sunt case mari. In fata uneia dintre ele, un Gardian tunde peluza. Peluzele sunt curate, fatadele sunt gratioase, in stare buna; sunt ca pozele frumoase care apar in revistele despre case si gradini si decoratii interioare. Este aceeasi absenta a oamenilor, acelasi aer de dormitare. Strada este ca un muzeu, sau o strada dintr-un oras macheta construit pentru a ilustra modul in care oamenii obisnuiau sa traiasca. Ca in acele poze, muzee, orase macheta, nu exista copii.
Aceasta este esenta Galaad-ului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde decat prin intermediul televiziunii. Nu suntem siguri care sunt limitele, variaza in functie de atacuri si contratacuri, dar acesta este centrul unde nimic nu se misca. Republica Galaad, cum spunea Matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste limite. Galaad-ul este in fiecare dintre noi.
Candva au locuit aici doctori, avocati, profesori univesitari. Acum nu mai sunt avocati, iar universitatea este inchisa.
Luke si cu mine obisnuiam sa ne plimbam impreuna, cateodata, de-alungul acestor strazi. Vorbeam sa ne cumparam o casa ca acestea, o casa mare si sa o reparam. Am avea o gradina, leagane pentru Copii. Am avea copii. Desi stiam ca e putin probabil sa ne-o permitem vreodata, era ceva despre care vorbeam, un joc pentru zilele de Duminica. Asemenea libertate pare acum fara valoare.
Dam coltul intr-o strada principala, unde traficul este mai intens. Trec masini, cele mai multe sunt negre, unele sunt cenusii si maronii. Sunt si alte femei cu cosuri, unele imbracate in rosu, altele in plictisitorul verde al Marthelor, cateva in rochii cu dungi, rosii si albastre si verzi si ieftine si saracaciose, care desemneaza nevestele oamenilor saraci. Sunt denumite econo-neveste. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite pe functii. Ele trebuie sa faca totul; daca pot. Cateodata apare o femeie imbracata toata in negru, o vaduva. Erau mai multe, dar se pare ca numarul lor se micsoreza. Nu le vezi pe nevestele comandantului pe trotuare. Doar in masini.
Trotuarele de aici sunt cimentate. Ca un copil, ma feresc sa calc pe crapaturi. Imi aduc aminte de picioarele mele pe aceste trotuare, demult, si ce obisnuiam sa port. Cateodata erau pantofi de alergat cu talpa moale si gauri de aerisire si stele din material flurorescent care reflectau lumina in intuneric. Totusi, nu alergam niciodata noaptea; iar in timpul zilei, numai pe langa drumurile aglomerate.
Femeile nu erau in siguranta pe atunci.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli care nu erau niciodata rostite, dar pe care fiecare femeie le stia: nu deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca spune ca e de la politie. Fa-l sa strecoare cartea de identitate pe sub usa. Nu te opri in drum ca sa ajuti un motociclist care pretinde a avea probleme. Tine usile incuiate si continua sa mergi. Daca cineva fluiera, nu te intorce sa te uiti. Nu te duce intr-o spalatorie noaptea de una singura.