Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“You’re such a star,” he said. “I can’t thank you enough.”

Estelle smiled. “You’re more than welcome,” she said. “I’m happy to be able to contribute. It’s such a worthwhile…Anything I can do to facilitate…You know I’d pull out all the stops to keep this going.” She leaned forward, almost touched his wrist, thought better of it. “And what’s your Shakespeare pick for this year?” she asked. “Don’t I remember you were planning a Henry V ? With the longbows, and…The wonderful speech just before the, such a stirring…”

“I was thinking of that, it’s true,” said Felix. “But I’ve changed my mind.” In fact, he’d just changed it. He’s been chewing over his revenge for twelve years — it’s been in the background, a constant undercurrent like an ache. Though he’s been tracking Tony and Sal on the Net, they’ve always been out of his reach. But now they’ll be entering his space, his sphere. How to grasp them, how to enclose them, how to ambush them? Suddenly revenge is so close he can actually taste it. It tastes like steak, rare. Oh, to watch their two faces! Oh, to twist the wire! He wants to see pain. “We’re doing The Tempest ,” he said.

“Oh,” said Estelle, dismayed. He knew what she was thinking: Way too gay. “They’ve managed so well with the more warlike themes! Do you think the, the actors will relate to…? All that magic, and spirits, and fairies, and…Your Julius Ceasar was so direct !”

“Oh, the actors will relate to it, all right,” said Felix. “It’s about prisons.”

“Really? I never thought…maybe you’re right.”

“Also,” said Felix, “it’s on a universal theme.” What he had in mind was vengeance — that was certainly universal. He hoped she wouldn’t ask him about the theme: vengeance was so negative, was what she’d say. A bad example. Especially bad, considering the captive audience.

She had other worries. “But do you think our two Ministers will…We wouldn’t want to raise any more doubts about the…Perhaps if you could choose something less…” She twisted her hands anxiously.

“They’ll relate to it as well,” said Felix. “The Ministers. Both of them. Guaranteed.”

The same day.

In his wheezing blue Peugeot, Felix drives up the hill, winding around it toward the two high chain-link fences topped with razor wire, one fence inside the other. The snow is falling again, more heavily now. Good thing he keeps a shovel in his car, and a bag of sand. He may have to dig himself into the top of his laneway in the evening, having just dug himself out of it. Heart attack, heart attack: one of these days he’ll overdo it with the shovelling, keel over, be found frozen stiff. It’s a hazard of isolation.

He stops his car at the first gate, waits for it to swing open, drives through to the second gate, rolls down the window, shows his pass.

“You’re good to go, Mr. Duke,” says the guard. Felix is a well-known feature by now.

“Thanks, Herb,” says Felix. He drives into the chilly inner courtyard, parks in his designated parking spot. No point in locking the car, not here: it’s a thievery-free zone. He crunches along the sidewalk where snow-melt crystals have already been strewn, pushes the familiar button on the intercom, announces his name.

There’s a click. The door unlocks and he walks into the warmth, and that unique smell. Unfresh paint, faint mildew, unloved food eaten in boredom, and the smell of dejection, the shoulders slumping down, the head bowed, the body caving in upon itself. A meager smell. Onion farts. Cold naked feet, damp towels, motherless years. The smell of misery, lying over everyone within like an enchantment. But for brief moments he knows he can unbind that spell.

Felix goes through the security-check machine, which everyone entering the building must pass through in case of contraband. That machine can spot a paper clip, it can spot a safety pin, it can spot a razor blade, even if you’ve swallowed them.

“Empty my pockets?” he says to the two guards. Dylan and Madison are their names; they’ve been here at Fletcher as long as he has. One is brown, one light yellow. Dylan is a Sikh and wears a turban. His real name is Dhian, but he altered it because — he told Felix — it was less hassle.

“You’re clear, Mr. Duke.” Grins from both of them. What could Felix possibly be suspected of smuggling, a harmless old thespian like him?

It’s the words that should concern you, he thinks at them. That’s the real danger. Words don’t show up on scanners.

“Thanks, Dylan.” Felix gives a rueful smile, signalling that all three of them know this routine is pointless in his case. Doddering ancient, a bit addled in the head. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.

“What’s it going to be this year?” says Madison. “The play?” The guards have taken to watching the Fletcher Correctional performance videos along with everyone else. He gives a special talk about the play every year just for them, so they will feel included. It’s always risky, the prospect that the prisoners might be having more fun than the guards. Resentments can build up, and that could cause problems for Felix. Sabotages could take place, crucial props and technical artifacts could go missing. Estelle forewarned him about that angle, so he’s massaged the appropriate sensibilities. But so far nothing bad has happened.

“That Macbeth was great,” says Madison. “The way they faked the sword fight!” It goes without saying that real swords had not been allowed, but cardboard is so versatile.

“Yeah! There stands the usurper’s cursed head , way to go, Macduff,” says Dylan. “Served the fucker right.”

“It was wicked!” says Madison. “Like, Something wicked this way comes —that was wicked too!” He crooks his fingers into witchy claws, gives a cackle. It still astonishes Felix, the way everyone wants to get in on the act, once there is an act.

“Eye of newt,” says Dylan in an equally camp-hag voice. “How about the one with the arrows? I saw a movie of that on TV. The dogs of war, I remember that part.”

“Arrows would be good,” says Madison. “And dogs.”

“Yeah,” says Dylan, “but it can’t be real arrows. Or real dogs either.”

“This year it’ll be a little different,” says Felix. “We’re doing The Tempest .”

“What’s that?” says Madison. “Never heard of it.” They say this every year as a way of teasing Felix; he can never tell what they really have heard of.

“It’s the one with the fairies,” says Dylan. “Right? Flying around and that.” He doesn’t sound too pleased.

“You’re thinking of Dream ,” says Felix. “ A Midsummer Night’s Dream . This one doesn’t have fairies. It has goblins. They’re wicked.” He pauses. “You’ll like it,” he assures them.

“Is there a fight scene?” says Madison.

“In a way,” says Felix. “It’s got a thunderstorm in it. And revenge. Definitely revenge.”

“Awesome,” says Madison. The two of them brighten up. Revenge is a known quantity: they’ve seen lots of it in their time. Boot in the kidneys, homemade blade in the neck, blood in the shower.

“You always do good ones. We trust you, Mr. Duke,” says Dylan. Foolish lads, thinks Felix: never trust a professional ham.

Pleasantries over, it’s on with the formalities. “Here’s your security,” says Dylan. Felix clips the alarm to his belt: it’s like a pager. In case of a crisis he’s supposed to press the button and summon the guards. Wearing it is mandatory, though Felix finds the thing vaguely insulting. He’s in control, isn’t he? The right words in the right order, that’s his real security.