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.

Manea Ana

Margaret Atwood
 

Povestirea cameristei – Capitolul V
 

Insotita,  merg pe strada. Desi nu mai suntem in districtul comandantilor, sunt si aici, de asemenea case mari, spatioase. In fata uneia dintre ele un gardian tunde gazonul. Peluzele sunt ingrijite, fatadele sunt “elegante”, in stare buna; sunt precum frumoasele ilustrate pe care obisnuiau sa le publice in revistele despre case, gradini si decoratiuni interioare. Este aceeasi lipsa de oameni, acelasi aer amortit. Strada seamana cu un muzeu, sau cu o strada construita pe o macheta a unui oras pentru a arata modul in care oamenii obisnuiau sa traiasca. La fel ca in acele ilustrate, acele muzee, acele machete, acolo nu sunt copiii.
Acesta este “inima” orasului Galaad, unde razboiul nu se poate infiltra decat prin televiziune. Unde se afla marginile nu stim sigur, ele variaza, in functie de atacuri si contraatacuri; dar acesta este centrul orasului, unde nimic nu se misca. Republica Galaad, spunea matusa Lydia, nu cunoaste granite. Galaad se afla in interiorul tau.
Medici au locuit aici candva, avocati, profesori universitari. Acum nu mai sunt avocati, iar universitatea este inchisa.
Eu si Luke obisnuiam sa ne plimbam impreuna, uneori, de-a lungul acestor strazi. Obisnuiam sa vorbim despre cumpararea unei case, ca oricare dintre acestea, o casa mare, veche pe care sa o reparam. Am fi avut o gradina cu leagane pentru copii. Am fi avut copii. Desi stiam ca era putin probabil sa ne permite vreodata toate acestea, era totusi ceva despre care sa vorbim, un “joc” pentru duminica. Asemenea libertate acum pare intangibila.
Dupa colt am ajuns pe o strada principala, unde traficul este mai intens. Masinile trec pe langa noi, majoritatea negre, unele gri si maro. Sunt si alte femei cu cosuri, unele in rosu, unele in verdele sters al Martelor, altele in rochii vargate, rosii, albastre, verzi, ieftine si neingrijite care indicau pe femeile barbatilor mai saraci. Sotii economice, asa erau numite. Aceste femei nu sunt impartite pe functii. Ele trebuie sa faca totul, daca pot. Uneori apare o femeie imbracata toata in negru, o vaduva. Obisnuiau sa fie mai multe, dar se pare ca numarul lor descreste. Nu vezi sotiile comandantilor pe trotuare. Doar in masini.
Trotuarele aici sunt cimentate. Ca un copil, evit sa pasesc pe crapaturi. Imi amintesc picioarele mele pasind pe aceste trotuare, in timpul deja apus, si ce obisnuiam sa port. Uneori erau pantofi pentru jogging, cu amortizoare pentru talpa, si cu gauri speciale pentru ca piciorul sa poata respira si cu stele din material fosforescent ce reflectau lumina in intuneric. Desi , nu am alergat niciodata noaptea, ci doar in timpul zilei si doar pe strazile frecventate.
Femeile nu erau protejate pe atunci.
Imi amintesc regulile, reguli care nu erau niciodata spuse dar pe care fiecare femeie le stia: Nu deschide usa unui strain, chiar daca iti zice ca este de la politie. Pune-l sa-ti arate legitimatia pe sub usa. Nu te opri pe strada sa ajuti un calator ce pare a fi in necaz. Priveste inainte si vezi-ti de drum. Daca cineva fluiera, nu te intoarce ca sa privesti. Nu intra intr-o spalatorie, de una singura, noaptea.