Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“Colonialism,” says 8Handz, who spent a lot of time on the Internet in his former life as a hacker. “Prospero thinks he’s so awesome and superior, he can put down what other people think.”

Multiculturalism at its finest, thinks Felix. He’s anticipated the objection to “earth,” but not the one to “tortoise.” He takes that jump first. “ ‘Tortoise’ just means slowpoke,” he says. “In this play.”

“Like, dragging your ass,” says HotWire helpfully.

“So, I vote we don’t use that one, anyway,” says Red Coyote.

“Your choice,” says Felix. “As for ‘earth,’ it’s the opposite of ‘air,’ here. It’s supposed to mean low-down.”

“I vote we don’t use that one too,” says Red Coyote.

“Again, your choice,” says Felix. “More?”

“I’m putting it on record,” says Red Coyote. “Anyone who calls me tortoise or earth, just sayin’.”

“Okay, we hear you,” says Leggs.

“I got one,” says Shiv. “One question. Is ‘shit’ a curse word? Can we use it, or what?”

It’s a fine point, thinks Felix. Technically, “shit” might not be considered a curse word as such, only a scatological expression, but he doesn’t want to hear it all the time. Shit this, shitty that, you shit. He could let them vote on it, but what’s the point of being in charge of this motley assemblage if he refuses to take charge? “ ‘Shit’ is off bounds,” he says. “Adjust your cursing accordingly.”

“ ‘Shit’ was okay last year,” says Leggs. “So how come?”

“I changed my mind,” says Felix. “I got tired of it. Too much shit is monotonous, and monotony is anti-Shakespeare. Now, if there are no more questions, let’s do the spelling quiz. No peeking at anyone else’s paper. I can see everyone from here. Ready?”

Thursday, January 10, 2013.

Felix has already engaged the Miranda he wants. She’s the girl he’d cast in the part twelve years ago for his canceled Tempest : Anne-Marie Greenland, the one-time child gymnast.

Of course she’d be older now, he’d reflected, though not that much older by absolute standards since she’d been very young twelve years earlier. With her body type — slender, wiry — she could surely still get away with Miranda. Supposing she hadn’t bloated.

It had taken him some ingenuity to track her down. He didn’t want to go through a casting agency, since no agency would wish to place a client inside a penal institution: there might be liabilities. He’d need to contact her himself and talk her into it. He would even offer to pay her; he could use some of his tiny budget for that.

The Internet came in handy: once he started searching, he found her CV fairly quickly. She was posted on ActorHub, she was on CastingGame. After his Tempest had been canceled she’d done a few minor parts at Makeshiweg: a prostitute at the bawdy house in Pericles , a slave girl in Antony and Cleopatra , a dancer in West Side Story. Nothing big. Playing Miranda would have done wonders for her: he could have brought out her talent, he could have taught her so much. It would have made her career. He isn’t the only person whose life has been seriously damaged by Tony and Sal.

After West Side Story Anne-Marie had crossed over completely into dance. She’d done several seasons as an apprentice and then as a guest dancer with Kidd Pivot: he’d found an outstanding YouTube video of her in a vigorous routine with two male dancers. However, due to an injury she’d had to leave before the company’s spectacular The Tempest Replica , and had disappeared from her own CV for eight months. Then she appeared again as the choreographer for a semi-amateur production of Crazy for You in Toronto. That was last year.

Hard times in the world of Anne-Marie, he’d guessed. Did she have a husband, a partner? None was mentioned.

She had a Facebook account, though she hadn’t posted much on it recently. A few pictures of herself: a thin, muscular honey blonde. Big eyes. Yes, she could still do Miranda. But would she want to?

Felix asked to be her Friend on Facebook, using his real name; miraculously, he was accepted.

Next to make the pitch. Did she remember him? he queried online. Yes, she did, was the terse reply. No exclamations of joy. Was she available for theatrical work? That would depend, she replied. He’d let her down once, he assumed she was thinking, so why did he think he could waltz back into her life as if nothing had happened?

It turned out she was working as a part-time barista in a coffee emporium — Horatio’s — right in Makeshiweg. Hoping to pick up something at the Festival, was his guess. He set up a meeting time, then collected her at Horatio’s. He wasn’t too worried about anyone from his former life recognizing him: he looked so different now, with his white beard and eyebrows, and anyway most of the old crowd had gone: he’d checked that out on the company website.

Anne-Marie was still young-looking, he noted with relief. If anything, she was thinner. Her hair was up in a dancer’s bun; each of her ears held two small gold earrings. She was wearing skinny jeans and a white shirt, which seemed to be the barista uniform at Horatio’s.

He steered her around the corner to one of the noisier bars, the Imp and Pig-Nut: the sign outside sported some kind of red-eyed troll, grinning like a slasher-flick trailer. Once they’d settled into a dark-wood booth, Felix ordered a local craft beer for Anne-Marie and one for himself. “Something to eat?” he asked. It was edging toward lunchtime.

“Burger and fries,” she replied, watching him with her huge gamine eyes. “Medium rare.” He remembered the starving actor’s first rule: never pass up free food. How many green room grapes-and-cheese plates had he himself once devoured?

“So,” she said. “It’s been a while. You just, like, vanished. Nobody knew where you went.”

“Tony got me axed,” he said.

“Yeah, word went around,” she said. “Some of us thought he really did axe you. Clove you through the skull. Stuck you in a hole in the ground.”

“Almost,” he said. “It felt like that.”

“You didn’t say goodbye,” she said reproachfully. “To any of us.”

“I know. I apologize. I couldn’t,” he said. “There were reasons.”

She relented a little, gave him a tiny smile. “Must’ve been hard for you.”

“I was especially sorry,” he said, “that I wasn’t able to direct you. In The Tempest . You’d have been spectacular.”

“Yes, well,” she said, “I was sorry about that too.” She rolled up her shirtsleeves — it was hot in here among the craft beers — and he saw that she had a bee tattooed on her arm. “What’s up?”

“Better late than never,” he said. “I want you to play Miranda. In The Tempest .”

“No shit,” she said. “You’re not joking?”

“Not in any way,” he said. “It’s a slightly odd situation.”

“They all are,” she said. “But I still remember the lines. I was working so hard on that, I could say them in my sleep. Where are you doing it?”

He paused for a breath. “In Fletcher Correctional,” he said. “I teach a class there. For the, ah, the inmates. Some of them are quite good as actors, you’d be surprised.”

Anne-Marie took a hefty pull at her beer. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “You want me to go inside a prison with nothing in it but a lot of men criminals and do Miranda?”