The Testaments(38)
“Microdot?” I asked. “What is that?”
“An old technology that has fallen into disuse, but that is still perfectly viable. Documents are photographed with a miniature camera that reduces them to microscopic size. Then they are printed on minute plastic dots, which can be applied to almost any surface and read by the recipient with a custom viewer small enough to be concealed in, for instance, a pen.”
“Astonishing,” I exclaimed. “Not for nothing do we at Ardua Hall say ‘Pen Is Envy.’?”
He laughed. “Indeed,” he said. “We pen-wielders must take care to avoid reproach. But it is intelligent of Mayday to have resorted to this method: not many people today would be aware of it. As they say: if you aren’t looking, you don’t see.”
“Ingenious,” I said.
“It’s only one end of the string—the Mayday end. As I’ve mentioned, there’s a Gilead end—those who are receiving the microdots here and reciprocating with messages of their own. We have still not identified that individual, or individuals.”
“I’ve asked my colleagues at Ardua Hall to keep their eyes and ears open,” I said.
“And who better placed to do that than the Aunts?” he said. “You have access to any house you choose to enter, and with your finer women’s intuition you hear things we dull men are too deaf to register.”
“We’ll outfox Mayday yet,” I said, clenching my fists, thrusting out my jaw.
“I like your spirit, Aunt Lydia,” he said. “We make a great team!”
“The truth shall prevail,” I said. I was quivering with what I hoped would pass as righteous indignation.
“Under His Eye,” he replied.
* * *
—
After this, my reader, I was in need of a restorative. I made my way to the Schlafly Café for a cup of hot milk. Then I came here to the Hildegard Library to continue my journey with you. Think of me as a guide. Think of yourself as a wanderer in a dark wood. It’s about to get darker.
On the last page where we met, I’d brought you as far as the stadium, and there I will resume. As time crept by, things fell into a pattern. Sleep at night, if you could. Endure the days. Hug the weepers, though I have to say the weeping became tedious. So did the howling.
There was an attempt at music on the first evenings—a couple of the more optimistic and energetic women styled themselves singsong leaders, and attempted versions of “We Shall Overcome” and similar archaic chestnuts recalled from vanished summer camp experiences. There were problems remembering the words, but at least it added variety.
No guards put a stop to these efforts. However, by day three the perkiness was fading and few were joining in, and there were mutterings—“Quiet, please!” “For God’s sake, shut up!”—so the Girl Scout leaders, after a few hurt protests—“I was only trying to help”—ceased and desisted.
I was not one of the singers. Why waste your energy? My mood was not melodious. It was rather one of a rat in a maze. Was there a way out? What was that way? Why was I here? Was it a test? What were they trying to find out?
Some women had nightmares, as you’d assume. They would groan and thrash about during them, or sit bolt upright with modified shouts. I’m not criticizing: I had nightmares myself. Shall I describe one for you? No, I will not. I’m fully aware of how easily one can become fatigued by other people’s nightmares, having heard a number of recitals of these by now. When push comes to shove, only one’s own nightmares are of any interest or significance.
In the mornings, wakeup was perpetrated by a siren. Those whose watches had not been taken away—watch removal had been spotty—reported that this happened at 6 a.m. Bread and water for breakfast. How superlatively good that bread tasted! Some wolfed and guzzled, but I made my portion last as long as possible. Chewing and swallowing distracts from abstract mental wheel-spinning. Also it passes the time.
Then, lineups for the foul toilets, and good luck to you if yours was clogged, since no one would come to unclog it. My theory? The guards went around at night stuffing various materials down the toilets as a further aggravation. Some of the more tidy-minded tried to clean up the washrooms, but once they saw how hopeless it was they gave up. Giving up was the new normal, and I have to say it was catching.
Did I say there was no toilet paper? What then? Use your hand, attempt to clean your sullied fingers under the dribble of water that sometimes came out of the taps and sometimes did not. I’m sure they arranged that on purpose also, to raise us up and hurl us down at random intervals. I could picture the glee on the face of whatever kitten-torturing cretin was assigned this task as he flipped the power switch on the water flow system back and forth.
We had been told not to drink the water from those taps, but some unwisely did. Retching and diarrhea followed, to contribute to the general joy.
There were no paper towels. There were no towels of any kind. We wiped our hands on our skirts, whether those hands had been washed or not.
I am sorry to dwell so much on the facilities, but you would be amazed at how important such things become—basics that you’ve taken for granted, that you’ve barely thought about until they’re removed from you. During my daydreams—and we all daydreamed, as enforced stasis with no events produces daydreams and the brain must busy itself with something—I frequently pictured a beautiful, clean, white toilet. Oh, and a sink to go with it, with an ample flow of pure clear water.