The Testaments(73)

I nodded, and said I would.



* * *



—

They took me back to the condo where they were staying. I wondered whether it was the same condo that the dead Pearl Girl had been found in. But my plan right then was to say as little as possible; I didn’t want to blow it. I also didn’t want to be found attached to a doorknob.

The condo was very modern. It had two bathrooms, each with a bathtub and a shower, and huge glass windows, and a big balcony with real trees growing on it in concrete planters. I soon found out that the door to the balcony was locked.

I was dying to get into the shower: I reeked, of my own layers of dirty skin flakes and sweat and feet in old socks, and the stinky mud under the bridge, and the frying fat smell of the fast-food places. The condo was so clean and filled with citrus air freshener that I thought my smell must really stand out.

When Aunt Beatrice asked if I wanted a shower, I nodded quickly. But I should be careful, said Aunt Dove, because of my arm: I shouldn’t get it wet because the scabs might come off. I must admit I was touched by their concern, phony though it was: they didn’t want to take a festering mess to Gilead instead of a Pearl.

When I came out of the shower, wrapped up in a white fluffy towel, my old clothes were gone—they were so filthy there was no point in even washing them, said Aunt Beatrice—and they’d laid out a silvery grey dress just like theirs.

“I’m supposed to wear this?” I said. “But I’m not a Pearl Girl. I thought the Pearl Girls were you.”

“The ones who gather the Pearls and the Pearls who are gathered are all Pearls,” said Aunt Dove. “You are a precious Pearl. A Pearl of Great Price.”

“That’s why we’ve gone to such risks for you,” said Aunt Beatrice. “We have so many enemies here. But don’t worry, Jade. We’ll keep you safe.”

In any case, she said, even though I wasn’t an official Pearl Girl, I would need to wear the dress in order to get out of Canada because the Canadian authorities were clamping down on the export of underage converts. They were viewing it as human trafficking, which was quite wrong of them, she added.

Then Aunt Dove reminded her that she should not use the word export as girls were not commodities; and Aunt Beatrice apologized and said she had meant to say “the facilitating of cross-border movement.” And they both smiled.

“I’m not underage,” I said. “I’m sixteen.”

“Do you have any identification?” Aunt Beatrice asked. I shook my head no.

“We didn’t think so,” said Aunt Dove. “So we will arrange that for you.”

“But to avoid any problems, you’ll have papers identifying you as Aunt Dove,” said Aunt Beatrice. “The Canadians know she came in, so when you cross the border they’ll think you are her.”

“But I’m a lot younger,” I said. “I don’t look like her.”

“Your papers will have your picture,” said Aunt Beatrice. The real Aunt Dove, she said, would stay in Canada, and leave with the next girl who was gathered, taking the name of an incoming Pearl Girl. They were used to switching around like that.

“The Canadians can’t tell us apart,” said Aunt Dove. “We all look the same to them.” Both of them laughed, as if they were delighted at having played such pranks.

Then Aunt Dove said that the most important extra reason for wearing the silvery dress was to smooth my entrance into Gilead because women didn’t wear men’s clothing there. I said leggings weren’t men’s clothing, and they said—calmly but firmly—that yes, they were, and it was in the Bible, they were an abomination, and if I wanted to join Gilead I would have to accept that.

I reminded myself not to argue with them, so I put on the dress; also the pearl necklace, which was fake, just as Melanie had said. There was a white sunhat, but I only needed to put it on to go outside, they said. Hair was permitted inside a dwelling unless there were men around, because men had a thing about hair, it made them spin out of control, they said. And my hair was particularly inflammatory because it was greenish.

“It’s only a tint, it will wear off,” I said apologetically so they’d know I’d already renounced my rash hair-colour choice.

“It’s all right, dear,” said Aunt Dove. “No one will see it.”

The dress actually felt quite good after my dirty old clothes. It was cool and silky.

Aunt Beatrice ordered in pizza for lunch, which we had with ice cream from their freezer. I said I was surprised that they were eating junk food: wasn’t Gilead against it, especially for women?

“It’s part of our test as Pearl Girls,” said Aunt Dove. “We’re supposed to sample the fleshpot temptations of the outside world in order to understand them, and then reject them in our hearts.” She took another bite of pizza.

“Anyway it will be my last chance to try them,” said Aunt Beatrice, who had finished off the pizza and was eating her ice cream. “I honestly don’t see what’s wrong with ice cream, as long as it has no chemicals.” Aunt Dove gave her a reproachful look. Aunt Beatrice licked her spoon.

I said no to the ice cream. I was too nervous. Also I no longer liked it. It reminded me too much of Melanie.

That night before going to bed I examined myself in the bathroom mirror. Despite the shower and the food, I was wrecked. I had dark circles under my eyes; I’d lost weight. I really did look like a waif who needed to be rescued.