The Testaments(49)

They knew that so well, the architects of Gilead. Their kind has always known that.



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—

I will record here that, some years later—after I had tightened my grip over Ardua Hall and had leveraged it to acquire the extensive though silent power in Gilead that I now enjoy—Commander Judd, sensing that the balance had shifted, sought to propitiate me. “I hope you have forgiven me, Aunt Lydia,” he said.

“For what, Commander Judd?” I asked in my most affable tone. Could it be that he might have become a little afraid of me?

“The stringent measures I was forced to take at the outset of our association,” he said. “In order to separate the wheat from the chaff.”

“Oh,” I said. “I am sure your intentions were noble.”

“I believe so. But still, the measures were harsh.” I smiled, said nothing. “I spotted you as wheat, right from the beginning.” I continued to smile. “Your rifle contained a blank,” he said. “I thought you would like to know.”

“So kind of you to tell me,” I said. The muscles of my face were beginning to hurt. Under some conditions, smiling is a workout.

“I am forgiven, then?” he asked. If I hadn’t been so keenly aware of his preference for barely nubile young women, I’d have thought he was flirting. I plucked a scrap from the grab bag of the vanished past: “To err is human, to forgive divine. As someone once remarked.”

“You are so erudite.”



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—

Last evening, after I’d finished writing, had tucked my manuscript away in the hollow cavern within Cardinal Newman, and was on my way to the Schlafly Café, I was accosted on the pathway by Aunt Vidala. “Aunt Lydia, may I have a word?” she said. It is a request to which the answer must always be yes. I invited her to accompany me to the café.

Across the Yard, the white and many-pillared home base of the Eyes was brightly lit: faithful to their namesake, the lidless Eye of God, they never sleep. Three of them were standing on the white stairway outside their main building, having a cigarette. They didn’t glance our way. In their view, the Aunts are like shadows—their own shadows, fearsome to others but not to them.

As we passed my statue I checked out the offerings: fewer eggs and oranges than usual. Is my popularity slipping? I resisted the urge to pocket an orange: I could come back later.

Aunt Vidala sneezed, the prelude to an important utterance. Then she cleared her throat. “I shall take this occasion to remark that there has been some uneasiness expressed about your statue,” she said.

“Really?” I said. “In what way?”

“The offerings. The oranges. The eggs. Aunt Elizabeth feels that this excess attention is dangerously close to cult worship. Which would be idolatry,” she added. “A grave sin.”

“Indeed,” I said. “What an illuminating insight.”

“Also it’s a waste of valuable food. She says it’s practically sabotage.”

“I do so agree,” I said. “No one is more eager than I to avoid even the appearance of a cult of personality. As you know, I support strict rules concerning nutrient intake. We leaders at the Hall must set a high example, even in such matters as second helpings, especially of hard-boiled eggs.” Here I paused: I had video footage of Aunt Elizabeth in the Refectory, secreting these portable food items in her sleeves, but this was not the moment to share. “As for the offerings, such manifestations on the part of others are beyond my control. I cannot prevent unknown persons from leaving tokens of affection and respect, of loyalty and thanks, such as baked goods and fruit items, at the feet of my effigy. However undeserved by myself, it goes without saying.”

“Not prevent them ahead of time,” said Aunt Vidala. “But they might be detected and punished.”

“We have no rule about such actions,” said I, “so no rule has been broken.”

“Then we should make a rule,” said Aunt Vidala.

“I will certainly consider it,” I said. “And the appropriate punishment. These things need to be tactfully done.” It would be a pity to give up the oranges, I reflected: they are intermittent, given the undependable supply lines. “But I believe you have more to add?”

By this time we had reached the Schlafly Café. We seated ourselves at one of the pink tables. “A cup of warm milk?” I asked. “I’ll treat you.”

“I can’t drink milk,” she said peevishly. “It’s mucus-forming.”

I always offer Aunt Vidala a warm milk at my expense, which displays my generosity—milk not being a part of our common rations, but an elective, paid for with the tokens we are given according to our status. She always declines irascibly.

“Oh, sorry,” I said. “I’d forgotten. Some mint tea, then?”

Once our drinks were in front of us, she got down to her main business. “The fact is,” she said, “I personally have witnessed Aunt Elizabeth placing food items at the foot of your statue. Hard-boiled eggs in particular.”

“Fascinating,” I said. “Why would she be doing that?”

“To create evidence against you,” she said. “That is my opinion.”