The Testaments(57)

But here is the surprise. There were several days of no activity—or none to speak of, since I discount the three tearful young Wives, granted access to the grounds because they were married to prominent Eyes, who offered in toto a muffin, a small loaf of cornmeal bread, and two lemons—like gold these days, lemons, considering the disasters in Florida and our inability to gain ground in California. I am glad to have them, and shall make good use of them: if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I shall also determine how these lemons were come by. It is ineffectual to try to clamp down on all grey market activities—the Commanders must have their little perks—but I naturally wish to know who is selling what, and how it is smuggled in. Women are only one of the commodities—I hesitate to call them commodities, but when money is in the picture, such they are—that are being relocated under cover. Is it lemons in and women out? I shall consult my grey market sources: they don’t like competition.

These tearful Wives wished to enlist my arcane powers in their quest for fertility, poor things. Per Ardua Cum Estrus, they intoned, as if Latin could have more effect than English. I will see what can be done for them, or rather who can be done—their husbands having proven so singularly feeble in that respect.

But back to my surprise. On the fourth day, what should loom into the camera’s field of vision just as dawn was breaking but the large red nose of Aunt Vidala, followed by her eyes and mouth. The second camera provided a longer shot: she was wearing gloves—cunning of her—and from a pocket she produced an egg, followed by an orange. Having looked about her to make sure no one was watching, she placed these votive offerings at my feet, along with a small plastic baby. Then, on the ground beside the statue, she dropped a handkerchief embroidered with lilacs: a well-known prop of mine, from Aunt Vidala’s school project some years ago in which the girls embroidered sets of handkerchiefs for the senior Aunts with flowers signalling their names. I have lilacs, Elizabeth has echinacea, Helena has hyacinths, Vidala herself has violets; five for each of us—such a lot of embroidery. But this idea was thought to skirt dangerously close to reading and was discontinued.

Now, having previously told me that Elizabeth was trying to incriminate me, Vidala herself was placing the evidence against me: this innocent piece of handicraft. Where had she got it? From pilfering the laundry, I suppose. Facilitating the heretical worship of myself. What a stellar denunciation! You can imagine my delight. Any false step by my main challenger was a gift from destiny. I filed away the photos for possible future use—it is always desirable to save whatever scraps may come to hand, in kitchens as elsewhere—and determined to await developments.

My esteemed Founder colleague Elizabeth must soon be told that Vidala was accusing her of treachery. Should I add Helena as well? Who was the more dispensable if a sacrifice must be made? Who might be the most easily co-opted if the need arose? How might I best set the members of the triumvirate eager to overthrow me against one another, all the better to pick them off one by one? And where did Helena actually stand vis-à-vis myself? She’d go with the zeitgeist, whatever that might prove to be. She was always the weakest of the three.

I approach a turning point. The Wheel of Fortune rotates, fickle as the moon. Soon those who were down will move upwards. And vice versa, of course.

I will inform Commander Judd that Baby Nicole—now a young girl—is finally almost within my grasp, and may shortly be enticed to Gilead. I will say almost and may to keep him in suspense. He will be more than excited, since he has long understood the propaganda virtues of a repatriated Baby Nicole. I will say that my plans are well under way, but that I would prefer not to share them at present: it is a delicate calculation, and a careless word in the wrong place could ruin all. The Pearl Girls are involved, and they are under my supervision; they are part of the special women’s sphere, in which heavy-handed men should not meddle, I will say, wagging a finger at him roguishly. “Soon the prize will be yours. Trust me on this,” I will warble.

“Aunt Lydia, you are too good,” he will beam.

Too good to be true, I will think. Too good for this earth. Good, be thou my evil.



* * *



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For you to understand how matters are currently developing, I will now provide you with a little history. An incident that passed almost unnoticed at the time.

Nine years ago or thereabouts—it was the same year my statue was unveiled, though not in the same season—I was in my office, tracing the Bloodlines for a proposed marriage, when I was interrupted by the appearance of Aunt Lise, she of the fluttering eyelashes and the pretentious hairstyle—a modified French roll. As she was ushered into my office, she was nervously wringing her hands; I was ashamed of her for being so novelistic.

“Aunt Lydia, I am truly sorry for taking up your valuable time,” she began. They all say that, but it never stops them. I smiled in what I hoped was not a forbidding manner.

“What is the problem?” I said. There is a standard repertoire of problems: Wives at war with one another, daughters in rebellion, Commanders dissatisfied with the Wife selection proposed, Handmaids on the run, Births gone wrong. The occasional rape, which we punish severely if we choose to make it public. Or a murder: he kills her, she kills him, she kills her, and, once in a while, he kills him. Among the Econoclasses, jealous rage can take over and knives can be wielded, but among the elect, male-on-male murders are metaphorical: a stab in the back.