The Prayvaganza is to be held in the covered courtyard, where there’s an oblong space, a skylight roof. It isn’t a citywide Prayvaganza, that would be on the football field; it’s only for this district. Ranks of folding wooden chairs have been placed along the right side, for the Wives and daughters of high-ranking officials or officers, there’s not that much difference. The galleries above, with their concrete railings, are for the lower-ranking women, the Marthas, the Econowives in their multicoloured stripes. Attendance at Prayvaganzas isn’t compulsory for them, especially if they’re on duty or have young children, but the galleries seem to be filling up anyway. I suppose it’s a form of entertainment, like a show or a circus.
A number of the Wives are already seated, in their best embroidered blue. We can feel their eyes on us as we walk in our red dresses two by two across to the side opposite them. We are being looked at, assessed, whispered about; we can feel it, like tiny ants running on our bare skins.
Here there are no chairs. Our area is cordoned off with a silky twisted scarlet rope, like the kind they used to have in movie theatres to restrain the customers. This rope segregates us, marks us off, keeps the others from contamination by us, makes for us a corral or pen; so into it we go, arranging ourselves in rows, which we know very well how to do, kneeling then on the cement floor.
“Head for the back,” Ofglen murmurs at: my side. “We can talk better.” And when we are kneeling, heads bowed slightly, I can hear from all around us a susurration, like the rustling of insects in tall dry grass: a cloud of whispers. This is one of the places where we can exchange news more freely, pass it from one to the next. It’s hard for them to single out any one of us or hear what’s being said. And they wouldn’t want to interrupt the ceremony, not in front of the television cameras.
Ofglen digs me in the side with her elbow, to call my attention, and I look up, slowly and stealthily. From where we’re kneeling we have a good view of the entrance to the courtyard, where people are coming steadily in. It must be Janine she meant me to see, because there she is, paired with a new woman, not the former one; someone I don’t recognize. Janine must have been transferred then, to a new household, a new posting. It’s early for that, has something gone wrong with her breast milk? That would be the only reason they’d move her, unless there’s been a fight over the baby; which happens more than you’d think. Once she had it, she may have resisted giving it up. I can see that. Her body under the red dress looks very thin, skinny almost, and she’s lost that pregnant glow. Her face is white and peaked, as if the juice is being sucked out of her.
“It was no good, you know,” Ofglen says near the side of my head. “It was a shredder after all.”
She means Janine’s baby, the baby that passed through Janine on its way to somewhere else. The baby Angela. It was wrong, to name her too soon. I feel an illness, in the pit of my stomach. Not an illness, an emptiness. I don’t want to know what was wrong with it. “My God,” I say. To go through all that, for nothing. Worse than nothing.
“It’s her second,” Ofglen says. “Not counting her own, before. She had an eighth-month miscarriage, didn’t you know?”
We watch as Janine enters the roped-off enclosure, in her veil of untouchability, of bad luck. She sees me, she must see me, but she looks right through me. No smile of triumph this time. She turns, kneels, and all I can see now is her back and the thin bowed shoulders.
“She thinks it’s her fault,” Ofglen whispers. “Two in a row. For being sinful. She used a doctor, they say, it wasn’t her Commander’s at all.”
I can’t say I do know or Ofglen will wonder how. As far as she’s aware, she herself is my only source, for this kind of information; of which she has a surprising amount. How would she have found out about Janine? The Marthas? Janine’s shopping partner? Listening at closed doors, to the Wives over their tea and wine, spinning their webs. Will Serena Joy talk about me like that, if I do as she wants? Agreed to it right away, really she didn’t care, anything with two legs and a good you-know-what was fine with her. They aren’t squeamish, they don’t have the same feelings we do. And the rest of them leaning forward in their chairs, My dear, all horror and prurience. How could she? Where? When?
As they did no doubt with Janine. “That’s terrible,” I say. It’s like Janine though to take it upon herself, to decide the baby’s flaws were due to her alone. But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.