Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

Right after the funeral with its pathetically small coffin he’d plunged himself into The Tempest . It was an evasion, he knew that much about himself even then, but it was also to be a kind of reincarnation.

Miranda would become the daughter who had not been lost; who’d been a protecting cherub, cheering her exiled father as they’d drifted in their leaking boat over the dark sea; who hadn’t died, but had grown up into a lovely girl. What he couldn’t have in life he might still catch sight of through his art: just a glimpse, from the corner of his eye.

He would create a fit setting for this reborn Miranda he was willing into being. He would outdo himself as an actor-director. He would push every envelope, he would twist reality until it twangled. There was a feverish desperation in those long-ago efforts of his, but didn’t the best art have desperation at its core? Wasn’t it always a challenge to Death? A defiant middle finger on the edge of the abyss?

His Ariel, he’d decided, would be played by a transvestite on stilts who’d transform into a giant firefly at significant moments. His Caliban would be a scabby street person — black or maybe Native — and a paraplegic as well, pushing himself around the stage on an oversized skateboard. Stephano and Trinculo? He hadn’t worked them out, but bowler hats and codpieces would be involved. And juggling: Trinculo could juggle some things he might pick up on the beach of the magic island, such as squids.

His Miranda would be superb. She would be a wild thing, as it stood to reason she must have been — shipwrecked, then running all over the island for twelve years, most likely barefoot, for where would she have come by shoes? She must’ve had feet with soles on them like boots.

After an exhausting search during which he’d rejected the merely young and the merely pretty, he’d cast a former child gymnast who’d gone all the way to Silver in the North American championships and had then been accepted at the National Theatre School: a strong, supple waif, just coming into bloom. Anne-Marie Greenland was her name. She was so eager, so energetic: barely over sixteen. She had little theatrical training, but he knew he could coax what he wanted out of her. A performance so fresh it wouldn’t even be a performance. It would be reality. Through her, his Miranda would come back to life.

Felix himself would be Prospero, her loving father. Protective — perhaps too protective, but only because he was acting in his daughter’s best interests. And wise; wiser than Felix. Though even wise Prospero was stupidly trusting of those close to him, and too interested in perfecting his wizardly skills.

Prospero’s magic garment would be made of animals — not real animals or even realistic ones, but plush toys that had been unstuffed and then sewn together: squirrels, rabbits, lions, a tiger-like thing, and several bears. These animals would evoke the elemental nature of Prospero’s supernatural yet natural powers. Felix had ordered some fake leaves and spray-painted gold flowers and gaudy dyed feathers that would be intertwined among the furry creatures to give his cape extra pizzazz and depth of meaning. He would wield a staff he’d found in an antique shop: an elegant Edwardian walking stick with a silver fox head on the top and eyes that were possibly jade. It was a modest length for a wizard’s staff, but Felix liked to juxtapose extravagance with understatement. Such an octogenarian prop could play ironically at crucial moments. At the end of the play, during Prospero’s Epilogue, he’d planned a sunset effect, with glitter confetti falling from above like snow.

This Tempest would be brilliant: the best thing he’d ever done. He had been — he realizes now — unhealthily obsessed with it. It was like the Taj Mahal, an ornate mausoleum raised in honor of a beloved shade, or a priceless jeweled casket containing ashes. But more than that, because inside the charmed bubble he was creating, his Miranda would live again.

All the more crushing for him when it had fallen apart.

They’d been on the verge of rehearsals when Tony had shown his hand. Twelve years later Felix can still recall every syllable of that encounter.

The conversation had begun normally enough, at their regular Tuesday afternoon meeting. At these meetings Felix would present his list of errands for Tony to do, and Tony would update Felix on any items requiring his attention or signature. Usually there wouldn’t be many of these because Tony was so efficient he’d already have taken care of the truly important matters.

“Let’s make this short,” Felix had opened, as was his habit. He’d noted with distaste the pattern of alternating hares and tortoises on Tony’s red tie: an attempt at wittiness, no doubt. Tony had a taste — an increasingly foppish taste — for expensive bagatelles. “My list for today: number one, we need to replace the lighting guy, he’s not giving me what I need. Also, about the magic garment, we have to find—”

“I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, Felix,” said Tony. He was wearing yet another dapper new suit; usually that meant a Board meeting. Felix had got into the habit of skipping these: the Chair, Lonnie Gordon, was a decent man but a paralyzing bore, and the rest of the Board was a bunch of rubber-stamping sock puppets. He didn’t waste much thought on them, however, because Tony had them well in line.

“Oh? What’s that?” Felix asked. Bad news usually meant a trivial letter of complaint from a disgruntled patron. Did Lear have to take off all his clothes? Or it might be a dry-cleaning bill from a front-row theatregoer’s unwilling interactive participation in a splatter scene: Macbeth’s gore-drenched head flung too vigorously onto the stage, Gloucester’s gouged-out eyeball slipping from the grasp of its extractor, with vile jelly staining the floral silk print, so hard to get out.

Tony would handle such peevish plaints, and he’d handle them well — he’d apply the appropriate dollop of apology mixed with smarm — but he liked to keep Felix in the loop in case of a close encounter of the unpleasant kind at the stage door. If criticized, Felix might overreact with a surplus of ripe adjectives, said Tony. Felix said his language was always appropriate to the occasion, and Tony said of course, but that was never good from a patron perspective. Also it could get into the papers.

“Unfortunately,” said Tony now. There was a pause. He had an odd expression on his face. It was not a smile: it was a downturned mouth with a smile underneath. Felix felt his neck hairs prickling. “Unfortunately,” said Tony at last in his suavest voice, “the Board has voted to terminate your contract. As Artistic Director.”

Now it was Felix’s turn to pause. “What?” he said. “This is a joke, right?” They can’t do that, he was thinking. Without me, the whole Festival would go up in flames! The donors would flee, the actors would quit, the upscale restaurants and the gift shops and the bed-and-breakfasts would fold, and the town of Makeshiweg would sink back into the obscurity from which he’d been so skillfully plucking it, summer after summer, because what else did it have going for it besides a train-switching yard? Train-switching was not a theme. You couldn’t build a menu around train-switching.

“No,” said Tony. “I’m afraid it’s not a joke.” Another pause. Felix was staring at Tony, as if seeing him for the first time. “They feel you’re losing, you know, your edge.” Yet another pause. “I explained to them that you’ve been in shock, ever since your daughter…ever since your recent tragic loss, but that I was sure you’d pull out of it.” This was such a low blow that it left Felix breathless. How dare they use that as an excuse? “I tried everything I possibly could,” Tony added.