ot in the same season—I was in my office, tracing the Bloodlines for a proposed marriage, when I was interrupted by the appearance of Aunt Lise, she of the fluttering eyelashes and the pretentious hairstyle—a modified French roll. As she was ushered into my office, she was nervously wringing her hands; I was ashamed of her for being so novelistic.
“Aunt Lydia, I am truly sorry for taking up your valuable time,” she began. They all say that, but it never stops them. I smiled in what I hoped was not a forbidding manner.
“What is the problem?” I said. There is a standard repertoire of problems: Wives at war with one another, daughters in rebellion, Commanders dissatisfied with the Wife selection proposed, Handmaids on the run, Births gone wrong. The occasional rape, which we punish severely if we choose to make it public. Or a murder: he kills her, she kills him, she kills her, and, once in a while, he kills him. Among the Econoclasses, jealous rage can take over and knives can be wielded, but among the elect, male-on-male murders are metaphorical: a stab in the back.
On slow days I catch myself longing for something really original—a case of cannibalism, for instance—but then I reprimand myself: Be careful what you wish for. I have wished for various things in the past and have received them. If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans, as used to be said; though in the present day the idea of God laughing is next door to blasphemy. An ultra-serious fellow, God is now.
“We’ve had another suicide attempt among the Premarital Preparatory students at Rubies,” said Aunt Lise, tucking back a wandering strand of hair. She had removed the ungainly babushka-like head covering we are obliged to wear in public to avoid inflaming men, although the idea of any men being inflamed either by Aunt Lise, impressive of profile but alarmingly puckered, or by me, with my greying thatchery and sack-of-potatoes body, is so ludicrous that it hardly needs articulating.
Not a suicide; not again, I thought. But Aunt Lise had said attempt, which meant that the suicide had not succeeded. There is always an inquiry when they do succeed, and fingers are pointed at Ardua Hall. Inappropriate mate selection is the usual accusation—we at the Hall being responsible for making the first cut, since we hold the Bloodlines information. Opinions vary, however, as to what is in fact appropriate.
“What was it this time? Anti-anxiety medication overdose? I wish the Wives wouldn’t leave those pills strewn around where anyone can get hold of them. Those, and the opiates: such a temptation. Or did she try to hang herself?”
“Not hanging,” said Aunt Lise. “She attempted to slash her wrists with the secateurs. The ones I use for the flower-arranging.”
“That’s direct, at any rate,” I said. “What happened then?”
“Well, she didn’t slash very deeply. Though there was a lot of blood, and a certain amount of…noise.”
“Ah.” By noise, she meant screaming: so unladylike. “And then?”
“I called in the paramedics, and they sedated her and took her to the hospital. Then I notified the proper authorities.”
“Quite right. Guardians or Eyes?”
“Some of each.”
I nodded. “You seem to have handled it in the best way possible. What is there left to consult me about?” Aunt Lise looked happy because I’d praised her, but she quickly changed her facial expression to deeply concerned.
“She says she will try it again, if…unless there’s a change in plan.”
“Change in plan?” I knew what she meant, but it’s best to require clarity.
“Unless the wedding is called off,” said Aunt Lise.
“We have counsellors,” I said. “They’ve done their job?”
“They’ve tried all the usual methods, with no success.”
“You threatened her with the ultimate?”
“She says she’s not afraid of dying. It’s living she objects to. Under the circumstances.”
“Is it this particular candidate she objects to, or marriage in general?”
“In general,” said Aunt Lise. “Despite the benefits.”
“Flower-arranging was no inducement?” I said drily. Aunt Lise sets great store by it.
“It was not.”
“Was it the prospect of childbirth?” I could understand that, the mortality rate being what it is; of newborns primarily, but also of mothers. Complications set in, especially when the infants are not normally shaped. We had one the other day with no arms, which was interpreted as a negative comment by God upon the mother.
“No, not childbirth,” said Aunt Lise. “She says she likes babies.”
“What, then?” I liked to make her blurt it out: it’s good for Aunt Lise to confront reality once in a while. She spends too much time diddling around among the petals.
She fiddled with the hair strand again. “I don’t like to say it.” She looked down at the floor.