Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“None of them was willing to be a girl,” he said. “You can see why not.”

“I know, right? I don’t blame them,” she said with a hard edge to her voice. “Being a girl is the pits, trust me.”

“You’d be very welcome,” he said. “In the company. They’re thrilled at the prospect.”

“I bet,” she said.

“No, really. They’d respect you.”

“Bunch of lily-white no-touchy Ferdinands, are they?”

“There’s security,” he said. “With tasers and guards and what-not.” He paused. “Not that they’d be needed. Really.” He paused again. “You’d get paid.” Another pause, then his final inducement: “You’ll never have another theatrical experience like it. Guaranteed.”

“You couldn’t get anyone else to do it, could you,” she said, and he knew he was almost there.

“You’re the first one I asked,” he said truthfully.

“I’m too old, though,” she said. “It’s not twelve years ago.”

“You’re perfect,” he said. “You have a freshness.”

“Like new-laid shit,” she said, and he blinked. That foul mouth of hers had always startled him. He was never ready when a slice of filth came out of her child-like mouth.

“It’s because you think I look like a kid,” she said. “No tits.”

Scant use denying it. “Tits are overrated,” said Felix — music to the ears of a small-titted woman, always — and she grinned a little.

“You’re doing Prospero yourself?” she said. “Not some bank robber taking on the enchanting old fart? Because I loved it, those speeches of his. I couldn’t stand to hear them fucked up.”

“Correct,” he said. “Wizardry in the slammer: it’s a challenge for me. Acting on an ordinary stage is a walk in the park, compared. Or look at it this way: it could be my last chance to do it.”

She gave him a sudden wide smile. “You’re as crazy as ever,” she said. “What the crap, you’re inspired! Fuck, who else would try a caper like this? Okay, you’re on!” She held out a hand so they could shake on it, but Felix wasn’t done.

“Only two things,” he said. “First, my name in there is Mr. Duke. No one knows about the Festival — that I was once…It’s a long story, I’ll tell you sometime. But ‘Felix Phillips’ is off bounds. It could raise questions and cause trouble.”

“You’re suddenly afraid of trouble?” she asks. “You?”

“This would be bad trouble. Second, no conventional swearing. It’s not allowed: my rules. They can only use the curse words that are in the actual play.”

She gave it a moment of thought. “Okay, I can manage that,” she said. “How now, moon-calf? Kiss the book! It’s a bargain!”

This time they shook on it. She had a grip like a jar-opener. Chastity won’t be the only reason his Prospero will be warning the Ferdinand lad to keep away from this girl: Ferdinand wouldn’t want to be a pre-mangled bridegroom.

“I like your bee,” he said. “The tattoo. Any special meaning?”

She looked down at the table. “I was having a thing with the Ariel,” she said. “The actor, in your play. Fun while it lasted, though he broke my heart. The bee was sort of our joke.”

“A joke? What kind of joke?” As soon as he said it Felix realized he didn’t want to hear the answer. Luckily the hamburger arrived, and Anne-Marie sank her small white teeth into it with a sigh of pleasure. Felix watched her devour it, trying to remember what it had been like to be that hungry.

Friday, January 11 2013.

Felix opens the Friday class with a hook. “I’ve got some news about the actress,” he says. “The one I said would play Miranda.” He keeps his voice level, takes a few beats. Is it good news or bad news? they’ll be wondering.

They’re alert: not a mutter, not a grunt. “It was difficult,” he says. “Only an exceptional woman would take this on.” Imperceptible nodding. “She had quite a few reservations. I had to do a lot of convincing,” he goes on, spinning it out. “I thought I’d failed. But finally…”

“Yeah!” says 8Handz. “You did it! F…I mean, scurvy awesome!”

“Yes. Finally, I succeeded!”

“Way to red plague go!” says PPod.

“Thank you,” says Felix. He allows himself a smile, gives a little bow. They expect him to be slightly formal. Courtly, as befits an old-school gentleman like the one he imitates. “Her name is Anne-Marie Greenland,” he continues, “and she’s not only an actress, she’s a dancer as well. A very athletic dancer,” he adds. “I’ve brought a clip to show you.”

He’s downloaded the YouTube video onto a memory stick, which he plugs into the class computer. “Lights out, please.”

There’s Anne-Marie in her dancing days, wearing a black halter top and green satin shorts. She throws her lithe male partner to the ground, then winds her arms and legs around him like an octopus and pulls his head back in a chokehold. He fights her off, flings her into the air, swirls her around in a circle, her head barely off the floor. Now she’s slithering between his legs, then she’s up on her feet, into the air again, feet akimbo. Now she’s got him in a vise grip and is twisting one of his elbows to a painful right angle. The muscles in her sinewy arms are clearly visible.

“Whoa,” says a voice. “That’s…what the pied ninny is this?”

“She could tear a whoreson strip off you!”

“She’s got a plaguey tattoo!”

“Poisonous poxy!”

“What’s it scurvy about?”

“Romantic love,” says Felix. “I suppose.” Immediately he’s ashamed of himself: such jaded cynicism has no place in the enchanted world he’ll soon be asking them to believe in.

Anne-Marie pirouettes, circling her partner, who is rolling across the floor. She does a backflip, lands on her feet. A second male dancer bounces in, picks her up, and slings her over his shoulder, her feet flailing. She’s on the ground again; she takes, briefly, the stance of a boxer, but then she flees and there’s a chase, with both of the male dancers pursuing her. She stops, lifts a foot, flexes it, kicks with her heel. Down they go, in graceful tandem. Anne-Marie leaps into the air, higher than you’d think possible.

Blackout.

A roomful of men exhales.

“Lights, please,” says Felix. Illumination: he’s confronting a vista of wide-eyed faces. “That was a small sampling of our new Miranda’s many talents. Anne-Marie will be joining us for a full readthrough week after next, once we’ve dealt with the casting process.”

“Is she, like, a black belt?” Leggs wants to know.

“Man, she’s…she’s malignant, man!” This from PPod.

“She kicks you in the nuts, they shoot right out your mouth,” says SnakeEye. “I bet she’s a red plague dyke — one way to find out!” Nobody laughs.

“She’s poxy skin and bones,” says Phil the Pill. “Eating disorder.”

“I like the poxy wenches curvier myself,” says PPod.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” says Krampus the doleful Mennonite.

“Yeah, toad-face,” says Leggs. “She looks hot to me!”

“She’s a very talented performer,” says Felix. He’s pleased to note that they’re already practising their chosen curse words. “We’re lucky she’s agreed to work with us. But I wouldn’t cross her, if I were you. You can see why.”

“I bet she can kill with her scurvy thumbs,” says WonderBoy sadly.

“Now,” says Felix, “let’s talk about Ariel. Who thinks he might like the part?”