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.

Medianu Iris

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestea cameristei – Capitolul V
 

Insotita, merg pe strada. Cu toate ca nu mai suntem in complexul comandantilor, si aici sunt case mari. In fata uneia, un Paznic tunde peluza. Peluzele sunt ingrijite, fatadele elegante, bine intretinute; sunt ca frumoasele imagini publicate candva in reviste despre case, gradini si decoratiuni interioare. E aceesi lipsa a oamenilor, acelasi aer de toropeala. Strada e aproape ca un muzeu sau o strada intr-o macheta de oras construita pentru a reda modul in care oamenii traiau odinioara. Ca si in acele imagini, acele muzee, acele orase macheta, nu sunt copii.
Aceasta este inima Galaadului, unde razboiul nu poate patrunde decat la televizor. Unde sunt marginile, nu stim sigur, caci variaza in functie de atacuri si contraatacuri; dar acesta este centrul, unde nimic nu se misca. Republica Galaad, spunea matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste granite. Galaad este inauntrul vostru.
Doctori, avocati si profesori universitari au locuit candva aici. Acum nu mai sunt avocati, iar universitatea este inchisa.
Luke si cu mine ne plimbam impreuna uneori, pe aceste strazi. Vorbeam despre cumpararea unei case asemenea uneia dintre acestea, o casa mare si veche, si despre renovarea ei. Ne inchipuiam ca vom avea o gradina si leagane pentru Copii. Vom avea copii. Cu toate ca stiam ca sansele s-o facem cu adevarat nu erau prea mari, era ceva despre care puteam vorbi, un joc de duminica. O asemenea libertate acum pare aproape imponderabila.
Dam coltul in strada principala, unde e mai mult trafic. Trec masini, majoritatea negre, altele gri sau maro. Vezi alte femei carand cosuri, unele in rosu, unele intr-un verde banal specifice Martelor, altele in rochii in dungi, rosii si albastre si verzi si ieftine si sumare, care caracterizeaza sotiile barbatilor mai saraci. Ele sunt numite “econoneveste”. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite pe sarcini. Ele trebuie sa faca totul; daca sunt in stare. Cateodata vezi o femeie toata in negru, o vaduva. Erau odata mai multe, dar par sa se rareasca. N-o sa vezi Sotiile Comandantilor pe trotuar. Numai in masini.
Aici, trotuarele sunt cimentate. Ca un copil, evit sa calc pe crapaturi. Mi-amintesc pasii pe acele trotuare, in trecut, si cu ce ma incaltam. Uneori erau pantofi de alergat, cu talpi de protectie si orificii pentru aerisire, si stele din material fluorescent ce reflectau lumina in intuneric. Cu toate acestea nu alergam noaptea; si in timpul zilei, doar langa strazile foarte circulate.
In vremea aceea, femeile nu erau protejate.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli care nu au fost niciodata exprimate clar, dar pe care fiecare femeie le stia: Nu deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca el pretinde ca e de la politie. Fa-l sa iti strecoare carnetul de identitate pe sub usa. Nu te opri pe sosea pentru a ajuta un sofer care se face ca are probleme. Tine portierele inchise si vezi-ti de drum. Daca cineva fluiera, nu-ti intoarce privirea. Nu merge intr-o spalatorie cu plata de una singura pe timpul noptii.