Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

She clambers out of her car, sets a tentative boot upon the ice. Should he extend a helping hand? No, he should not, he’d be slapped down with a quip. She surveys the chain-link fence, the barbed-wire topping, the searchlights. “This is grim,” she says.

“Yes, it’s a prison,” he says. “Though ‘Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage.’ But they do contribute to a cage-like ambience.”

“What play is that in?” says Anne-Marie.

“Not a play,” he says. “A poem. The man who wrote it actually was in prison — he chose the wrong political side. It does say in The Tempest, ‘Thought is free,’ but unfortunately that’s in a song sung by three idiots.”

“What a downer,” says Anne-Marie. “Dwelling on the dark side these days? Winter getting to you? Cold enough for you?”

“It’s over this way,” says Felix. “The entrance. Watch out. Icy.”

“This is Anne-Marie Greenland,” he says to Madison and Dylan at Security. “She’s a very well-known actress,” he lies, “who has kindly agreed to join our acting company. She’ll be helping us out with the play. She’s got a pass.”

“Nice to meet you,” says Dylan to Anne-Marie. “Anything, any trouble, you can call on us.”

“Thanks,” says Anne-Marie curtly in her I-can-take-care-of-myself voice.

“This is like a pager,” says Madison to her. “You push this button. Can I clip it onto your—”

“Got it,” says Anne-Marie. “I’ll clip it on myself.”

“Then you put your bag through here, and you walk through here. What’s that in the bag? The sharp things?”

“Knitting needles,” says Anne-Marie. “For my knitting.”

Felix is taken aback — knitting and Anne-Marie don’t seem a fit — but Dylan and Madison smile indulgently: it’s a womanly occupation. “Ma’am, sorry, but those have to stay with us,” says Dylan.

“Oh for God’s sakes,” says Anne-Marie. “I’m going to knit someone to death?”

“Those needles could be used against you,” Madison says in a patient voice. “Anything sharp can. You’d be surprised, ma’am. There are dangerous men in there. You can pick up the bag on the way out.”

“Right,” says Anne-Marie. “Just don’t mess with my wool while I’m gone.” They grin at that, or maybe just at her, because evidently she delights them. Why not? thinks Felix. Despite her razor edge she’s a bright light in a dim space. She breaks up the monotones.

Felix steers her down the hallway of his dedicated wing, indicating the various empty rooms. “We’ve got the use of these, plus the two demonstration cells, for green rooms and backstage. And rehearsal space,” he adds.

“Good,” she says. “I’ll be needing one of those. For the dance numbers.”

The men are already in the classroom. Felix introduces Anne-Marie. She’s slipped off her coat: she’s dressed conservatively, white shirt, black cardigan, black pants. Her hair is up in a prim honey-colored bun; in each of her ears there’s only a single earring. She smiles non-committally in the direction of the rear wall, then sits down at the front of the room in the desk Felix has indicated. Her spine is straight, her head balanced on the top end of it, a dancer’s posture. No inviting slouches.

“Ms. Greenland’s just sitting in for now,” says Felix. “Getting to know you. She’ll pitch in once we start rehearsing.”

Dead silence. The men to either side of her try not to stare: their eyes veer sideways. Those behind are gazing spellbound, though none of her is visible to them except her back. Be alert, Felix tells himself. Keep an eye out for her. Don’t assume you know them. Try to remember what you were like when you were that age. You may be a fading ember now, but you weren’t always.

“Now, the casting,” he proceeds as if all is as usual. “I’m the director, and these choices are mine. Maybe you won’t get the role you want, but that’s life. No pressuring, no horse-trading, no complaints. The theatre isn’t a republic, it’s a monarchy.”

“Thought you said we’re a team,” says VaMoose in a surly tone.

“You are,” says Felix. “You are a team. But I’m the king of it. All decisions final. The seasoned actors know that, right?” There are some nods from his veterans.

Next, he passes out the cast lists. There’s a suppressed grumbling.

“You want me to play a drunken Indian,” says Red Coyote, who’s down for Stephano.

“No,” says Felix. “I want you to play a drunken white man.”

“Yay, I’m the fool,” says TimEEz. “I can do that!”

“Ferdinand,” says WonderBoy. “I’m up for this.” He smiles in the direction of Anne-Marie’s back, showing his perfect teeth.

“I’m not,” says Krampus the Mennonite. “Up for this. The King part — all he does is moan. I should be Caliban.”

“I know a lot of you wanted Caliban,” says Felix, “but there’s only one slot for that.”

“Caliban should be First Nations,” says Red Coyote. “It’s obvious. Got his land stole.”

“No way,” says PPod. “He’s African. Where’s Algiers anyway? North Africa, right? That’s where his mother came from. Look on the map, pox brain.”

“So, he’s a Muslim? I don’t whoreson think so.” VaMoose, another Caliban aspirant.

“No way that he’s smelly-fish white trash, anyways,” says Shiv, glaring at Leggs. “Even part white.”

“I score,” says Leggs. “You heard the man, fen head, it’s final. So suck it.”

“Points off, you swore,” says PPod.

“ Suck it ’s not a swear word,” says Leggs. “It’s only a diss. Everyone knows that, and the devil take your fingers!”

Anne-Marie laughs.

Their next task is to study their scenes: what’s going on in them, how should they be played, what are the problems? Felix has been careful to include one or two of his seasoned actors in each team: they can provide guidance. Or that’s the theory.

The men move off into the rooms assigned. Anne-Marie stands up, stretches, bends a leg behind her, pulls it into a right angle. “They don’t seem that bad,” she says.

“Did I say they were?” says Felix.

“No, not exactly. But—” She must be remembering their convictions.

“Are you still all right with this?” says Felix.

“Yeah, of course,” she says, though her voice is tentative. “So what do I do next? Where’s my cute Ferdinand? Should I go start rehearsing the mushy stuff with him?”

“He’s licking his lips, but don’t start today,” says Felix. “They need to work into their roles, figure things out for themselves. Then I spend time with them on each scene in turn. Because the final version’s a video, we can shoot the scenes when the guys are ready, and once we have the costumes and so forth, then stick it together like a mosaic. But the two of us can run through Act I, Scene 2, now if you like.”

So Miranda weeps and implores, and Prospero hushes and comforts and reassures her, and then expounds. Just as he’s launching into the story of Antonio’s brotherly treachery that’s landed them on the island, 8Handz appears in the doorway.

“So who do I rehearse with?” he says. “Ferdinand’s practicing how to sit on a rock looking gloomy and then I’m supposed to come in and lure him away with music, but we don’t have the music yet. Anyway my first speech is with you, Mr. Duke.”

“Ah, my Ariel,” says Felix. “There’s a few tech issues I need to discuss with you. We’ll take a break,” he says to Anne-Marie. “Go have a look, see what the boys are up to.”

“Plotting, are you?” she says with a smile for 8Handz. “Cooking up the illusions? You got to watch the old enchanter, he’ll charm you silly.”