The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood Page B

in the window is shatterproof, and why they took down the chandelier. I wanted to feel Luke lying beside me, but there wasn’t room.
    I saved the cupboard until the third day. I looked carefully over the door first, inside and out, then the walls with their brass hooks – how could they have overlooked the hooks? Why didn’t they remove them? Too close to the floor? But still, a stocking, that’s all you’d need. And the rod with the plastic hangers, my dresses hanging on them, the red woollen cape for cold weather, the shawl. I knelt to examine the floor, and there it was, in tiny writing, quite fresh it seemed, scratched with a pin or maybe just afingernail, in the corner where the darkest shadow fell:
Nolite te bastardes carborundorum
.
    I didn’t know what it meant, or even what language it was in. I thought it might be Latin, but I didn’t know any Latin. Still, it was a message, and it was in writing, forbidden by that very fact, and it hadn’t yet been discovered. Except by me, for whom it was intended. It was intended for whoever came next.
    It pleases me to ponder this message. It pleases me to think I’m communing with her, this unknown woman. For she is unknown; or if known, she has never been mentioned to me. It pleases me to know that her taboo message made it through, to at least one other person, washed itself up on the wall of my cupboard, was opened and read by me. Sometimes I repeat the words to myself. They give me a small joy. When I imagine the woman who wrote them, I think of her as about my age, maybe a little younger. I turn her into Moira, Moira as she was when she was in college, in the room next to mine: quirky, jaunty, athletic, with a bicycle once, and a knapsack for hiking. Freckles, I think; irreverent, resourceful.
    I wonder who she was or is, and what’s become of her.
    I tried that out on Rita, the day I found the message.
    Who was the woman who stayed in that room? I said. Before me? If I’d asked it differently, if I’d said, Was there a woman who stayed in that room before me? I might not have got anywhere.
    Which one? she said; she sounded grudging, suspicious, but then, she almost always sounds like that when she speaks to me.
    So there have been more than one. Some haven’t stayed their full term of posting, their full two years. Some have been sent away, for one reason or another. Or maybe not sent; gone?
    The lively one. I was guessing. The one with freckles.
    You knew her? Rita asked, more suspicious than ever.
    I knew her before, I lied. I heard she was here.
    Rita accepted this. She knows there must be a grapevine, an underground of sorts.
    She didn’t work out, she said.
    In what way? I asked, trying to sound as neutral as possible.
    But Rita clamped her lips together. I am like a child here, there are some things I must not be told. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, was all she would say.

CHAPTER TEN
    S ometimes I sing to myself, in my head; something lugubrious, mournful, presbyterian:
    Amazing grace, how sweet the sound
    Could save a wretch like me
,
    Who once was lost, but now am found
,
    Was bound, but now am free
.
    I don’t know if the words are right. I can’t remember. Such songs are not sung any more in public, especially the ones that use words
like free
. They are considered too dangerous. They belong to outlawed sects.
    I feel so lonely, baby
,
    I feel so lonely, baby
,
    I feel so lonely I could die
.
    This too is outlawed. I know it from an old cassette tape, of my mother’s; she had a scratchy and untrustworthy machine, too, that could still play such things. She used to put the tape on when her friends came over and they’d had a few drinks.
    I don’t sing like this often. It makes my throat hurt.
    There isn’t much music in this house, except what we hear on the TV. Sometimes Rita will hum, while kneading or peeling; a wordless humming, tuneless, unfathomable. And sometimes