Janine said: May I sit down? As if it had all been too much for her. She had something to trade at last, for a token at least.
Yes, Janine, said Aunt Lydia, surprised, but knowing she could not refuse at this point. She was asking for Janine’s attention, her co-operation. She indicated the chair in the corner. Janine drew it forward.
I could kill you, you know, said Moira, when Aunt Elizabeth was safely stowed out of sight behind the furnace. I could injure you badly so you would never feel good in your body again. I could zap you with this, or stick this thing into your eye. Just remember I didn’t, if it ever comes to that.
Aunt Lydia didn’t repeat any of this part to Janine, but I expect Moira said something like it. In any case she didn’t kill or mutilate Aunt Elizabeth, who a few days later, after she’d recovered from her seven hours behind the furnace and presumably from the interrogation – for the possibility of collusion would not have been ruled out, by the Aunts or by anyone else – was back in operation at the Centre.
Moira stood up straight and looked firmly ahead. She drew her shoulders back, pulled up her spine, and compressed her lips. This was not our usual posture. Usually we walked with heads bent down, our eyes on our hands or the ground. Moira didn’t look much like Aunt Elizabeth, even with the brown wimple in place, but her stiff-backed posture was apparently enough to convince the Angels on guard, who never looked at any of us very closely, even and perhaps especially the Aunts; because Moira marched straight out the front door, with the bearing of a person who knew where she was going; was saluted, presented Aunt Elizabeth’s pass, which they didn’t bother to check, because who would affront an Aunt in that way? And disappeared.
Oh, said Janine. Who can tell what she felt? Maybe she wanted to cheer. If so, she kept it well hidden.
So, Janine, said Aunt Lydia. Here is what I want you to do.
Janine opened her eyes wide and tried to look innocent and attentive.
I want you to keep your ears open. Maybe one of the others was involved.
Yes, Aunt Lydia, said Janine.
And come and tell me about it, won’t you, dear? If you hear anything.
Yes, Aunt Lydia, said Janine. She knew she would not have to kneel down any more, at the front of the classroom, and listen to all of us shouting at her that it was her fault. Now it would be someone else for a while. She was, temporarily, off the hook.
The fact that she told Dolores all about this encounter in Aunt Lydia’s office meant nothing. It didn’t mean she wouldn’t testify against us, any of us, if she had the occasion. We knew that. By this time we were treating her the way people used to treat those with no legs who sold pencils on street corners. We avoided her when we could, were charitable to her when it couldn’t be helped. She was a danger to us, we knew that.
Dolores probably patted her on the back and said she was a good sport to tell us. Where did this exchange take place? In the gymnasium, when we were getting ready for bed. Dolores had the bed next to Janine’s.
The story passed among us that night, in the semi-darkness, under our breath, from bed to bed.
Moira was out there somewhere. She was at large, or dead. What would she do? The thought of what she would do expanded till it filled the room. At any moment there might be a shattering explosion, the glass of the windows would fall inwards, the doors would swing open.… Moira had power now, she’d been set loose, she’d set herself loose. She was now a loose woman.
I think we found this frightening.
Moira was like an elevator with open sides. She made us dizzy. Already we were losing the taste for freedom, already we were finding these walls secure. In the upper reaches of the atmosphere you’d come apart, you’d vaporize, there would be no pressure holding you together.
Nevertheless Moira was our fantasy. We hugged her to us, she was with us in secret, a giggle; she was lava beneath the crust of daily life. In the light of Moira, the Aunts were less fearsome and more absurd. Their power had a flaw to it. They could be shanghaied in toilets. The audacity was what we liked.
We expected her to be dragged in at any minute, as she had been before. We could not imagine what they might do to her this time. It would be very bad, whatever it was.
But nothing happened. Moira didn’t reappear. She hasn’t yet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
This is a reconstruction. All of it is a reconstruction. It’s a reconstruction now, in my head, as I lie flat on my single bed rehearsing what I should or shouldn’t have said, what I should or shouldn’t have done, how I should have played it. If I ever get out of here –
Let’s stop there. I intend to get out of here. It can’t last forever. Others have thought such things, in bad times before this, and they were always right, they did get out one way or another, and it didn’t last forever. Although for them it may have lasted all the forever they had.
When I get out of here, if I’m ever able to set this down, in any form, even in the form of one voice to another, it will be a reconstruction then too, at yet another remove. It’s impossible to say a thing exactly the way it was, because what you say can never be exact, you always have to leave something out, there are too many parts, sides, crosscurrents, nuances; too many gestures, which could mean this or that, too many shapes which can never be fully described, too many flavours, in the air or on the tongue, half-colours, too many. But if you happen to be a man, sometime in the future, and you’ve made it this far, please remember: you will never be subjected to the temptation of feeling you must forgive, a man, as a woman. It’s difficult to resist, believe me. But remember that forgiveness too is a power. To beg for it is a power, and to withhold or bestow it is a power, perhaps the greatest.
Maybe none of this is about control. Maybe it isn’t really about who can own whom, who can do what to whom and get away with it, even as far as death. Maybe it isn’t about who can sit and who has to kneel or stand or lie down, legs spread open. Maybe it’s about who can do what to whom and be forgiven for it. Never tell me it amounts to the same thing.
I want you to kiss me, said the Commander.
Well, of course something came before that. Such requests never come flying out of the blue.
I went to sleep after all, and dreamed I was wearing earrings, and one of them was broken; nothing beyond that, just the brain going through its back files, and I was wakened by Cora with the dinner tray, and time was back on track.
“It a good baby?” says Cora as she’s setting down the tray. She must know already, they have a kind of word-of-mouth telegraph, from household to household, news gets around; but it gives her pleasure to hear about it, as if my words will make it more real.
“It’s fine,” I say. “A keeper. A girl.”
Cora smiles at me, a smile which includes. These are the moments that must make what she is doing seem worthwhile to her.
“That’s good,” she says. Her voice is almost wistful, and I think: of course. She would have liked to have been there. It’s like a party she couldn’t go to.
“Maybe we have one, soon,” she says, shyly. By we she means me. It’s up to me to repay the team, justify my food and keep, like a queen ant with eggs. Rita may disapprove of me, but Cora does not. Instead she depends on me. She hopes, and I am the vehicle for her hope.
Her hope is of the simplest kind. She wants a Birth Day, here, with guests and food and presents, she wants a little child to spoil in the kitchen, to iron clothes for, to slip cookies into when no one’s watching. I am to provide these joys for her. I would rather have the disapproval, I feel more worthy of it.
The dinner is beef stew. I have some trouble finishing it, because halfway through it I remember what the day has erased right out of my head. It’s true what they say, it’s a trance state, giving birth or being there, you lose track of the rest of your life, you focus only on that one instant. But now it comes back to me, and I know I’m not prepared.
The clock in the hall downstairs strikes nine. I press my hands against the sides of my thighs, breath in, set out along the hall and softly down the stairs. Serena Joy may still be at the house where the Birth took place; that’s lucky, he couldn’t have foreseen it. On these days the Wives hang around for hours, helping to open the presents, gossiping, getting drunk. Something has to be done to dispel their envy. I follow the downstairs corridor back, past the door that leads into the kitchen, along to the next door, his. I stand outside it, feeling like a child who’s been summoned, at school, to the principal’s office. What have I done wrong?
My presence here is illegal. It’s forbidden for us to be alone with the Commanders. We are for breeding purposes: we aren’t concubines, geisha girls, courtesans. On the contrary: everything possible has been done to remove us from that category. There is supposed to be nothing entertaining about us, no room is to be permitted for the flowering of secret lusts; no special favours are to be wheedled, by them or us, there are to be no toeholds for love. We are two-legged wombs, that’s all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices.
So why does he want to see me, at night, alone?
If I’m caught, it’s to Serena’s tender mercies I’ll be delivered. He isn’t supposed to meddle in such household discipline, that’s women’s business. After that, reclassification. I could become an Unwoman.