Margaret Atwood - Hag-Seed

“Wow, you killed it!” says Anne-Marie. She claps, and so do the backups; and then so does Felix.

“Yeah, I remembered it all,” says Leggs modestly.

“More than that! Best runthrough yet,” says Anne-Marie. “We’ll put it up on the screen so you can see it, and then let’s do a final, next shooting day! We need costumes for the backups, they should be in those lizard hats, matching.” To Felix she says, “Bet you’ve never seen it done like that before!”

“Correct,” says Felix. “I haven’t.” He feels a little choked: Leggs has come through for him. No, not for him: Leggs has come through for Anne-Marie. And the play, of course. Leggs has come through for the play. “ ‘O brave new world, that has such people in it!’ ” he says.

“ ‘ ’Tis new to thee,’ ” she laughs. “Poor old Felix! Are we crapping up your play?”

“It’s not my play,” says Felix. “It’s our play.” Does he believe this? Yes. No. Not really.

Yes.

Saturday, March 2, 2013.

When Felix wakes up on Saturday at noon he’s got a bad hangover, which is strange because he hasn’t been drinking. It’s the brain drain, it’s the energy drain. Too much thinking, too much coaching, too much watching. Too much output, too much uttering, too much outering. He’s slept for fourteen hours, but that hasn’t begun to recharge him.

In his disgraceful nightshirt, worn thin by the years, he stumbles into the front room. Light is pouring through the window, doubled by its reflection from the snow outside. He blinks, recoils like a vampire: why are there no curtains? He’s never bothered with curtains, because who would want to look in?

Apart from Miranda when she’s outside, peeping through the glass to make sure he’s all right. Where is she? Mornings are not her time, and especially not twelve o’clock noon when the sun’s at its highest. The brightness fades her; she needs the twilight to glow.

Idiot, he tells himself. How long will you keep yourself on this intravenous drip? Just enough illusion to keep you alive. Pull the plug, why don’t you? Give up your tinsel stickers, your paper cutouts, your colored crayons. Face the plain, unvarnished grime of real life.

But real life is brilliantly colored, says another part of his brain. It’s made up of every possible hue, including those we can’t see. All nature is a fire: everything forms, everything blossoms, everything fades. We are slow clouds…

He shakes himself, scratches his head. Blood flow, blood flow, to revive the shriveling walnut inside his skull. Coffee is what he needs. He boils water in his electric kettle, steeps the ground-up beans, filters the potion, then gulps it down like an alky gulping rum. Neurons begin to spark.

Clothes on, jeans and a sweatshirt. He makes himself a gruel of mushed-up breakfast cereals, the dregs of what’s left at the bottoms of three boxes. It’s time to go shopping for food, replenish the cupboard. He can’t let himself turn into one of those desiccated recluses discovered months after they’ve died of starvation because they forgot to eat, so compelling were their visions.

Right. Now he’s restored. Now he’s prepared.

He turns on his computer, does a search for Tony and Sal. There they are, them and their sound bites, three hundred miles away. They’ve got another of their ilk in tow: Sebert Stanley, Minister of Veterans Affairs, a weak-spined yes-man from way back, though his voters trust him because they knew his uncle and they’ve always elected a Stanley.

They’ll be here in a twink, and how delicious that will be for Felix! Will they recognize him? Not at first, because he’ll stay out of sight while the Goblins are doing their work. How will they react when they think their lives are dangling by a thread? Will there be anguish? Yes, there will be anguish. Double-twisted anguish. No doubt about that.

On the calendar he previews the week ahead: his own scenes in the play, upcoming. There’s time for only one take on the video camera, two at the most: he’ll have to be as good as possible the first time through. He’s been cocksure about his lines — surely they’re engraved on his bones by now — but is that wise? What about the stances, the gestures, the rubberizing of the face? The force, the precision. He should rehearse. Tip of the tongue, top of the teeth. She sells seashells by the seashore.

He opens the large armoire. There’s his magic garment, its many eyes catching the light. He takes it out, brushes off the dust and a few filmy cobwebs. For the first time in twelve years, he slips it on.

It’s like stepping back into a shed skin; as if the cloak is wearing him and not the other way around. In the small mirror, he preens. Shoulders back, lift the diaphragm, expand the lower belly, make room for the lungs. Mi-mi-mi, mo-mo-mo, mu-mu-mu. Sagacious. Preposterous. Tempestuous.

Malicious sprite. Don’t spit.

Next for his staff. The cane with its silver fox head leaps into his hand. He raises it into the air: his wrist’s electric.

“Approach, my Ariel. Come,” he intones.

His voice sounds fraudulent. Where is the authentic pitch, the true note? Why did he ever think he could play this impossible part? So many contradictions to Prospero! Entitled aristocrat, modest hermit? Wise old mage, revengeful old poop? Irritable and unreasonable, kindly and caring? Sadistic, forgiving? Too suspicious, too trusting? How to convey each delicate shade of meaning and intention? It can’t be done.

They cheated for centuries when presenting this play. They cut speeches, they edited sentences, trying to confine Prospero within their calculated perimeters. Trying to make him one thing or the other. Trying to make him fit.

Don’t quit now, he tells himself. There’s too much at stake.

He’ll try the line again. Should it be more like an order or more like an invitation? How far away does he think Ariel is when he’s saying this? Or calling it? A sibillant or a shout? He’s imagined himself in the scene so often he hardly knows how to play it. He can never match his own exalted conception of it.

“Approach, my Ariel.” He leans forward, as if listening. “Come!”

Right next to his ear he hears his Miranda’s voice. It’s barely a whisper, but he hears it.

All hail, great master, grave sir, hail! I come

To answer thy best pleasure, be’t to fly,

To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride

On the curled clouds; to thy strong bidding, task

Ariel and all his quality.

Felix drops his staff as if it’s burning him. Did that really happen? Yes, it did! He heard it!

Miranda’s made a decision: she’ll be understudying Ariel — surely he can’t raise any objections to that.

How clever of her, how perfect! She’s found the one part that will let her blend in seamlessly at rehearsals. Only he will be able to see her, from time to time. Only he will hear her. She’ll be invisible to every eyeball else.

“My brave spirit!” he cries. He’d like to give her a hug, but that’s not possible. Prospero and Ariel never touch: how can you touch a spirit? Right now he can’t even see her. He’ll have to be content with the voice.