The Handmaid's Tale , Margaret Atwood - Marta Dvořák Page 0,82

through. “I know you can’t officially. But it’s done. Women do it frequently. All the time.”

“With doctors, you mean?” I say, remembering the sympathetic brown eyes, the gloveless hand. The last time I went it was a different doctor. Maybe someone caught the other one out, or a woman reported him. Not that they’d take her word, without evidence.

“Some do that,” she says, her tone almost affable now, though distanced; it’s as if we’re considering a choice of nail polish. “That’s how Ofwarren did it. The wife knew, of course.” She pauses to let this sink in. “I would help you. I would make sure nothing went wrong.”

I think about this. “Not with a doctor,” I say.

“No,” she agrees, and for this moment at least we are cronies, this could be a kitchen table, it could be a date we’re discussing, some girlish stratagem of ploys and flirtation. “Sometimes they blackmail. But it doesn’t have to be a doctor. It could be someone we trust.”

“Who?” I say.

“I was thinking of Nick,” she says, and her voice is almost soft. “He’s been with us a long time. He’s loyal. I could fix it with him.”

So that’s who does her little black-market errands for her. Is this what he always gets, in return?

“What about the Commander?” I say.

“Well,” she says, with firmness; no, more than that, a clenched look, like a purse snapping shut. “We just won’t tell him, will we?”

This idea hangs between us, almost visible, almost palpable: heavy, formless, dark; collusion of a sort, betrayal of a sort. She does want that baby.

“It’s a risk,” I say. “More than that.” It’s my life on the line; but that’s where it will be sooner or later, one way or another, whether I do or don’t. We both know this.

“You might as well,” she says. Which is what I think too.

“All right,” I say. “Yes.”

She leans forward. “Maybe I could get something for you,” she says. Because I have been good. “Something you want,” she adds, wheedling almost.

“What’s that?” I say. I can’t think of anything I truly want that she’d be likely or able to give me.

“A picture,” she says, as if offering me some juvenile treat, an ice cream, a trip to the zoo. I look up at her again, puzzled.

“Of her,” she says. “Your little girl. But only maybe.”

She knows where they’ve put her then, where they’re keeping her. She’s known all along. Something chokes in my throat. The bitch, not to tell me, bring me news, any news at all. Not even to let on. She’s made of wood, or iron, she can’t imagine. But I can’t say this, I can’t lose sight, even of so small a thing. I can’t let go of this hope. I can’t speak.

She’s actually smiling, coquettishly even; there’s a hint of her former small-screen mannequin’s allure, flickering over her face like momentary static. “It’s too damn hot for this, don’t you think?” she says. She lifts the wool from my two hands, where I have been holding it all this time. Then she takes the cigarette she’s been fiddling with and, a little awkwardly, presses it into my hand, closing my fingers around it. “Find yourself a match,” she says. “They’re in the kitchen, you can ask Rita for one. You can tell her I said so. Only the one though,” she adds roguishly. “We don’t want to ruin your health!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Rita’s sitting at the kitchen table. There’s a glass bowl with ice cubes floating in it on the table in front of her. Radishes made into flowers, roses or tulips, bob in it. On the chopping board in front of her she’s cutting more, with a paring knife, her large hands deft, indifferent. The rest of her body does not move, nor does her face. It’s as if she’s doing it in her sleep, this knife trick. On the white enamel surface is a pile of radishes, washed but uncut. Little Aztec hearts.

She hardly bothers to look up as I enter. “You got it all, huh,” is what she says, as I take the parcels out for her inspection.

“Could I have a match?” I ask her. Surprising how much like a small, begging child she makes me feel, simply by her scowl, her stolidity; how importunate and whiny.

“Matches?” she says. “What do you want matches for?”

“She said I could have one,” I say, not wanting to admit to the cigarette.

“Who said?” She continues with the radishes, her rhythm unbroken. “No call