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So, you're thenew one, shesaid. Shedidn't stepaside tolet me in,she juststood there in the doorway, blockingtheentrance. Shewanted metofeel that Icould notcome into the house unless shesaid so. There ispush andshove, thesedays,oversuch toeholds. Yes, Isaid. Leave iton the porch. Shesaid thistothe Guardian, whowascarrying mybag. Thebag was redvinyl andnotlarge. There wasanother bag,withthewinter cloakandheavier dresses, butthat would becoming later. The Guardian setdown thebag andsaluted her. Then Icould hearhisfootsteps behind me, going backdown thewalk, andtheclick ofthe front gate, andIfelt asifa protective arm were being withdrawn. Thethreshold ofanew house isalonely place. She waited untilthecarstarted upand pulled away. Iwasn't looking ather face, butat the part ofher Icould seewith myhead lowered: herblue waist, thickened, herlefthand on the ivory head ofher cane, thelarge diamonds onthe ring finger, whichmustonce have been fineand was stillfinely kept,thefingernail atthe end ofthe knuckly finger filed toagentle curving point.
Itwas likeanironic smile, onthat finger; likesomething mocking her. You might aswell come in,she said. Sheturned herback onme and limped downthe hall. Shut thedoor behind you. I lifted myred bag inside, asshe'd nodoubt intended, thenclosed thedoor. Ididn't say anything toher. Aunt Lydia saiditwas best nottospeak unless theyasked youadirect question. Trytothink ofitfrom theirpoint ofview, shesaid, herhands clasped and wrung together, hernervous pleading smile. Itisn't easy forthem. In here, saidtheCommander's Wife. When Iwent intothesitting roomshewas already in her chair, herleftfoot onthe footstool, withitspetit point cushion, rosesinabasket.
Her knitting wasonthe floor beside thechair, theneedles stuckthrough it. I stood infront ofher, hands folded. So,she said. Shehadacigarette, andsheputit between herlips and gripped itthere whileshelitit. Her lipswere thin,held thatway, with thesmall vertical linesaround themyouused tosee inadvertisements forlip cosmetics. Thelighter wasivory- colored. Thecigarettes musthave come fromtheblack market, Ithought, andthisgave mehope. Evennowthatthere isno real money anymore, there'sstillablack market. There'salwaysablack market, there'salways something thatcanbeexchanged. Shethen wasawoman whomight bendtherules. But what didIhave, totrade? I looked atthe cigarette withlonging. Forme, likeliquor andcoffee, theyareforbidden. So old what's- his-face didn't workout,shesaid. No, ma'am, Isaid. She gave whatmight havebeen alaugh, thencoughed.
Toughluckonhim, shesaid. This isyour second, isn'tit? Third, ma'am, Isaid. Not sogood foryou either, shesaid. There wasanother coughing laugh. Youcansit down. Idon't make apractice ofit,but just thistime. I did sit,onthe edge ofone ofthe stiff- backed chairs. Ididn't wanttostare around the room, Ididn't wanttoappear inattentive toher; sothe marble mantelpiece tomy right and themirror overitand thebunches offlowers werejustshadows, then,atthe edges of my eyes. LaterIwould havemore thanenough timetotake them in. Now herface wasonalevel withmine. Ithought Irecognized her;oratleast there was something familiarabouther. Alittle ofher hair was showing, fromunder herveil. Itwas still blond. Ithought thenthatmaybe shebleached it,that hairdyewas something else she could getthrough theblack market, butIknow nowthatitreally isblond.
Her eyebrows wereplucked intothinarched lines,which gaveherapermanent lookof surprise, oroutrage, orinquisitiveness, suchasyou might seeonastartled child,but below themhereyelids weretired-looking. Notsoher eyes, which weretheflathostile blue ofamidsummer skyinbright sunlight, ablue thatshuts youout. Hernose must once havebeen whatwascalled cutebutnow wastoosmall forher face. Herface was not fatbut itwas large. Twolines leddownward fromthecorners ofher mouth; between them washerchin, clenched likeafist. I want tosee aslittle ofyou aspossible, shesaid. Iexpect youfeelthesame wayabout me. I didn't answer, asayes would havebeen insulting, ano contradictory. I know youaren't stupid, shewent on. She inhaled, blewoutthesmoke. I'veread your file. AsfarasI'm concerned, thisislike abusiness transaction. ButifIget trouble, I'll give trouble back. Yes, ma'am, Isaid. Don't callmema'am, shesaid irritably. I didn't askwhat Iwas supposed tocall her, because Icould seethat shehoped Iwould never havetheoccasion tocall heranything atall.
Iwas disappointed. Iwanted, then,to turn herinto anolder sister, amotherly figure,someone whowould understand and protect me. The Wife inmy posting beforethishad spent mostofher time inher bedroom; theMarthas saidshedrank. Iwanted thisone tobe different. Iwanted tothink I would havelikedher,inanother timeandplace, another life. ButIcould seealready that Iwouldn't havelikedher,norshe me. She puther cigarette out,halfsmoked, inalittle scrolled ashtrayonthe lamp table beside her. She didthis decisively, onejaband onegrind, nottheseries ofgenteel taps favored bymany ofthe Wives. As formy husband, shesaid, he'sjustthat. Iwant thattobe perfectly clear. Tilldeath douspart. Yes, ma'am, Isaid again, forgetting. Theyusedtohave dolls, forlittle girls, thatwould talk ifyou pulled astring atthe back; Ithought Iwas sounding likethat, voice ofa monotone, voiceofadoll.
Sheprobably longedtoslap myface. They canhitus, there's Scriptural precedent. Butnotwith anyimplement. Onlywiththeir hands. It's one ofthe things wefought for,said theCommander's Wife,andsuddenly she wasn't looking atme, shewas looking downather knuckled, diamond-studdedhands, and Iknew where I'dseen herbefore. The firsttime wasontelevision, whenIwas eight ornine. Itwas when mymother was sleeping in,on Sunday mornings, andIwould getupearly andgotothe television setin my mother's studyandflipthrough thechannels, lookingforcartoons. Sometimes when I couldn't findanyIwould watchtheGrowing SoulsGospel Hour,where theywould tell Bible stories forchildren andsing hymns. Oneofthe women wascalled Serena Joy. She wasthelead soprano. Shewasashblond, petite,withasnub noseandhuge blue eyes which she'dturnupwards duringhymns. Shecould smileandcryatthe same time, one tear ortwo sliding gracefully downhercheek, asifon cue, asher voice lifted through itshighest notes,tremulous, effortless.
Itwas after thatshewent ontoother things. The woman sittinginfront ofme was Serena Joy. Orhad been, once. Soitwas worse than Ithought. CHAPTER 4 I walk along thegravel paththatdivides theback lawn, neatly, likeahair parting. Ithas rained duringthenight; thegrass toeither sideisdamp, theairhumid. Hereandthere are worms, evidence ofthe fertility ofthe soil, caught bythe sun, halfdead; flexible and pink, likelips. I open thewhite picket gateandcontinue, pastthefront lawn andtowards thefront gate. In the driveway, oneofthe Guardians assignedtoour household iswashing thecar. That must mean theCommander isin the house, inhis own quarters, pastthedining room andbeyond, whereheseems tostay most ofthe time.
The carisavery expensive one,aWhirlwind; betterthantheChariot, muchbetter than the chunky, practical Behemoth. It'sblack, ofcourse, thecolor ofprestige orahearse, and long andsleek. Thedriver isgoing overitwith achamois, lovingly. Thisatleast hasn't changed, theway men caress goodcars. He's wearing theuniform ofthe Guardians, buthiscap istilted atajaunty angleandhis sleeves arerolled tothe elbow, showing hisforearms, tannedbutwith astipple ofdark hairs, Hehas acigarette stuckinthe corner ofhis mouth, whichshows thathetoo has something hecan trade onthe black market. I know thisman's name: Nick. Iknow thisbecause I'veheard RitaandCora talking about him,andonce Iheard theCommander speakingtohim: Nick, Iwon't beneeding the car.
He lives here, inthe household, overthegarage. Lowstatus: hehasn't beenissued a woman, noteven one. Hedoesn't rate:some defect, lackofconnections. Butheacts as if he doesn't knowthis,orcare, He'stoocasual, he'snotservile enough. Itmay be stupidity, butIdon't thinkso. Smells fishy,theyused tosay; or,Ismell arat. Misfit as odor. Despite myself,Ithink ofhow hemight smell. Notfishordecaying rat;tanned skin, moist inthe sun, filmed withsmoke. Isigh, inhaling. He looks atme, and sees melooking. Hehas aFrench face,lean, whimsical, allplanes and angles, withcreases aroundthemouth wherehesmiles.
Hetakes afinal puffofthe cigarette, letsitdrop tothe driveway, andsteps onit. He begins towhistle. Thenhe winks. I drop myhead andturn sothat thewhite wings hidemyface, andkeep walking. He's just taken arisk, butforwhat? WhatifIwere toreport him? Perhaps hewas merely beingfriendly. Perhaps hesaw thelook onmy face andmistook it for something else. Really whatIwanted wasthecigarette. Perhaps itwas atest, tosee what Iwould do. Perhaps heisan Eye. I open thefront gateandclose itbehind me,looking downbutnotback. Thesidewalk is red brick. Thatisthe landscape Ifocus on,afield ofoblongs, gentlyundulating where the earth beneath hasbuckled, fromdecade afterdecade ofwinter frost. Thecolor of the bricks isold, yetfresh andclear. Sidewalks arekept much cleaner thantheyused to be.
I walk tothe corner andwait. Iused tobe bad atwaiting. Theyalsoserve whoonly stand andwait, saidAunt Lydia. Shemade usmemorize it. She also said, Notallofyou will make itthrough. Someofyou willfallondry ground orthorns. Someofyou are shallow- rooted. Shehadamole onher chin thatwent upand down whileshetalked. She said, Think ofyourselves asseeds, andright then hervoice waswheedling, conspiratorial, likethevoices ofthose women whoused toteach balletclasses to children, andwho would say,Arms upinthe airnow; let'spretend we'retrees. Istand on the corner, pretending Iam atree. A shape, redwith white wings around theface, ashape likemine, anondescript woman in red carrying abasket, comesalongthebrick sidewalk towardsme.
She reaches me and wepeer ateach other's faces,looking downthewhite tunnels ofcloth thatenclose us. She isthe right one. Weturn andwalk together past the large houses, towardsthecentral partoftown. Wearen't allowed togo there except in twos. Thisissupposed tobe for our protection, thoughthenotion isabsurd: weare well protected already. Thetruth isthat sheismy spy, asIam hers. Ifeither ofus slips through thenetbecause ofsomething thathappens onone ofour daily walks, theother will beaccountable. This woman hasbeen mypartner fortwo weeks.
Idon't know whathappened tothe one before. Onacertain dayshesimply wasn'tthereanymore, andthisone was there inher place. Itisn't thesort ofthing youaskquestions about,because theanswers arenot usually answers youwant toknow. Anyway therewouldn't beananswer. This oneisalittle plumper thanIam. Hereyes arebrown. Hername isOfglen, and that's about allIknow about her. She walks demurely, headdown, red-gloved hands clasped infront, withshort littlesteps likeatrained pig's,onitshind legs. During these walks shehasnever saidanything thatwas notstrictly orthodox, butthen, neither have I. She may beareal believer, aHandmaid inmore thanname. Ican't taketherisk. Idon't askherhow sheknows, "Whatwerethey? Theyhadastronghold inthe Blue Hills. They smoked themout. ButI'mravenous for news, anykind ofnews; evenifit's false news, itmust mean something.
We reach thefirst barrier, whichislike thebarriers blocking offroadworks, ordug- up sewers: awooden crisscross paintedinyellow andblack stripes, ared hexagon which means Stop. Nearthegateway therearesome lanterns, notlitbecause itisn't night. Above us,Iknow, therearefloodlights, attachedtothe telephone poles,foruse in emergencies, andthere aremen withmachine gunsinthe pillboxes oneither sideofthe road. Idon't seethefloodlights andthepillboxes, becauseofthe wings around myface. I just know theyarethere. Behind thebarrier, waitingforusatthe narrow gateway, therearetwo men, inthe green uniforms ofthe Guardians ofthe Faith, withthecrests ontheir shoulders andberets: two swords, crossed, aboveawhite triangle. TheGuardians aren'trealsoldiers. They're used forroutine policing andother menial functions, diggingupthe Commander's Wife's garden, forinstance, andthey're eitherstupid orolder ordisabled orvery young, apart from theones thatareEyes incognito.
These twoarevery young: onemustache isstill sparse, oneface isstill blotchy. Their youth istouching, butIknow Ican't bedeceived byit. The young onesareoften the most dangerous, themost fanatical, thejumpiest withtheir guns. Theyhaven't yet learned aboutexistence throughtime. Youhave togo slowly withthem. Last week theyshotawoman, rightabout here. Shewasfumbling in her robe, forher pass, andthey thought shewas hunting forabomb. Theythought she was aman indisguise. Therehavebeen suchincidents. Rita andCora knew thewoman.
Iheard themtalking aboutit,in the kitchen. Doing theirjob,said Cora. Keeping ussafe. Nothing saferthandead, saidRita, angrily. Shewasminding herown business. Nocall to shoot her. It was anaccident, saidCora. No such thing, saidRita. Everything ismeant. I could hearherthumping thepots around, inthe sink. Well, someone'll thinktwice before blowing upthis house, anyways, saidCora. All the same, saidRita. Sheworked hard. Thatwasabad death. I can think ofworse, saidCora. Atleast itwas quick. You cansaythat, saidRita. I'dchoose tohave some time,before, like. Toset things right. The twoyoung Guardians saluteus,raising threefingers tothe rims oftheir berets. Such tokens areaccorded tous. They aresupposed toshow respect, because ofthe nature ofour service. We produce ourpasses, fromthezippered pocketsinour wide sleeves, andthey are inspected andstamped.
Oneman goes intotheright- hand pillbox, topunch our numbers intotheCompuchek. In returning mypass, theone with thepeach- colored mustache bendshishead totry to get alook atmy face. Iraise myhead alittle, tohelp him,andhesees myeyes andI see his,and heblushes. Hisface islong andmournful, likeasheep's, butwith thelarge full eyes ofadog, spaniel notterrier. Hisskin ispale andlooks unwholesomely tender, like theskin under ascab. Nevertheless, Ithink ofplacing myhand onit,this exposed face. Heisthe one who turns away. It's anevent, asmall defiance ofrule, sosmall astobe undetectable, butsuch moments are therewards Ihold outformyself, likethecandy Ihoarded, asachild, atthe back of a drawer. Suchmoments arepossibilities, tinypeepholes. What ifIwere tocome atnight, whenhe'sonduty alone —though hewould neverbe allowed suchsolitude —and permit himbeyond mywhite wings? WhatifIwere topeel off my red shroud andshow myself tohim, tothem, bythe uncertain lightofthe lanterns?
Thisiswhat theymust thinkabout sometimes, asthey stand endlessly beside this barrier, pastwhich nobody evercomes except theCommanders ofthe Faithful in their longblack murmurous cars,ortheir blueWives andwhite- veiled daughters ontheir dutiful waytoSalvagings orPrayvaganzas, ortheir dumpy greenMarthas, orthe occasional Birthmobile, ortheir redHandmaids, onfoot. Orsometimes ablack- painted van, withthewinged Eyeinwhite onthe side. Thewindows ofthe vans aredark- tinted, and themen inthe front seats weardarkglasses: adouble obscurity. The vans aresurely moresilent thantheother cars. When theypass, weavert oureyes. If there aresounds comingfrominside, wetrynot tohear them. Nobody's heartis perfect. When theblack vansreach acheckpoint, they'rewavedthrough withoutapause.
The Guardians wouldnotwant totake therisk oflooking inside,searching, doubtingtheir authority. Whatever theythink. If they dothink; youcan't tellbylooking atthem. But more likelytheydon't thinkinterms ofclothing discarded onthe lawn. Ifthey think of a kiss, theymust thenthink immediately ofthe floodlights goingon,therifle shots. They think instead ofdoing theirdutyandofpromotion tothe Angels, andofbeing allowed possibly tomarry, andthen, ifthey areable togain enough powerandlivetobe old enough, ofbeing allotted aHandmaid oftheir own. The onewith themustache opensthesmall pedestrian gateforusand stands back,well out ofthe way, andwepass through. Aswe walk away Iknow they're watching, these two men whoaren't yetpermitted totouch women. Theytouch withtheir eyes instead and Imove myhips alittle, feeling thefullred skirt sway around me.
It'slike thumbing your nose frombehind afence orteasing adog with abone heldoutofreach, andI'm ashamed ofmyself fordoing it,because noneofthis isthe fault ofthese men,they're too young. ThenIfind I'mnot ashamed afterall. Ienjoy thepower; powerofadog bone, passive butthere. Ihope theygethard atthe sight ofus and have torub themselves against thepainted barriers, surreptitiously. Theywillsuffer, later,atnight, intheir regimented beds. Theyhavenooutlets nowexcept themselves, andthat's asacrilege. There arenomore magazines, nomore films, nomore substitutes; onlymeand my shadow, walkingawayfromthetwo men, whostand atattention, stiffly,byaroadblock, watching ourretreating shapes. CHAPTER 5 Doubled, Iwalk thestreet. Though weare nolonger inthe Commanders' compound, there arelarge houses herealso. Infront ofone ofthem aGuardian ismowing thelawn. The lawns aretidy, thefacades aregracious, ingood repair; they're likethebeautiful pictures theyused toprint inthe magazines abouthomes andgardens andinterior decoration.
Thereisthe same absence ofpeople, thesame airofbeing asleep. The street isalmost likeamuseum, orastreet inamodel townconstructed toshow theway people usedtolive. Asinthose pictures, thosemuseums, thosemodel towns, thereare no children. This isthe heart ofGilead, wherethewar cannot intrude exceptontelevision. Wherethe edges arewearen't sure,theyvary, according tothe attacks andcounterattacks; but this isthe center, wherenothing moves. TheRepublic ofGilead, saidAunt Lydia, knows no bounds. Gileadiswithin you. Doctors livedhereonce, lawyers, university professors.
Therearenolawyers anymore, and theuniversity isclosed. Luke andIused towalk together, sometimes, alongthesestreets. Weused totalk about buying ahouse likeone ofthese, anold bighouse, fixingitup. We would havea garden, swingsforthe Children. Wewould havechildren. Although weknew itwasn't too likely wecould everafford it,itwas something totalk about, agame forSundays. Such freedom nowseems almostweightless. We turn thecorner ontoamain street, wherethere's moretraffic. Carsgoby, black most of them, somegrayandbrown. Thereareother women withbaskets, someinred, some in the dull green ofthe Marthas, someinthe striped dresses, redand blue andgreen and cheap andskimpy, thatmark thewomen ofthe poorer men. Econowives, they're called. Thesewomen arenotdivided intofunctions. Theyhavetodo everything; ifthey can. Sometimes thereisawoman allinblack, awidow.
Thereusedtobe more ofthem, but they seem tobe diminishing. Youdon't seetheCommanders' Wivesonthe sidewalks. The sidewalks herearecement. Likeachild, Iavoid stepping onthe cracks. Sometimes itwas shoes forrunning, withcushioned solesandbreathing holes, and stars offluorescent fabricthatreflected lightinthe darkness. ThoughInever ranat night; andinthe daytime, onlybeside well-frequented roads. Women werenotprotected then. I remember therules, rulesthatwere never spelled outbutthat every woman knew: Don't openyourdoor toastranger, evenifhe says heisthe police.
Makehimslide his ID under thedoor. Don't stoponthe road tohelp amotorist pretending tobe introuble. Keep thelocks onand keep going. Ifanyone whistles, don'tturntolook. Don't gointo a laundromat, byyourself, atnight. I think about laundromats. WhatIwore tothem: shorts, jeans,jogging pants. WhatIput into them: myown clothes, myown soap, myown money, moneyIhad earned myself. I think about having suchcontrol. Now wewalk along thesame street, inred pairs, andnoman shouts obscenities atus, speaks tous, touches us. Noone whistles. There ismore thanonekind offreedom, saidAunt Lydia. Freedom toand freedom from. In the days ofanarchy, itwas freedom to. Now youarebeing givenfreedom from. Don't underrate it.
In front ofus, tothe right, isthe store where weorder dresses. Somepeople callthem habits, agood wordforthem. Habits arehard tobreak. Thestore hasahuge wooden sign outside it,in the shape ofagolden lily;Lilies ofthe Field, it'scalled. Youcansee the place, underthelily, where thelettering waspainted out,when theydecided that even thenames ofshops weretoomuch temptation forus. Now places areknown by their signs alone. Lilies usedtobe amovie theater, before. Students wentthere alot; every spring they had aHumphrey Bogartfestival, withLauren BacallorKatharine Hepburn,womenon their own, making uptheir minds. Theyworeblouses withbuttons downthefront that suggested thepossibilities ofthe word undone. Thesewomen couldbeundone; ornot. They seemed tobe able tochoose. Weseemed tobe able tochoose, then. Wewere a society dying,saidAunt Lydia, oftoo much choice. I don't know when theystopped havingthefestival.
Imust have been grown up. SoI didn't notice. We don't gointo Lilies, butacross theroad andalong aside street. Ourfirststop isat a store withanother wooden sign:three eggs, abee, acow. There's a line, andwewait ourturn, twobytwo. Isee they have oranges today. Eversince Central America waslosttothe Libertheos, orangeshavebeen hardtoget: sometimes theyare there, sometimes not. The warinterferes withtheoranges fromCalifornia, andeven Florida isn'tdependable, whenthereareroadblocks orwhen thetrain tracks havebeen blown up. Ilook atthe oranges, longingforone. ButIhaven't brought anycoupons for oranges. I'llgo back andtellRita about them,Ithink. She'll bepleased. Itwill be something, asmall achievement, tohave made oranges happen. Those who've reached thecounter handtheirtokens acrossit,to the two men in Guardian uniformswhostand onthe other side. Nobody talksmuch, though thereisa rustling, andthewomen's headsmovefurtively fromsidetoside: here, shopping, is where youmight seesomeone youknow, someone you'veknown inthe time before, or at the Red Center.
Justtocatch sightofaface likethat isan encouragement. IfIcould see Moira, justsee her, know shestillexists. It'shard toimagine now,having afriend. But Ofglen, besideme,isn't looking, Maybeshedoesn't knowanyone anymore. Maybe they have allvanished, thewomen sheknew. Ormaybe shedoesn't wanttobe seen. She stands insilence headdown. As we wait inour double line,thedoor opens andtwomore women comein,both inthe red dresses andwhite wings ofthe Handmaids. Oneofthem isvastly pregnant; her belly, under herloose garment, swellstriumphantly. Thereisashifting inthe room, a murmur, anescape ofbreath; despite ourselves weturn ourheads, blatantly, tosee better; ourfingers itchtotouch her. She's amagic presence tous, anobject ofenvy and desire, wecovet her. She's aflag onahilltop, showing uswhat canstillbedone: wetoo can besaved. The women inthe room arewhispering, almosttalking, sogreat istheir excitement. Awoman thatpregnant doesn'thavetogo out, doesn't havetogo shopping.
Thedaily walkisno longer prescribed, tokeep her abdominal musclesinworking order. Sheneeds onlythefloor exercises, thebreathing drill. Shecould stayather house. Andit'sdangerous forher tobe out, there mustbea Guardian standingoutsidethedoor, waiting forher. Now thatshe's thecarrier oflife, she is closer todeath, andneeds special security. Jealousy couldgether, it'shappened before. Allchildren arewanted now,butnotbyeveryone. But thewalk maybeawhim ofhers, andthey humor whims, whensomething hasgone this farand there's beennomiscarriage. Orperhaps she'soneofthose, Pileiton, Ican take it,amartyr. Icatch aglimpse ofher face, asshe raises itto look around. Thevoice behind mewas right. She's comeheretodisplay herself. She'sglowing, rosy,she's enjoying everyminute ofthis.
Ofglen andIhave reached thecounter. Wehand overourtokens, andoneGuardian enters thenumbers onthem intotheCompubite whiletheother gives usour purchases, the milk, theeggs. Weputthem intoourbaskets andgoout again, pastthepregnant woman andherpartner, whobeside herlooks spindly, shrunken; aswe alldo. The pregnant woman'sbellyislike ahuge fruit. Humungous, wordofmy childhood. Her hands restonitas ifto defend it,or as ifthey're gathering something fromit,warmth and strength. As Ipass shelooks fullatme, intomyeyes, andIknow whoshe; is. She wasatthe Red Center withme,one ofAunt Lydia's pets. Inever likedher. Hername, inthe time before, was Janine. Janine looksatme, then, andaround thecorners ofher mouth thereisthe trace ofa smirk. Sheglances downtowhere myown belly liesflatunder myred robe, andthe wings coverherface.
Ican seeonly alittle ofher forehead, andthepinkish tipofher nose. Next wegointo AllFlesh, whichismarked byalarge wooden porkchop hanging from two chains. Thereisn'tsomuch ofaline here: meatisexpensive, andeven the Commanders don'thave itevery day. Ofglen getssteak, though, andthat's thesecond time thisweek. I'lltell that tothe Marthas: it'sthe kind ofthing theyenjoy hearing about. They arevery interested inhow other households arerun; such bitsofpetty gossip give them anopportunity forpride ordiscontent. I take thechicken, wrapped inbutcher's paperandtrussed withstring. Notmany things are plastic, anymore. Iremember thoseendless whiteplastic shopping bags,fromthe supermarket; Ihated towaste themandwould stuffthem inunder thesink, untiltheday would comewhentherewould betoo many andIwould openthecupboard doorand they would bulgeout,sliding overthefloor. Lukeusedtocomplain aboutit. Periodically he would takeallthe bags andthrow themout.
She could getone ofthose overherhead, he'dsay. Youknow howkidsliketoplay. She never would, I'dsay. She's tooold. Ortoosmart, ortoo lucky. ButIwould feelachill of fear, andthen guiltforhaving beensocareless. Itwas true, Itook toomuch forgranted; I trusted fate,back then. I'llkeep them inahigher cupboard, I'dsay. Don't keepthem at all, he'd say. Wenever usethem foranything. He'd say Not here andnow. Notwhere people arelooking. Iturn, seemysilhouette inthe plate glass window. Wehave come outside, then,weare onthe street. A group ofpeople iscoming towards us. They're tourists, fromJapan itlooks like,a trade delegation perhaps,onatour ofthe historic landmarks orout forlocal color. They're diminutive andneatly turned out;each hashisorher camera, hisorher smile. They lookaround, bright-eyed,cocking theirheads toone side likerobins, theirvery cheerfulness aggressive,andIcan't helpstaring. It'sbeen along timesince I'veseen skirts thatshort onwomen.
Theskirts reach justbelow theknee andthelegs come out from beneath them,nearly naked intheir thinstockings, blatant,thehigh- heeled shoes with their straps attached tothe feet likedelicate instruments oftorture. Thewomen teeter ontheir spiked feetasifon stilts, butoffbalance; theirbacks archatthe waist, thrusting thebuttocks out. Their heads areuncovered andtheir hairtooisexposed, inall its darkness andsexuality. Theywearlipstick, red,outlining thedamp cavities oftheir mouths, likescrawls onawashroom wall,ofthe time before. I stop walking. Ofglenstopsbeside meand Iknow thatshetoocannot takehereyes off these women. Wearefascinated, butalso repelled. Theyseem undressed. Ithas taken so little time tochange ourminds, aboutthings likethis. Then Ithink: Iused todress likethat. That wasfreedom. Westernized, theyused tocall it.
The Japanese touristscometowards us,twittering, andweturn ourheads awaytoolate: our faces havebeen seen. There's aninterpreter, inthe standard bluesuitand red-patterned tie,with thewinged- eye tiepin. He's theone who steps forward, outofthe group, infront ofus, blocking our way. Thetourists bunchbehind him;oneofthem raises acamera. What theymust seeisthe white wings only,ascrap offace, mychin andpart ofmy mouth. Iknow better than tolook theinterpreter inthe face. Mostofthe interpreters areEyes, orso it's said. I also know better thantosay yes. Modesty isinvisibility, saidAunt Lydia. To beseen —tobe seen —isto be —her voice trembled —penetrated.
Whatyou must be,girls, isimpenetrable. Shecalled usgirls. Beside me,Ofglen isalso silent. She'stucked herred- gloved handsupinto hersleeves, to hide them. The interpreter turnsbacktothe group, chatters atthem instaccato. Iknow whathe'llbe saying, Iknow theline. He'll betelling themthatthewomen herehave different customs, that tostare atthem through thelens ofacamera is,for them, anexperience of violation. I'm looking down,atthe sidewalk, mesmerized bythe women's feet. Oneofthem is wearing open-toedsandals, thetoenails paintedpink. Iremember thesmell ofnail polish, theway itwrinkled ifyou putthesecond coatontoo soon, thesatiny brushing of sheer pantyhose againsttheskin, theway thetoes felt,pushed towards theopening in the shoe bythe whole weight ofthe body.
Thewoman withpainted toesshifts fromone foot tothe other. Ican feelhershoes, onmy own feet. Thesmell ofnail polish hasmade me hungry. Inod, toshow I'veheard him. Ican imagine it,their curiosity: Arethey happy? Howcanthey behappy? Ican feeltheir bright blackeyesonus, the way they lean alittle forward tocatch ouranswers, thewomen especially, butthemen too:weare secret, forbidden, weexcite them. Ofglen saysnothing. Butsometimes it'sasdangerous nottospeak. Ihave tosay something. CHAPTER 6 A block pastAllFlesh, Ofglen pauses, asifhesitant aboutwhich waytogo.
We have a choice. Wecould gostraight back,orwe could walkthelong wayaround. Wealready know which waywewill take, because wealways takeit. We walk, sedately. Thesunisout, inthe sky there arewhite fluffyclouds, thekind that look likeheadless sheep. Givenourwings, ourblinkers, it'shard tolook up,hard toget the fullview, ofthe sky, ofanything. Butwecan doit,alittle atatime, aquick move of the head, upand down, tothe side andback. Wehave learned tosee theworld in gasps. To the right, ifyou could walkalong, there's astreet thatwould takeyoudown towards the river. There's aboathouse, wheretheykeptthesculls once,andsome bridges; trees, green banks, whereyoucould sitand watch thewater, andtheyoung menwith their naked arms,theiroarslifting intothesunlight asthey played atwinning. Onthe way to the river aretheolddormitories, usedforsomething elsenow, withtheir fairy-tale turrets, painted whiteandgold andblue. When wethink ofthe past it'sthe beautiful things wepick out. Wewant tobelieve itwas alllike that.
The football stadium isthat way too,where theyhold theMen's Salvagings. Aswell as the football games. Theystillhave those. I don't gotothe river anymore, orover bridges. Oron the subway, although there'sa station rightthere. We're notallowed on,there areGuardians now,there's noofficial reason forustogo down those steps, rideonthe trains under theriver, intothemain city. Why would wewant togo from here tothere? Wewould beuptono good andthey would knowit. The church isasmall one,oneofthe first erected here,hundreds ofyears ago. Itisn't used anymore, exceptasamuseum.
Insideityou canseepaintings, ofwomen inlong somber dresses, theirhaircovered bywhite caps, andofupright men,darkly clothed and unsmiling. We don't goin,though, butstand onthe path, looking atthe churchyard. Theold gravestones arestillthere, weathered, eroding,withtheir skulls andcrossed bones, memento mori,theirdough- facedangels, theirwinged hourglasses toremind usofthe passing ofmortal time,and,from alater century, theirurnsandwillow trees,for mourning. They haven't fiddledwiththegravestones, orthe church either. It'sonly themore recent history thatoffends them. Ofglen's headisbowed, asifshe's praying.
Shedoes thisevery time. Maybe, Ithink, there's someone, someoneinparticular gone,forher too; aman, achild. ButIcan't entirely believeit. Ithink ofher asawoman forwhom everyactisdone forshow, is acting ratherthanareal act. She does suchthings tolook good, Ithink. She's outto make thebest ofit. But that iswhat Imust lookliketoher, aswell. Howcanitbe otherwise? Now weturn ourbacks onthe church andthere isthe thing we've intruth come tosee: the Wall. The Wall ishundreds ofyears oldtoo; orover ahundred, atleast. Likethesidewalks, it's red brick, andmust once havebeen plainbuthandsome. Nowthegates havesentries and there areugly newfloodlights mountedonmetal postsabove it,and barbed wire along thebottom andbroken glasssetinconcrete alongthetop. No one goes through thosegateswillingly, theprecautions areforthose tryingtoget out, though tomake iteven asfar asthe Wall, fromtheinside, pasttheelectronic alarm system, wouldbenext toimpossible. Beside themain gateway therearesixmore bodies hanging, bythe necks, theirhands tied infront ofthem, theirheads inwhite bagstipped sideways ontotheirshoulders.
There musthave been aMen's Salvaging earlythismorning. Ididn't hearthebells. Perhaps I'vebecome usedtothem. We stop, together asifon signal, andstand andlook atthe bodies. Itdoesn't matterif we look. We're supposed tolook: thisiswhat theyarethere for,hanging onthe Wall.
Author: Margaret Atwood Submitted by: Maria Garcia Views Request a Book Add a Review. The Handmaids Tale PDF book by Margaret Atwood Read Online or Free Download in ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks. Published in the book become immediate popular and critical acclaim in fiction, classics books. Suggested PDF: Surfacing pdf. The Handmaids Tale is a beautiful novel written by the famous author Margaret Atwood. The book is perfect for those who wants to read classics, science fiction books. The Handmaids Tale pdf book was awarded with Man Booker Prize Nominee , Nebula Award Nominee for Best Novel The main character of the story are The Commander, Offred, Serena Joy, Ofglen, Nick. The book was first published in and the latest edition of the book was published in March 16th which eliminates all the known issues and printing errors. by Margaret Atwood. BooksVooks Genres Fiction Margaret Atwood The Handmaids Tale pdf. FREE The Handmaids Tale PDF Book by Margaret Atwood Download or Read Online Free Author: Margaret Atwood Submitted by: Maria Garcia Views Request a Book Add a Review The Handmaids Tale PDF book by Margaret Atwood Read Online or Free Download in ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks.
The Handmaids Tale PDF Details Author: Margaret Atwood Book Format: Paperback Original Title: The Handmaids Tale Number Of Pages: pages First Published in: Latest Edition: March 16th Language: English Awards: Man Booker Prize Nominee , Nebula Award Nominee for Best Novel , Arthur C. Clarke Award for Best Novel , Audie Award for Fiction , Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction Genres: Fiction , Classics , Science Fiction , Dystopia , Science Fiction , Feminism , Main Characters: The Commander, Offred, Serena Joy, Ofglen, Nick Formats: audible mp3, ePUB Android , kindle, and audiobook. This is by far one of my favourite books. The show is fantastic too - I'm so happy I'm getting to experience both versions of the story! The writing is amazing, you can really tell the author is a poet as well as a novelist. The setting, characters, and storyline are all so well-written that you honestly feel like you're there. It reads exactly as it's meant to - transcribed stories from the tapes of the main character.
Along with Offred, you're trying to figure out who can be trusted and who can't, where certain characters end up, what will happen to her in the end. I especially love that she's an everyday person, not particularly a hero or "just" a victim. She's real. I love that the book doesn't give anything away too early. You're definitely held in suspense! Beyond how entertaining it is, it gets so scary because you see how very real it is. It's very raw in some places. It has just enough in common with how things are in reality that you almost start fearing it'll happen to you. Popular Books Page Views. Related Books Reads. Man Booker Prize Nominee , Nebula Award Nominee for Best Novel , Arthur C. Clarke Award for Best Novel , Audie Award for Fiction , Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction Fiction , Classics , Science Fiction , Dystopia , Science Fiction , Feminism ,.
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Web13/06/ · The Handmaid's Tale, Margaret Atwood, Radio Drama Margaret Atwood's chilling vision of 21st-century America is dramatised in three parts by John Dryden. In an WebWithmore thantwomillion copies inprint, it is Margaret Atwood's mostpopular andcompelling blogger.comhe near future, it describes lifeinwhat once wastheUnited States, nowcalled Web10/09/ · The Handmaid’s Tale Book PDF download for free. In this multi-award winning, bestselling novel, author Margaret Atwood has created a very stunning WebThe Commander, Offred, Serena Joy, Ofglen, Nick. Formats: audible mp3, ePUB (Android), kindle, and audiobook. The Handmaids Tale is a beautiful novel written by the famous Web25/09/ · FREE The Handmaids Tale PDF Book by Margaret Atwood () Download or Read Online Free,Recent Posts. 25/06/ · The Handmaid's Tale PDF Free WebThe handmaid's tale by Atwood, Margaret, The Handmaid's Tale is not only a radical and brilliant departure for Margaret Atwood, Pdf_module_version Ppi ... read more
Women werenotprotected then. Ican remember screaming, itfelt like screaming thoughitmay have been onlyawhisper, Whereisshe? They're used for routine policing and other menial functions, digging up the Commander's Wife's garden, for instance, and they're either stupid or older or disabled or very young, apart from the ones that are Eyes incognito. She may beareal believer, aHandmaid inmore thanname. Keep thelocks onand keep going. He's just taken a risk, but for what? Be the first one to write a review.
I'm looking down, at the sidewalk, mesmerized by the women's feet. Keep the locks on and keep going. It's also astory I'mtelling, inmy head; asIgo along. But the walk may be a whim of hers, and they humor whims, when something has gone this far and there's been no miscarriage. Sign In The Handmaids Tale PDF book by Margaret Atwood Read Online or Free Download in ePUB, PDF or MOBI eBooks. Achild's ideaofasmile. The men wear white coats, likethose wornbydoctors orscientists.
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