The Handmaid's Tale

Margaret Atwood

Night

We slept in what had once been the gymnasium. The floor was of

varnished wood, with stripes and circles painted on it, for the games

that were formerly played there; the hoops for the basketball nets

were still in place, though the nets were gone. A balcony ran around

the room, for the spectators, and I thought I could smell, faintly like

an afterimage, the pungent scent of sweat, shot through with the

sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from the watching girls,

felt skirted as I knew from pictures, later in miniskirts, then pants,

then in one earring, spiky green streaked hair. Dances would have

been held there; themusic lingered, a palimpsest of unheard sound,

style upon style, an undercurrent of drums, a forlorn wail, garlands

made of tissue paper flowers, cardboard devils, a revolving ball of

mirrors, powdering the dancers with a snow of light.

There was old sex in the room and loneliness, and expectation, of

something without a shape or name. I remember that yearning, for

something that was always about to happen and was never the same

as the hands that were on us there and then, in the small of the back,

or out back, in the parking lot, or in the television room with the

sound turned down and only the pictures flickering over lifting flesh.

We yearned for the future. How did we learn it, that talent for

insatiability? It was in the air; and it was still in the air, an

after thought, as we tried to sleep, in the army cots that had been set

up in rows, with spaces between so we could not talk. We had

flannelette sheets, like children's, and army issue blankets, old ones

that still said U.S. We folded our clothes neatly and laid them on the

stools at the ends of the beds. The lights were turned down but not

out. Aunt Sara and Aunt Elizabeth patrolled; they had electric cattle

prods slung on thongs from their leather belts.

No guns though, even they could not be trustedwith guns. Guns were

for the guards, specially picked from the Angels. The guards weren't

allowed inside the building except when called, and we weren't

allowed out, except for our walks, twice daily, two by two around the

football field, which was enclosed now by a chain link fence topped

with barbed wire. The Angels stood outside it with their backs to us.

They were objects of fear to us, but of something else as well. If only

they would look. If only we could talk to them. Something could be

exchanged,we thought, some deal made, some tradeoff, we still had

our bodies. That was our fantasy.

We learned to whisper almost without sound. In the semi darkness

we could stretch out our arms, when the Aunts weren't looking, and

touch each other's hands across space. We learned to lip read, our

heads flat on the beds, turned sideways, watching each other's

mouths. In this way we exchanged names, from bed to bed: Alma.

Janine. Dolores. Moira. June.

Shopping

A chair, a table, a lamp. Above, on the white ceiling, a relief ornament

in the shape of a wreath, and in the center of it a blank space,

plastered over, like the place in a face where the eye has been taken

out. There must have been a chandelier, once. They've removed

anything you could tie a rope to.

A window, two white curtains. Under the window, a window seat

with a little cushion. When the window is partly openit only opens

partlythe air can come in and make the curtains move. I can sit in the

chair,or on the window seat, hands folded, and watch this. Sunlight

comes in through the window too, ami falls on the floor, which is

made of wood, in narrow strips, highly polished. I can smell the

polish. There's a rug on the floor, oval, of braided rags. This is the

kind of touch they like: folk art, archaic, made by women, in their

spare time, from things that have no further use. A return to

traditional values. Waste not want not. I am not being wasted. Why

do 1 want?

On the wall above the chair, a picture, framed but with no glass: a

print of flowers, blue irises, watercolor. Flowers are still allowed,

Does each of us have the same print, the same chair, the same while

curtains, I wonder? Government issue?

Think of it as being in the army, said Aunt Lydia.

A bed. Single, mattress medium hard, covered with a flocked white

spread. Nothing takes place in the bed but sleep; or no sleep. I try not

to think too much. Like other things now, thought must be rationed.

There's a lot that doesn't bear thinking about. Thinking can hurt your

chances, and I intend to last. I know why there is no glass, in front of

the watercolor picture of blue irises, and why the window opens only

partly and why the glass in it is shatterproof. It isn't running away

they're afraid of. Wewouldn't get far. It's those other escapes, the

ones you can open in yourself, given a cutting edge.

So. Apart from these details, this could be a college guest room, for

the less distinguished visitors; or a room in a rooming house, of

former times, for ladies in reduced circumstances. That is what we

are now. The circumstances have been reduced; for those of us who

still have circumstances.

But a chair, sunlight, flowers: these are not to be dismissed. I am

The Handmaids Tale