The Testaments

29

Last night I had a nightmare. I have had it before.

Earlier in this account I said that I would not try your patience with a recital of my dreams. But as this one has a bearing on what I am about to tell you, I will make an exception. You are of course fully in control of what you choose to read, and may pass over this dream of mine at will.

I am standing in the stadium, wearing the brown dressing-gown-like garment that was issued to me in the repurposed hotel during my recovery from the Thank Tank. Standing in a line with me are several other women in the same penitential garb, and several men in black uniforms. Each of us has a rifle. We know that some of these rifles contain blanks, some not; but we will all be killers nonetheless, because it’s the thought that counts.

Facing us are two rows of women: one standing, one kneeling. They are not wearing blindfolds. I can see their faces. I recognize them, each and every one. Former friends, former clients, former colleagues; and, more recently, women and girls who have passed through my hands. Wives, daughters, Handmaids. Some have missing fingers, some have one foot, some have one eye. Some have ropes around their necks. I have judged them, I have passed sentence: once a judge, always a judge. But they are all smiling. What do I see in their eyes? Fear, contempt, defiance? Pity? It’s impossible to tell.

Those of us with rifles raise them. We fire. Something enters my lungs. I can’t breathe. I choke, I fall.

I wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding. They say that a nightmare can frighten you to death, that your heart can literally stop. Will this bad dream kill me, one of these nights? Surely it will take more than that.

I was telling you about my seclusion in the Thank Tank and the luxurious experience in the hotel room that followed. It was like a recipe for tough steak: hammer it with a mallet, then marinate and tenderize.

An hour after I’d put on the penitential garb provided for me there was a knock at the door; a two-man escort was waiting. I was conducted along the corridor to another room. My white-bearded interlocutor from the time before was there, not behind a desk this time but seated comfortably in an armchair.

“You may sit down,” said Commander Judd. This time I was not forced into the chair: I sat down in it of my own accord.

“I hope our little regimen was not too strenuous for you,” he said. “You were treated only to Level One.” There was nothing to be said to this, so I said nothing. “Was it enlightening?”

“How do you mean?”

“Did you see the light? The Divine Light?” What was the right answer to this? He would know if I were lying.

“It was enlightening,” I said. This seemed to be sufficient.

“Fifty-three?”

“You mean my age? Yes,” I said.

“You’ve had lovers,” he said. I wondered how he had found that out, and was slightly flattered that he’d bothered.

“Briefly,” I said. “Several. No long-term successes.” Had I ever been in love? I didn’t think so. My experience with the men in my family had not encouraged trust. But the body has its twitches, which it can be humiliating as well as rewarding to obey. No lasting harm was done to me, some pleasure was both given and received, and none of these individuals took their swift dismissal from my life as a personal affront. Why expect more?

“You had an abortion,” he said. So they’d been rifling through some records.

“Only one,” I said fatuously. “I was very young.”

He made a disapproving grunt. “You are aware that this form of person-murder is now punishable by death? The law is retroactive.”

“I was not aware of that.” I felt cold. But if they were going to shoot me, why this interrogation?

“One marriage?”

“A brief one. It was a mistake.”

“Divorce is now a crime,” he said. I said nothing.

“Never blessed with children?”

“No.”

“Wasted your woman’s body? Denied its natural function?”

“It didn’t happen,” I said, keeping the edge out of my voice as much as I could.

“Pity,” he said. “Under us, every virtuous woman may have a child, one way or another, as God intended. But I expect you were fully occupied in your, ah, so-called career.”

I ignored the slight. “I had a demanding schedule, yes.”

“Two terms as a schoolteacher?”

“Yes. But I went back to law.”

“Domestic cases? Sexual assault? Female criminals? Sex workers suing for enhanced protection? Property rights in divorces? Medical malpractice, especially by gynecologists? Removal of children from unfit mothers?” He had taken out a list and was reading from it.

“When necessary, yes,” I said.

“Short stint as a volunteer at a rape crisis centre?”

“When I was a student,” I said.

“The South Street Sanctuary, yes? You stopped because…?”

“I got too busy,” I said. Then I added another truth, as there was no point in not being frank: “Also it wore me down.”

“Yes,” he said, twinkling. “It wears you down. All that needless suffering of women. We intend to eliminate that. I am sure you approve.” He paused, as if giving me a moment to ponder this. Then he smiled anew. “So. Which is it to be?”

My old self would have said, “Which of what?” or something similarly casual. Instead I said, “You mean yes or no?”

“Correct. You have experienced the consequences of no, or some of them. Whereas yes…let me just say that those who are not with us are against us.”

“I see,” I said. “Then it’s yes.”

“You will have to prove,” he said, “that you mean it. Are you prepared to do that?”

“Yes,” I said again. “How?”

There was an ordeal. You have most likely suspected what it was. It was like my nightmare, except that the women were blindfolded and when I shot I did not fall. This was Commander Judd’s test: fail it, and your commitment to the one true way would be voided. Pass it, and blood was on your hands. As someone once said, We must all hang together or we will all hang separately.

I did show some weakness: I threw up afterwards.

One of the targets was Anita. Why had she been singled out to die? Even after the Thank Tank, she must have said no instead of yes. She must have chosen a quick exit. But in fact I have no idea why. Perhaps it was very simple: she was not considered useful to the regime, whereas I was.

This morning I got up an hour early to steal a few moments before breakfast with you, my reader. You’ve become somewhat of an obsession—my sole confidant, my only friend—for to whom can I tell the truth besides you? Who else can I trust?

Not that I can trust you either. Who is more likely to betray me in the end? I will lie neglected in some spidery corner or under a bed while you go off to picnics and dances—yes, dancing will return, it’s hard to suppress it forever—or to trysts with a warm body, so much more attractive than the wad of crumbling paper I will have become. But I forgive you in advance. I, too, was once like you: fatally hooked on life.

Why am I taking your existence for granted? Perhaps you will never materialize: you’re only a wish, a possibility, a phantom. Dare I say a hope? I am allowed to hope, surely. It’s not yet the midnight of my life; the bell has not yet tolled, and Mephistopheles has not yet turned up to collect the price I must pay for our bargain.

For there was a bargain. Of course there was. Though I didn’t make it with the Devil: I made it with Commander Judd.

My first meeting with Elizabeth, Helena, and Vidala took place the day after my trial by murder in the stadium. The four of us were ushered into one of the hotel boardrooms. We all looked different then: younger, trimmer, less gnarled. Elizabeth, Helena, and I were wearing the brown sack-like garments I’ve described, but Vidala already had on a proper uniform: not the Aunts’ uniform later devised, but a black one.

Commander Judd was awaiting us. He sat at the head of the boardroom table, naturally. Before him was a tray with a coffee pot and cups. He poured ceremoniously, smiling.

“Congratulations,” he began. “You have passed the test. You are brands snatched from the burning.” He poured his own coffee, added creamer, sipped. “You may have been wondering why a person such as myself, successful enough under the previous corrupt dispensation, has acted in the way I have. Don’t think I don’t realize the gravity of my behaviour. Some might call the overthrowing of an illegitimate government an act of treason; without a doubt, many have had this thought about me. Now that you have joined us, it is the same thought that others will have about you. But loyalty to a higher truth is not treason, for the ways of God are not the ways of man, and they are most emphatically not the ways of woman.”

Vidala watched us being lectured by him, smiling a tiny smile: whatever he was persuading us about was already an accepted creed to her.

I took care not to react. It’s a skill, not reacting. He looked from one blank face to another. “You may drink your coffee,” he said. “A valuable commodity that is increasingly difficult to obtain. It would be a sin to reject what God has provided to his favoured ones through his bounty.” At this we picked up our cups, as if at a ceremonial communion.

He continued: “We have seen the results of too much laxity, too much hunger for material luxuries, and the absence of the meaningful structures that lead to a balanced and stable society. Our birth rate—for various reasons, but most significantly through the selfish choices of women—is in free fall. You do agree that human beings are at their most unhappy when in the midst of chaos? That rules and boundaries promote stability and thus happiness? You follow me so far?”

We nodded.

“Is that a yes?” He pointed at Elizabeth.

“Yes,” she said in a voice squeaky with fright. She was younger and still attractive then; she hadn’t yet allowed her body to engorge. I have noted since that some kinds of men like to bully beautiful women.

“Yes, Commander Judd,” he admonished. “Titles must be respected.”

“Yes, Commander Judd.” I could smell her fear from across the table; I wondered if she could smell mine. It has an acid smell, fear. It’s corrosive.

She, too, has been alone in the dark, I thought. She has been tested in the stadium. She, too, has gazed into herself, and has seen the void.

“Society is best served by separate spheres for men and women,” Commander Judd continued in a sterner voice. “We have seen the disastrous results of the attempt to meld those spheres. Any questions so far?”

“Yes, Commander Judd,” I said. “I have a question.”

He smiled, though not warmly. “Proceed.”

“What do you want?”

He smiled again. “Thank you. What do we want from you in particular? We’re building a society congruent with the Divine Order—a city upon a hill, a light to all nations—and we are acting out of charitable care and concern. We believe that you, with your privileged training, are well qualified to aid us in ameliorating the distressing lot of women that has been caused by the decadent and corrupt society we are now abolishing.” He paused. “You wish to help?” This time the pointing finger singled out Helena.

“Yes, Commander Judd.” Almost a whisper.

“Good. You are all intelligent women. Through your former…” He did not want to say professions. “Through your former experiences, you are familiar with the lives of women. You know how they are likely to think, or let me rephrase that—how they are likely to react to stimuli, both positive and less positive. You can therefore be of service—a service that will qualify you for certain advantages. We would expect you to be spiritual guides and mentors—leaders, so to speak—within your own womanly sphere. More coffee?” He poured. We stirred, sipped, waited.

“Simply put,” he continued, “we want you to help us to organize the separate sphere—the sphere for women. With, as its goal, the optimal amount of harmony, both civic and domestic, and the optimal number of offspring. Other questions?” Elizabeth put up her hand.

“Yes?” he said.

“Will we have to…pray, and so forth?” she asked.

“Prayer is cumulative,” he said. “You’ll come to understand what a lot of reasons you’ll have to give thanks to a power greater than yourselves. My, ah, colleague”—he indicated Vidala—“has volunteered to be your spiritual instructor, having been part of our movement since its inception.”

There was a pause while Elizabeth, Helena, and I absorbed this information. By this greater power, did he mean himself? “I am sure we can help,” I said finally. “But it will take a considerable amount of work. Women have been told for so long that they can achieve equality in the professional and public spheres. They will not welcome the…” I sought for a word. “The segregation.”

“It was always a cruelty to promise them equality,” he said, “since by their nature they can never achieve it. We have already begun the merciful task of lowering their expectations.”

I did not want to inquire about the means being used. Were they similar to those that had been applied to me? We waited while he poured more coffee for himself.

“Of course you will need to create laws and all of that,” he said. “You’ll be given a budget, a base of operations, and a dormitory. We’ve set aside a student residential complex for you, within the walled compound of one of the former universities we have requisitioned. It will not need much alteration. I am sure it will be comfortable enough.”

Here I took a risk. “If it is to be a separate female sphere,” I said, “it must be truly separate. Within it, women must command. Except in extreme need, men must not pass the threshold of our allotted premises, nor shall our methods be questioned. We shall be judged solely by our results. Though we will of course report to the authorities if and when it’s necessary.”

He gave me a measuring look, then opened his hands and turned them palms up. “Carte blanche,” he said. “Within reason, and within budget. Subject, of course, to my final approval.”

I looked at Elizabeth and Helena, and saw grudging admiration. I’d tried for more power than they would have dared to ask for, and I’d won it. “Of course,” I said.

“I am not convinced that’s wise,” said Vidala. “Letting them run their own affairs to that extent. Women are weak vessels. Even the strongest of them should not be allowed to—”

Commander Judd cut her off. “Men have better things to do than to concern themselves with the petty details of the female sphere. There must be women competent enough for that.” He nodded at me, and Vidala shot me a look of hatred. “The women of Gilead will have occasion to be grateful to you,” he continued. “So many regimes have done these things badly. So unpleasantly, so wastefully! If you fail, you will fail all women. As Eve did. Now I will leave you to your collective deliberations.”

And so we began.

During these initial sessions, I took stock of my fellow Founders—for as Founders we would be revered in Gilead, Commander Judd had promised. If you are familiar with school playgrounds of the rougher sort, or with henyards, or indeed with any situation in which the rewards are small but the competition for them is fierce, you will understand the forces at work. Despite our pretense of amity, indeed of collegiality, the underlying currents of hostility were already building. If it’s a henyard, I thought, I intend to be the alpha hen. To do that, I need to establish pecking rights over the others.

In Vidala I had already made an enemy. She had seen herself as the natural leader, but that view had been challenged. She would oppose me in every way she could—but I had an advantage: I was not blinded by ideology. This would give me a flexibility she lacked, in the long game ahead of us.

Of the other two, Helena would be the easiest to steer, as she was the most unsure of herself. She was plump at that time, though she has dwindled since; one of her former jobs had been with a lucrative weight-loss company, she told us. That was before she’d segued into PR work for a high-fashion lingerie company and had acquired an extensive shoe collection. “Such beautiful shoes,” she mourned before Vidala shut her down with a frown. Helena would follow the prevailing wind, I decided; and that would work for me as long as I was that wind.

Elizabeth was from a higher social sphere, by which I mean very obviously higher than mine. It would lead her to underestimate me. She was a Vassar girl, and had worked as an executive assistant to a powerful female senator in Washington—presidential potential, she had confided. But the Thank Tank had broken something in her; her birthright and education had not saved her, and she was dithery.

One by one I could handle them, but if they combined into a mob of three I would have trouble. Divide and conquer would be my motto.

Keep steady, I told myself. Don’t share too much about yourself, it will be used against you. Listen carefully. Save all clues. Don’t show fear.

Week by week we invented: laws, uniforms, slogans, hymns, names. Week by week we reported to Commander Judd, who turned to me as the spokeswoman of the group. For those concepts he approved, he took the credit. Plaudits flowed his way from the other Commanders. How well he was doing!

Did I hate the structure we were concocting? On some level, yes: it was a betrayal of everything we’d been taught in our former lives, and of all that we’d achieved. Was I proud of what we managed to accomplish, despite the limitations? Also, on some level, yes. Things are never simple.

For a time I almost believed what I understood I was supposed to believe. I numbered myself among the faithful for the same reason that many in Gilead did: because it was less dangerous. What good is it to throw yourself in front of a steamroller out of moral principles and then be crushed flat like a sock emptied of its foot? Better to fade into the crowd, the piously praising, unctuous, hate-mongering crowd. Better to hurl rocks than to have them hurled at you. Or better for your chances of staying alive.

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

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.”

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.”

“Evidence?” I’d thought Elizabeth had merely been eating those eggs. This was a more creative use for them: I was quite proud of her.

“I believe she’s preparing to denounce you. To divert attention from herself and her own disloyal activities. She may be the traitor within us, here at Ardua Hall—working with the Mayday terrorists. I have long suspected her of heresy,” said Aunt Vidala.

I experienced a jolt of excitement. This was a development I hadn’t anticipated: Vidala snitching on Elizabeth—and to me of all people, despite her long-standing loathing of me! Wonders never cease.

“That is shocking news, if true. Thank you for telling me,” I said. “You shall be rewarded. Though there is no proof at present, I shall take the precaution of communicating your suspicions to Commander Judd.”

“Thank you,” said Aunt Vidala in turn. “I confess that I once had doubts as to your fitness as our leader, here at Ardua Hall, but I have prayed about it. I was wrong to have such doubts. I apologize.”

“Everyone makes mistakes,” I said magnanimously. “We are only human.”

“Under His Eye,” she said, bowing her head.

Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. Having no friends, I must make do with enemies.