The Handmaid’s Tale

IX Night
24
I go back, along the dimmed hall and up the muffled stairs, stealthily to my
room. There I sit in the chair, with the lights off, in my red dress, hooked and
buttoned. You can think clearly only with your clothes on.
What I need is perspective. The illusion of depth, created by a frame, the
arrangement of shapes on a flat surface. Perspective is necessary. Otherwise
there are only two dimensions. Otherwise you live with your face squashed
against a wall, everything a huge foreground, of details, close-ups, hairs, the
weave of the bedsheet, the molecules of the face. Your own skin like a map, a
diagram of futility, crisscrossed with tiny roads that lead nowhere. Otherwise
you live in the moment. Which is not where I want to be.
But that's where I am, there's no escaping it. Time's a trap, I'm caught in it. I
must forget about my secret name and all ways back. My name is Offred now,
and here is where I live.

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Live in the present, make the most of it, it's all you've got.
Time to take stock.
I am thirty-three years old. I have brown hair. I stand five seven without shoes. I
have trouble remembering what I used lo look like. I have viable ovaries. I have
one more chance.
But something has changed, now, tonight.Cicumstances have altered.
I can ask for something. Possibly not much; but something.
Men are sex machines, said Aunt Lydia, and not much more. They only want
one thing. You must learn to manipulate them, for your own good. Lead them
around by the nose; that is a metaphor. It's nature's way. It's God's device. It's the
way things are.
Aunt Lydia did not actually say this, but it was implicit in everything she did say.
It hovered over her head, like the golden mottoes over the saints, of the darker
ages. Like them too, she was angular and without flesh.
But how to fit the Commander into this, as he exists in his study, with his word
games and his desire, for what? To be played with, to be gently kissed, as if I
meant it.
I know I need to take it seriously, this desire of his. It could be important, it
could be a passport, it could be my downfall. I need to be earnest about it, I need
to ponder it. But no matter what I do, sitting here in the dark, with the
searchlights illuminating the oblong of my window, from outside, through the
curtains gauzy as a bridal dress, as ectoplasm, one of my hands holding the
other, rocking back and forth a little, no matter what I do there's something
hilarious about it.
He wanted me to play Scrabble with him, and kiss him as if I meant it.
This is one of the most bizarre things that's happened to me, ever.
Context is all.
I remember a television program I once saw; a rerun, made years before. I must

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have been seven or eight, too young to understand it. It was the sort of thing my
mother liked to watch: historical, educational. She tried to explain it to me
afterwards, to tell me that the things in it had really happened, but to me it was
only a story. I thought someone had made it up. I suppose all children think that,
about any history before their own. If it's only a story, it becomes less
frightening.
The program was a documentary, about one of those wars. They interviewed
people and showed clips from films of the time, black and white, and still
photos. I don't remember much about it, but I remember the quality of the
pictures, the way everything in them seemed to be coated with a mixture of
sunlight and dust, and how dark the shadows were under people's eyebrows and
along their
cheekbones.
The/interviews with people still alive then were in color. The one I remember
best was with a woman who had been the mistress of a man who had supervised
one of the camps where they put the Jews, before they killed them. In ovens, my
mother said; but there weren't any pictures of the ovens, so I got some confused
notion that these deaths had taken place in kitchens. There is something
especially terrifying to a child in that idea. Ovens mean cooking, and cooking
comes before eating. I thought these people had been eaten. Which in a way I
suppose they had been.
From what they said, the man had been cruel and brutal. The mistress-my
mother explained mistress, she did not believe in mystification, I had a pop-up
book of sexual organs by the time I was four-the mistress had once been very
beautiful. There was a black-and-white shot of her and another woman, in the
two-piece bathing suits and platform shoes and picture hats of the time; they
were wearing cat's-eye sunglasses and sitting in deck chairs by a swimming
pool. The swimming pool was beside their house, which was near the camp with
the ovens. The woman said she didn't notice much that she found unusual. She
denied knowing about the ovens.
At the time of the interview, forty or fifty years later, she was dying of
emphysema. She coughed a lot, and she was very thin, almost emaciated; but she
still took pride in her appearance. (Look at that, said my mother, half grudgingly,
half admiringly. She still takes pride in her appearance.) She was carefully made

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up, heavy mascara on her eyelashes, rouge on the bones of her cheeks, over
which the skin was stretched like a rubber glove pulled tight. She was wearing
pearls.
He was not a monster, she said. People say he was a monster, but he was not one.
What could she have been thinking about? Not much, I guess; not back then, not
at the time. She was thinking about how not to think. The times were abnormal.
She took pride in her appearance. She did not believe he was a monster. Hw was
not a monster, to her. Probably he had some endearing trait: he whistled, offkey,
in the shower, he had a yen for truffles, he called his dog Liebchen and made it
sit up for little pieces of raw steak. How easy it is to invent a humanity, for
anyone at all.
What an available temptation. A big child, she would have said to herself. Her
heart would have melted, she'd have smoothed the hair back from his forehead,
kissed him on the ear, and not just to get something out of him either. The
instinct to soothe, to make it better. There there, she'd say, as he woke from a
nightmare. Things are so hard for you. All this she would have believed, because
otherwise how could she have kept on living? She was very ordinary, under that
beauty. She believed
't't in decency, she was nice to the Jewish maid, or nice enough, nicer than she
needed to be.
Several days after this interview with her was filmed, she killed herself. It said
that, right on television.
Nobody asked her whether or not she had loved him.
What I remember now, most of all, is the make-up.
I stand up, in the dark, start to unbutton. Then I hear something, inside my body.
I've broken, something has cracked, that must be it. Noise is coming up, coming
out, of the broken place, in my face. Without warning: I wasn't thinking about
here or there or anything. If I let the noise get out into the air it will be laughter,
too loud, too much of it, someone is bound to hear, and then there will be
hurrying footsteps and commands and who knows? Judgment: emotion
inappropriate to the occasion.

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The wandering womb, they used to think. Hysteria. And then a needle, a pill. It
could be fatal.
I cram both hands over my mouth as if I'm about to be sick, drop to my knees,
the laughter boiling like lava in my throat. I crawl into the cupboard, draw up my
knees, I'll choke on it. My ribs hurt with holding back, I shake, I heave, seismic,
volcanic, I'll burst. Red all over the cupboard, mirth rhymes with birth, oh to die
of laughter.
I stifle it in the folds of the hanging cloak, clench my eyes, from which tears are
squeezing. Try to compose myself.
After a while it passes, like an epileptic fit. Here I am in the closet. Nolite te
bastardes carborundorum. I can't see it in the dark but I trace the tiny scratched
writing with the ends of my fingers, as if it's a code in Braille. It sounds in my
head now less like a prayer, more like a command; but to do what? Useless to
me in any case, an ancient hieroglyph to which the key's been lost. Why did she
write it, why did she bother? There's no way out of here.
I lie on the floor, breathing too fast, then slower, evening out my breathing, as in
the Exercises, for giving birth. All I can hear now is the sound of my own heart,
opening and closing, opening and closing, opening