Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“I know, right,” says 8Handz, grinning. “He already did that.”

Felix waits till she’s gone. He lowers his voice. “What exactly do you know about surveillance systems?” he asks.

8Handz smiles. “I’m cool,” he says. “If I’ve got what I need; like, the tools. Something in mind?”

“I want to see without being seen,” says Felix. “In all the rooms, plus the hallway.”

“You and every secret service on the planet,” says 8Handz. “I’ll make you a shopping list. Get me the stuff and it’s a done deal.”

“If you can fix up what I have in mind,” says Felix, “I’m pretty sure I can get you early parole.”

“Really?” says 8Handz. “I’ve already applied, but it’s taking time. How’ll you swing that?”

“Influence,” says Felix enigmatically.

Foes in high places, he thinks to himself.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013.

The time has whipped by, and now there’s little of it left. Only five weeks to zero hour, the hour at which the hated dignitaries will enter his domain, and his plan, now in bud, will burst into full flower. Anticipation sharpens Felix’s wits, brightens his eyes, tenses his muscles. The readiness is all.

Tony and Sal draw closer, attending banquets, appearing at galas, dispensing interviews to the press like thrown roses, leaving a spoor of photo ops wherever they go. He follows them through the vibrations of the Web, playing spider to their butterflies; he ransacks the ether for their images. All unsuspecting they wend their carefree way, with never a thought in their otherwise scheming heads for him, Felix Phillips — exiled by their unjust hands, lying in wait for them, preparing his ambush. It’s taken a while, but revenge is a dish best eaten cold, he reminds himself.

He checks off the days, he counts the hours remaining. They’ll arrive at Fletcher Correctional in mid-March, ready to see the show.

But the show isn’t ready for them. The company is nowhere close yet. Felix is in an agony of impatience: what can he do to speed things up, get this video filmed, cut and polished, rendered into a gem? In time for the scheduled arrival.

Gremlins conspire against him. There have been two defections among the minor Goblins, though he talked one of them back. Another Goblin’s in the infirmary with an unspecified injury: some sort of payback involving a nail file, Leggs told him, “nothing to do with any of us.” There has been name-calling at rehearsals, a scuffle when his back was turned. This thing could fall apart very easily; but then, he’s thought that about any play he’s ever directed.

All he’s got on video is a few preliminary scenes: rough, very rough. He’s ordered an electronic keyboard from the rental agency he uses, but it hasn’t come yet, and how can they do the music without it? they say. They want him to arrange Internet access for them so they can download MP3s, but that’s a bridge too far: even Estelle is unable to swing it, since Management raises the usual objections. The inmates will abuse it, they’ll use it to watch porn and make escape plans. No point in Felix saying that they’re far too wrapped up in the play to bother with escaping: he wouldn’t be believed. Also, he might well be wrong. He’s doing his best, bringing in music clips for them and running them on the class computer, but no, no, this isn’t the version they asked for, they say, rolling their eyes. Doesn’t he know the Monkees suck?

Frustration awaits him at every turn. WonderBoy and Anne-Marie have hit a snag. Their first rehearsal was excellent, but the next one was lackluster: WonderBoy wasn’t producing. He was going through the motions only.

“What happened?” Felix asked Anne-Marie over coffee on a Thursday.

“He proposed to me,” said Anne-Marie.

“He’s supposed to do that. It’s in the scene,” Felix said, keeping neutral.

“No, I mean he really proposed to me,” said Anne-Marie. “He said it was love at first sight. I said it was only a play, it wasn’t real.”

“Then what?” Felix asked. She was fiddling with her spoon: he knew there was more.

“He sort of grabbed me. He tried the mouth mash.”

“And?”

“I didn’t want to cripple him,” said Anne-Marie.

“But you did?”

“Only temporarily,” she said. “His feelings were hurt, more than anything. Once he stopped writhing around on the floor and got up. I did apologize.”

That would explain his lack of passion, thought Felix. “I’ll have a word with him,” he said.

“Don’t do that, you’d inhibit him,” she said.

Even his Ariel, 8Handz, is messing up. At their second Act 1 first-scene rehearsal together he began his speech with “Sieg heil, great monster!” and then broke into embarrassed sniggering because something that had been in his mind had sprung unbidden out of his mouth.

They goof around behind his back, they have their own disparaging names for him and for Prospero too, they make fun of the play — that’s normal — but 8Handz has to remember who he’s supposed to be. Granted, Ariel has a lot of tasks to keep track of — he’s Prospero’s secret sharer — but still. 8Handz needs to sober up.

Is it always so hard at this stage? Felix asks himself. Yes, it is. No, it isn’t. It’s harder this time because he’s gambling so much on it.

Fourteen more sessions, then the big day. They’re still dithering over their costume choices, they’re fluffing their lines, they mumble. “Tip of the tongue, top of the teeth,” he reminds them. “Crisp! E-NUN-ciate! It doesn’t matter what you’re saying if we can’t hear you! She sells seashells by the seashore! No slush!”

If it were an ordinary company in the old days he’d have been yelling at them by now, calling them shit-for-brains, ordering them to reach deep, find the character, torquing their emotions to the breaking point and telling them to use the resulting blood and pain, use it! But these are fragile egos. Some have taken anger management therapy, so yelling by him would set a bad example. For others, depression is never far. Push them too much and they’ll collapse. They’ll give up, even his key players. They’ll walk out. It’s happened before.

“You’ve got the talent,” he tells them. Shrugs, passive defiance. “You’re better than this!” What’s he supposed to do, threaten them with prison? That won’t work, they’re already in prison. He has no leverage.

Where’s the energy? Where’s the spark that will ignite this pile of inert damp wood? What am I doing wrong? Felix frets.

He’s insisted on coffee, quality coffee, not the abominable powdered stuff — he’s paid for the beans, he’s had them ground, he’s brought it in himself, taking care to share some with Dylan and Madison. During this morning’s quality coffee break, he’s approached by SnakeEye. Anne-Marie is behind him, standing ready to back him up with whatever it is, Felix guesses. She’s in one of her dance rehearsal outfits: the knitted leg warmers, the peacock-blue sweatpants, the long-sleeved black T. The tap shoes, he notes: there will be percussion.

“We put together a thing,” says SnakeEye. “My team. The Antonio team.”

“Go ahead,” says Felix.

“You know that place where you, I mean Prospero, you tell the backstory? To Miranda? About how come, what with the brother—”

“Act I, Scene 2,” says Felix. “Yes?”

“That’s the one.”

“What about it?” says Felix.