Hag-Seed

  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."

  "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.

  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 woul
dn'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.

  "It's too long," says SnakeEye. "Plus it's boring. Even Miranda finds it boring. She almost goes to sleep."

  He's right, thinks Felix. That scene's been a challenge for every actor who's ever played Prospero: how to get through the Act I, Scene 2, narration of Prospero's doleful history while at the same time making it compelling. The thing is too static. "But the audience needs to know the information," he says. "Otherwise they can't follow the plot. They need to hear about the wrongs he's suffered, and his reason for wanting revenge."

  "Yeah, we get that," says SnakeEye. "So we thought, Why not do it as a flashback?"

  "It already is a flashback," says Felix.

  "Yeah, but you know how you're always saying, Show, don't tell, move it, get some energy?"

  "Yes," says Felix. "And?"

  "And, so, we can do it as a flashback number, only with Antonio telling it. We've been rehearsing."

  Ha. He's cutting me out, thinks Felix. Elbowing me aside. Making a bigger part for himself. How appropriate for Antonio. But isn't this what he's asked them to do? Rethink, reframe? "Great, let's hear it," he says.

  "The boys are doing backup for me," says SnakeEye. "Team Antonio. We call this 'Evil Bro Antonio.' "

  "Okay," says Felix. "Showtime."

  "Remember to count," says Anne-Marie as they arrange themselves, SnakeEye in front, his backups in a line behind: Phil the Pill, VaMoose, and, more improbably, Krampus the Mennonite. If Anne-Marie has wrung anything like dancing out of Krampus it will be a miracle.

  "I'm all ears and eyes," says Felix.

  "Beginning on three!" says Anne-Marie. She counts, One-two-three, then claps once, and away they go.

  SnakeEye is aiming for the essence of Antonio: ruthless; full of himself. He puffs himself up, he rubs his hands together, he squints with his slanty left eye, he sneers with his lopsided mouth. If he had a moustache he'd be twirling it. He prances fit to kill. His team sets the rhythm: stamping, clapping, finger-snapping. A cappella breath-work.

  They're good, they're much better than Felix expected. Is it all due to Anne-Marie, or do they get this stuff from music videos? Maybe both. Stamp stamp clap, stamp stamp clap, clap clap stamp stamp snap, go the backups. SnakeEye launches in:

  I'm the man, I'm the Duke, I'm the Duke of Milan, You want to get pay, gotta do what I say.

  Wasn't always this way, no, no,

  I was once this dude called Antonio,

  I was no big deal and it made me feel so bad, so mad, Got under my skin, 'cause I couldn't ever win, Got no respect, I was second in line,

  But I just kept smilin', just kept lyin', said everything's fine.

  It was my bro called Prospero,

  He was the real man,

  He was the Duke, he was the Duke, he was the Duke of Milan.

  Ooo-ah hah! Ooo-ah hah! Stamp clap, clap stamp, snapsnap stamp.

  But he was a fool, not cool, he didn't look,

  Didn't look around, take care of his stuff,

  Didn't watch his back, stuck his head in a book, Said Bro, you know

  How all of this works, so put on a good show,

  Say I say you're the boss, the boss of Milan,

  They'll do whatever you command,

  Send 'em here, send 'em there, send 'em far and near, Rake in the loot for me, get a new suit, whatever.

  He was stuck in his book, doin' his magic,

  Wavin' his wand around and all that shit,

  I took what I like, and that was fine,

  Whatever I wanted, it was mine,

  I got so used to it.

  But he didn't look, he was slack, didn't watch his back, What a fool, not cool, laid out the temptation, I was bossin' around the whole Milan nation,

  He didn't see what I took, it turned me into a crook, Turned me into his evil twin, I went the way of sin, Only way I could win.

  Ooo-ah hah! Ooo-ah hah! Stamp clap,
clap stamp, snapsnap stamp.

  So I went to the King, the Naples King,

  He wanted control of that Milan thing,

  So we made a deal,

  He'd help me steal it, I'd pay him back,

  And we grabbed my Bro, that Prosper-o,

  In the dead of night,

  We paid off his guards so they didn't put up a fight, We tossed him into a leaky boat,

  No chance in a million that thing would float, Along with his kid, got rid of her too,

  Towed them out onto the ocean blue,

  Told the folks he went away, took a break, took a vay-cay-shun On a tropical isle, that made 'em smile, but after a while When he didn't come back, said he must've drowned.

  Ooo-ah hah! Ooo-ah hah! Stamp clap, clap stamp, snapsnap stamp.

  Oh no! Oh no more Prospero,

  Too bad, how sad, that's what they said:

  He must be dead.

  So now I'm the man, the man, the big man,

  I'm the Duke, I'm the Duke, I'm the Duke of Milan.

  Yeah!

  He's the Duke, he's the Duke, he's the Duke of Milan.

  Stampity stamp, stampity stamp, stampity stampity stamp!

  Clap clap. Hah!

  On their final "Hah!" they all look at Felix. He knows that look. Love me, don't reject me, say I'm in!

  "What d'you think?" SnakeEye asks. He's gone all out on the prancing, he's breathing hard.

  "It has something," says Felix, who in fact would like to throttle him. Scene-stealer! But he tamps down on that emotion: it's their show, he scolds himself.

  "Better than something! Come on, it's terrific!" says Anne-Marie, who's been watching from the back of the room. "Tells us what happened, sums it up! It's a keeper!"

  "Snazzy foot-stamping," says Felix.

  "That's what I'm here for," says Anne-Marie, grinning. "Miss Helpful. Log-carrying, dance numbers, whatever."

  "Thank you," says Felix.

  "Jealous, Mr. Duke?" Anne-Marie whispers impishly. She sees into him, too far. "You want to be in the backup, right?"

  "Don't be a brat," he whispers back.

  "Then, we think," says SnakeEye, pushing on through, "so, after that, we cut to the boat, the leaky boat they're in, and we can show that on the video, while he's saying, I mean you--he's saying that part where Miranda tells him what a trouble she must have been, a three-year-old kid in that boat, and he says she was like an angel that preserved him? A cherubin. That part."