The Testaments (25 page)

We were late taking off, and I worried that I had been found out and we would be stopped after all. But once we were in the air, I felt lighter. I’d never been in a plane before—I was very excited at first. But it clouded over, and the view became monotonous. I must have gone to sleep, because soon Aunt Beatrice was nudging me gently and saying, “We’re almost there.”

I looked out the little window. The plane was flying lower, and I could see some pretty-looking buildings down below, with spires and towers, and a winding river, and the sea.

Then the plane landed. We went down a set of steps they lowered from the door. It was hot and dry, with a wind blowing; our long silvery skirts were pushed against our legs. Standing on the tarmac there was a double line of men in black uniforms, and we walked between the lines, arm in arm. “Don’t look at their faces,” she whispered.

So I focused on their uniforms, but I could sense eyes, eyes, eyes, all over me like hands. I’d never felt so much at risk in that way—not even under the bridge with Garth, and with strangers all around.

Then all these men saluted. “What is this?” I murmured to Aunt Beatrice. “Why are they saluting?”

“Because my mission was successful,” said Aunt Beatrice. “I brought back a precious Pearl. That’s you.”

We were taken to a black car and driven into the city. There weren’t very many people on the street, and the women all had those long dresses in different colours just like in the documentaries. I even saw some Handmaids walking two by two. There was no lettering on the stores—only pictures on the signs. A boot, a fish, a tooth.

The car paused in front of a gate in a brick wall. We were waved through by two guards. The car went in and stopped, and they opened the doors for us. We got out, and Aunt Beatrice linked her arm through mine and said, “There isn’t time to show you where you’ll sleep, the plane was too late. We need to go straight to the chapel, for the Thanks Giving. Just do what I say.”

I knew this would be some kind of ceremony about the Pearl Girls—Ada had warned me about it, Aunt Dove had explained it to me—but I hadn’t paid close attention so I didn’t really know what to expect.

We went into the chapel. It was already full: older women in the brown uniforms of the Aunts, younger ones in Pearl Girls dresses. Each Pearl Girl had a girl around my age with her, also in a temporary silver dress like me. Right up at the front there was a big gold-framed Baby Nicole picture, which did not cheer me up at all.

As
Aunt Beatrice steered me down the aisle, everyone was singing:

Bringing in the Pearls,

Bringing in the Pearls,

We will come rejoicing,

Bringing in the Pearls.

They smiled and nodded at me: they seemed really happy. Maybe this won’t be so bad, I thought.

We all sat down. Then one of the older women went up to the pulpit.

“Aunt Lydia,” Aunt Beatrice whispered. “Our main Founder.” I recognized her from the picture that Ada had shown me, though she was quite a lot older than the picture, or so it seemed to me.

“We are here to give thanks for the safe return of our Pearl Girls from their missions—from wherever they have been in the world, going to and fro in it, and doing Gilead’s good work. We salute their physical bravery and their spiritual courage, and we offer the thanks of our hearts. I now declare that our returning Pearl Girls are no longer Supplicants, but full Aunts, with all the powers and privileges associated thereto. We know they will do their duty, wherever and however that duty calls.” Everyone said, “Amen.”

“Pearl Girls, present the Pearls you have gathered,” said Aunt Lydia. “First, the mission to Canada.”

“Stand up,” Aunt Beatrice whispered. She led me up to the front, holding me by the left arm. Her hand was on
GOD/LOVE
, and it hurt.

She took off her string of pearls, laid it in a big shallow dish in front of Aunt Lydia, and said, “I return these pearls to you pure as the state in which I received them, and may they be blessed to the service of the next Pearl Girl who wears them with pride during her mission. Thanks to the Divine Will, I have added to Gilead’s treasure trove of valuable gems. May I present Jade, a precious Pearl of Great Price, saved from certain destruction. May she be purified from worldly pollution, cleansed of unchaste desires, cauterized from sin, and consecrated to whatever service is allotted to her in Gilead.” She put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me into a kneeling position. I hadn’t been expecting this—I almost fell over sideways. “What’re you doing?” I whispered.

“Shhh,” said Aunt Beatrice. “Be quiet.”

Then Aunt Lydia said, “Welcome to Ardua Hall, Jade, and may you be blessed in the choice you have made, Under His Eye,
Per Ardua Cum Estrus
.” She placed her hand on my head, then took it off again, nodded at me, and gave a dry smile.

Everyone repeated, “Welcome to the Pearl of Great Price,
Per Ardua Cum Estrus
, Amen.”

What am I doing here? I thought. This place is weird as fuck.

My bottle of blue drawing ink, my fountain pen, my notebook pages with their margins trimmed to fit within their hiding place: through these I entrust my message to you, my reader. But what sort of message is it? Some days I see myself as the Recording Angel, collecting together all the sins of Gilead, including mine; on other days I shrug off this high moral tone. Am I not, au fond, merely a dealer in sordid gossip? I’ll never know your verdict on that, I fear.

My larger fear: that all my efforts will prove futile, and Gilead will last for a thousand years. Most of the time, that is what it feels like here, far away from the war, in the still heart of the tornado. So peaceful, the streets; so tranquil, so orderly; yet underneath the deceptively placid surfaces, a tremor, like that near a high-voltage power line. We’re stretched thin, all of us; we vibrate; we quiver, we’re always on the alert.
Reign of terror
, they used to say, but terror does not exactly reign. Instead it paralyzes. Hence the unnatural quiet.

But there are small mercies. Yesterday I viewed—on the closed-circuit television in Commander Judd’s office—the Particicution presided over by Aunt Elizabeth. Commander Judd had ordered in some coffee—excellent coffee of a kind not normally available; I avoided asking him how he had come by it. He added a shot of rum to his and asked if I would like some. I declined. He then said that he had a tender heart and weak nerves and needed to brace himself, as he found it a strain on his system to watch these bloodthirsty spectacles.

“I do understand,” I said. “But it is our duty to see justice done.” He sighed, drank up, and poured himself another shot.

Two condemned men were to be Particicuted: an Angel who’d been caught selling grey market lemons smuggled in through Maine, and Dr. Grove, the dentist. The Angel’s real crime was not the lemons, however: he’d been accused of taking bribes from Mayday and aiding several Handmaids in their successful flights across our various borders. But the Commanders did not want this fact publicized: it would give people ideas. The official line was that there were no corrupt Angels, and certainly no fleeing Handmaids; for why would one renounce God’s kingdom to plunge into the flaming pit?

Throughout the process that was now about to end Grove’s life, Aunt Elizabeth had been magnificent. She’d been in college dramatics, and had played Hecuba in
The Trojan Women
—a factoid I’d gathered during our early conferences when she and Helena and Vidala and I had been hammering out the shape of the special women’s sphere in the nascent Gilead. Camaraderie is fostered under such circumstances, past lives are shared. I took care not to share too much of mine.

Elizabeth’s onstage experience had not failed her. She’d booked an appointment with Dr. Grove, as per my orders. Then, at the appropriate moment, she’d scrambled out of the dentist’s chair, ripped her clothing, and shrieked that Grove had tried to rape her. Then, weeping distractedly, she’d staggered out into the waiting room, where Mr. William, the dental assistant, was able to witness her dishevelled appearance and ravaged state of soul.

The person of an Aunt is supposed to be sacrosanct. No wonder Aunt Elizabeth was so upset by this violation, was the general opinion. The man must be a dangerous lunatic.

I’d obtained a photographic sequence secured through the mini-camera I had positioned within an attractive diagram of a full set of teeth. Should Elizabeth ever attempt to slip the leash, I could threaten to produce it as proof that she had lied.

Mr. William testified against Grove at the trial. He was no fool: he’d seen immediately that his boss was doomed. He described Grove’s rage at the moment of discovery.
Fucking bitch
was the epithet applied to Aunt Elizabeth by the fiendish Grove, he claimed. No such words had been uttered—in fact, Grove had said, “Why are you doing this?”—but William’s account was effective at the trial. Gasps from the listeners, which included the entire population of Ardua Hall: to call an Aunt such vulgar words was next door to blasphemy! Under questioning, William reluctantly admitted that he’d had some reason to suspect his employer of irregularities in the past. Anaesthetics, he said sadly, could be such a temptation in the wrong hands.

What could Grove say in his own defence except that he was innocent of the charge and then quote the Bible on the subject of that well-known false-rape accuser, Potiphar’s wife? Innocent men denying their guilt sound exactly like guilty men, as I am sure you have noticed, my reader. Listeners are inclined to believe neither.

Grove could hardly admit that he would never have laid a lecherous finger on Aunt Elizabeth since he was only aroused by underage girls.

In view of Aunt Elizabeth’s exceptional performance, I felt it more than fair that she be allowed to conduct the Particicution proceedings at the stadium. Grove was the second to be dispatched. He had to watch as the Angel was kicked to death and then literally torn apart by seventy shrieking Handmaids.

As
he was led out to the field, arms pinioned, he screamed, “I didn’t do it!” Aunt Elizabeth, the picture of outraged virtue, sternly blew the whistle. In two minutes Dr. Grove was no more. Fists were raised, clutching clumps of bloodied hair torn out by the roots.

The Aunts and Supplicants were all present, to support the vindication of one of Ardua Hall’s revered Founders. Off to one side were the newly recruited Pearls; they’d arrived only the day before, so this was a baptismal moment for them. I scanned their young faces but at that distance could not read them. Revulsion? Relish? Repugnance? It is always good to know. The Pearl of the greatest price was among them; right after the sporting event we were about to witness, I would place her in the dwelling unit that would be best for my purposes.

While Grove was being reduced to a slurry by the Handmaids, Aunt Immortelle fainted, which was to be expected: she was always sensitive. I expect she will now blame herself in some way: however despicably he behaved, Grove was nevertheless cast in the role of her father.

Commander Judd switched off the television and sighed. “A pity,” he said. “He was a fine dentist.”

“Yes,” I said. “But sins must not be overlooked simply because the sinner is skilled.”

“Was he really guilty?” he asked with mild interest.

“Yes,” I said, “but not of that. He would not have been capable of raping Aunt Elizabeth. He was a pedophile.”

Commander Judd sighed again. “Poor man,” he said. “It is a severe affliction. We must pray for his soul.”

“Indeed,” I said. “But he was ruining too many young girls for marriage. Rather than accepting wedlock, the precious flowers were deserting to the Aunts.”

“Ah,” he said. “Was that the case with the girl Agnes? I thought there must have been something like that.”

He wanted me to say yes because then her aversion would not have been to him personally. “I can’t be sure,” I said. His face fell. “But I believe so.” It doesn’t do to push him too far.

“Your judgment can always be relied on, Aunt Lydia,” he said. “In this matter of Grove, you’ve made the best choice for Gilead.”

“Thank you. I pray for guidance,” I said. “But, to change the subject, I am happy to inform you that Baby Nicole has now been safely imported into Gilead.”

“What a coup! Well done!” he said.

“My Pearl Girls were very effective,” I said. “They followed my orders. They took her under their wings as a new convert, and convinced her to join us. They were able to buy off the young man who’d acquired an influence over her. Aunt Beatrice did the bargaining, although she was, of course, not aware of Baby Nicole’s real identity.”

“But you were, dear Aunt Lydia,” he said. “How did you manage to identify her? My Eyes have been trying for years.” Did I detect a note of envy or, worse, of suspicion? I breezed past it.

“I have my little ways. And some helpful informants,” I lied. “Two and two do sometimes add up to four. And we women, myopic as we are, often notice the finer details that may escape the broader and loftier views of men. But Aunt Beatrice and Aunt Dove were told only that they should be on the watch for a specific tattoo that the poor child had inflicted upon herself. And luckily, they found her.”

“A self-inflicted tattoo? Depraved, like all those girls. On what part of her body?” he asked with interest.

“Only the arm. Her face is unmarked.”

“Her arms will be covered in any public presentation,” he said.

“She is going by the name of Jade; she may even believe that to be her real name. I did not wish to enlighten her about her true identity until I had consulted with you.”

“Excellent decision,” he said. “May I inquire—what was the nature of her relationship with this young man? It would be better if she is, as it were, untouched, but in her case we would overlook the rules. She would be wasted as a Handmaid.”

“Her virginity status is as yet unconfirmed, but I believe her to be pure in that respect. I have placed her with two of our younger Aunts, who are kind and sympathetic. She will share her hopes and fears with them, no doubt; as well as her beliefs, which I am sure can be moulded to accord with ours.”

“Again, excellent, Aunt Lydia. You are indeed a gem. How soon may we reveal Baby Nicole to Gilead and the world?”

“We must first assure that she is a true-believer convert,” I said. “Firm in the faith. That will take some care and tact. These newcomers have been swept up in enthusiasm, they have such unrealistic expectations. We must bring her down to earth, we must inform her of the duties that await: it is not all hymn-singing and exaltation here. In addition to that, she must be made acquainted with her own personal history: it will be a shock to her to discover that she is the well-known and well-loved Baby Nicole.”

“I will leave these matters in your capable hands,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t take a drop of rum in your coffee? It helps the circulation.”

“Maybe a teaspoon,” I said. He poured. We lifted our mugs, clinked them together.

“May our efforts be blessed,” he said. “
As
I am convinced they will be.”

“In the fullness of time,” I said, smiling.

After her exertions in the dentist’s office, at the trial, and at the Particicution, Aunt Elizabeth suffered a nervous collapse. I went with Aunt Vidala and Aunt Helena to visit her where she was recuperating at one of our Retreat Houses. She greeted us tearfully.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “I am drained of energy.”

“After all you’ve been through, it’s no wonder,” said Helena.

“You are considered practically a saint at Ardua Hall,” I said. I knew what was truly agitating her: she’d perjured herself irrevocably; which, if discovered, would signal her end.

“I’m so grateful to you for your guidance, Aunt Lydia,” she said to me while glancing sideways at Vidala. Now that I was her firm ally—now that she had fulfilled my unorthodox request—she must have felt that Aunt Vidala was powerless against her.

“I was happy to help,” I said.