After a few ulcer-making moments when the car fails to start--he should get a block heater--Felix heads off to Fletcher Correctional. Sprites and goblins, here I come, he broadcasts silently to the inside of the car. Ready or not!
And he's ready.
--
A month ago, in mid-December, Felix got an email from Estelle. She had some wonderful news for him, she said; she would like to convey it to him in person. How about lunch, or maybe even dinner?
Felix opted for the lunch. Over the past three years, he's confined himself to lunches where Estelle is concerned. He's worried that dinner might become prolonged, and involve alcoholic drinks, and then get intense, either on Estelle's part or on his. Yes, he's a widower, but that doesn't mean he's available. It's not that she's unattractive--indeed, she has her stellar points--but he has a dependent child, and those duties come first. Though naturally he can't tell Estelle about Miranda. He doesn't want her to think he's hallucinating.
They never have their lunches at the McDonald's near Fletcher Correctional--too many off-duty staff from Fletcher go there, says Estelle, and the walls have ears, and she wouldn't want people to start gossiping about them being an item. Instead they've fixed on a more upmarket place in Wilmot, Estelle's suggestion. Zenith, it's called. It goes in for seasonal cuteness. On the day of their lunch it was the leadup to Christmas, so it had a bevy of elves in the window, busy with their decorating and toy production and their painting of frost flowers on cold windowpanes. Happily, it has a liquor license.
"Well!" said Estelle, sitting across from him in a corner booth. "You've certainly been stirring up some waves!" She was wearing a sparkly necklace Felix had never seen before: rhinestones, if he was not mistaken.
"I try to," said Felix with the appropriate hint of self-deprecation. "Though it's not me so much. As you know, the guys have been giving it their all."
"I don't know why I ever doubted," said Estelle. "You've done wonders with them!"
"Oh, scarcely wonders," said Felix, gazing down into his coffee cup. "But progress, yes; I think I could admit to that. It's been a great help to have your support," he added judiciously. "I couldn't have done it without you."
Estelle flushed at the compliment. He should be careful, he didn't want to lead her on: that could be injurious for them both. "Well, your wave-making has had results! I was in Ottawa two weeks ago, for one of those committees I sit on, and I talked to some people, and you'll never believe what I've pulled off for you," she said a little breathlessly. "I think you'll be pleased!"
She'd done him quite a few favors over the years, acting discreetly in the background. It was thanks to her influence that he'd been able to pay for the technical support he needed, and the supplies for making the costumes and props. She'd managed to free up a little extra budget money for the course; in addition, she'd smoothed his access to the Warden, which had made security matters easier for him. She wanted to please him, that was obvious. And he'd shown his pleasure; though, he hopes, not too much.
"What?" said Felix, stroking his whiskers, activating his eyebrows. "What clever thing have you done?" What clever, naughty thing? his tone implied.
"You'll be receiving..." She paused, lowered her voice, almost whispering. "You'll be receiving a visit from a Minister! Even better: two Ministers! That almost never happens, two at once! Maybe even three!"
"Really?" he said. "Which Ministers might those be?"
"Justice, for one," she said. "It's his jurisdiction, and I emphasized to the Deputy Minister what strides you've been making with the--with your students! It could be a model for a whole new approach, in correctional services!"
"Fantastic," said Felix. "Well done! The Justice Minister! That would be Sal O'Nally." When Sal's party had lost the provincial election he'd moved into federal politics, and dang if he didn't get elected. With his experience and connections, and, it had to be said, his fundraising capabilities, he was soon in Cabinet once more, only this time at a higher level. Now he had a mini-kingdom.
"Correct," said Estelle. "He was Heritage when they first got in, then he was over in International Affairs for a while, but he's been moved into Justice now; they like to keep shuffling them around. He's been doing that 'tough on crime' agenda kind of talking, but the mere fact that he's coming here to see your, your--what you've been doing, at first-hand, shows he has a more open mind than some people give him credit for."
"In that case I hope he'll enjoy our humble thespian offering," said Felix. "And who's the second Minister?" As if he didn't know: he'd watched as Tony had followed the example set by Sal and had slid into federal politics, where the pickings were richer and the social gatherings more prestigious.
"He's new, he just got appointed," said Estelle. "He has a background in the theatre himself! You must know him. Anthony Price. Didn't he work with you years ago, over at the Makeshiweg Festival?" She must have been rummaging around in Anthony's Wikipedia entry.
"Oh, that Anthony Price!" said Felix. "Yes, he did work with me once. He was very efficient. My right-hand man." Couldn't she hear his loud heartbeat, the rushing sound in his ears? He could scarcely believe his luck. His enemies, both of them! They'd be right there in Fletcher! The one place in the world where, with judicious timing, he might be able to wield more power than they could. "It'll be like a family reunion," he said.
"Oh yes, it will, won't it?" said Estelle. "To tell you the truth, there've been some questions about continuing your program, what with the budget cuts, and...Various of my colleagues, some of the other advisers--well, they don't entirely see the point, despite the wonderful...They think prisons should only be used for...But this is my baby, I take a personal interest, as you know. So I pushed hard, and the Ministers agreed to at least take a look; and, after all, what you've been doing has generated a lot of positive buzz!"
"Positive buzz," said Felix. " 'Where the bee sucks, there suck I.' That's better than sticking your foot in a hornet's nest, I suppose." His little joke. Now that Estelle had given him this opening, he intended to cram his foot into that hornet's nest as far as it would go. Then there would be a buzz, all right.
Estelle laughed, with a tiny gasp. "Oh! Yes. We're so lucky they'll be coming to see what an amazing...I told the Deputies it's a really wonderful example of discipline cross-fertilization, showing the way the arts can be used as a therapeutic and educational tool, in a very creative and unexpected way! I think they'll both want to at least consider building on that. Both of the Ministers. They'll want a photo op," she added. "With the whole group of...Even the, I mean..."
"The actors," said Felix. He refused to call them inmates, he refused to call them prisoners, not while they were in his theatre troupe. Of course, he thought: a photo op, always the main purpose of any ministerial visit.
"Yes indeed. With the actors," Estelle smiled. "They'll want that."
"And do they know that I'm the director?" he asked. This was important. "I mean, me? My real name?"
"Well, they know what's on the course description. You're Mr. Duke there. I've always kept our little secret, as promised." She twinkles.
"Thank you for that," said Felix. "I know I can depend on you. Best to keep the spotlight on the actors themselves. When are they coming? The Ministers?" he asked.
"At the end of the course, on that day you show the play on video to everyone on the closed-circuit TVs. March 13 this year, isn't it? I thought that would be the best time for them to see the finished results. They'll meet with the, with the prison...with the actors, it'll be almost like a real opening night, with, you know, dignitaries..." Two spots of color appeared in her cheeks. She was excited about this achievement of hers. She clearly needed a word of praise, so Felix delivered one.
"You're such a star," he said. "I can't thank you enough."
Estelle smiled. "You're more than welcome," she said. "I'm happy to be able to contribute. It's such a worthwhile...Anything I can do to facilitate...You know I'd pull out all the stops to keep this
going." She leaned forward, almost touched his wrist, thought better of it. "And what's your Shakespeare pick for this year?" she asked. "Don't I remember you were planning a Henry V? With the longbows, and...The wonderful speech just before the, such a stirring..."
"I was thinking of that, it's true," said Felix. "But I've changed my mind." In fact, he'd just changed it. He's been chewing over his revenge for twelve years--it's been in the background, a constant undercurrent like an ache. Though he's been tracking Tony and Sal on the Net, they've always been out of his reach. But now they'll be entering his space, his sphere. How to grasp them, how to enclose them, how to ambush them? Suddenly revenge is so close he can actually taste it. It tastes like steak, rare. Oh, to watch their two faces! Oh, to twist the wire! He wants to see pain. "We're doing The Tempest," he said.
"Oh," said Estelle, dismayed. He knew what she was thinking: Way too gay. "They've managed so well with the more warlike themes! Do you think the, the actors will relate to...? All that magic, and spirits, and fairies, and...Your Julius Ceasar was so direct!"
"Oh, the actors will relate to it, all right," said Felix. "It's about prisons."
"Really? I never thought...maybe you're right."
"Also," said Felix, "it's on a universal theme." What he had in mind was vengeance--that was certainly universal. He hoped she wouldn't ask him about the theme: vengeance was so negative, was what she'd say. A bad example. Especially bad, considering the captive audience.
She had other worries. "But do you think our two Ministers will...We wouldn't want to raise any more doubts about the...Perhaps if you could choose something less..." She twisted her hands anxiously.
"They'll relate to it as well," said Felix. "The Ministers. Both of them. Guaranteed."
In his wheezing blue Peugeot, Felix drives up the hill, winding around it toward the two high chain-link fences topped with razor wire, one fence inside the other. The snow is falling again, more heavily now. Good thing he keeps a shovel in his car, and a bag of sand. He may have to dig himself into the top of his laneway in the evening, having just dug himself out of it. Heart attack, heart attack: one of these days he'll overdo it with the shovelling, keel over, be found frozen stiff. It's a hazard of isolation.
He stops his car at the first gate, waits for it to swing open, drives through to the second gate, rolls down the window, shows his pass.
"You're good to go, Mr. Duke," says the guard. Felix is a well-known feature by now.
"Thanks, Herb," says Felix. He drives into the chilly inner courtyard, parks in his designated parking spot. No point in locking the car, not here: it's a thievery-free zone. He crunches along the sidewalk where snow-melt crystals have already been strewn, pushes the familiar button on the intercom, announces his name.
There's a click. The door unlocks and he walks into the warmth, and that unique smell. Unfresh paint, faint mildew, unloved food eaten in boredom, and the smell of dejection, the shoulders slumping down, the head bowed, the body caving in upon itself. A meager smell. Onion farts. Cold naked feet, damp towels, motherless years. The smell of misery, lying over everyone within like an enchantment. But for brief moments he knows he can unbind that spell.
Felix goes through the security-check machine, which everyone entering the building must pass through in case of contraband. That machine can spot a paper clip, it can spot a safety pin, it can spot a razor blade, even if you've swallowed them.
"Empty my pockets?" he says to the two guards. Dylan and Madison are their names; they've been here at Fletcher as long as he has. One is brown, one light yellow. Dylan is a Sikh and wears a turban. His real name is Dhian, but he altered it because--he told Felix--it was less hassle.
"You're clear, Mr. Duke." Grins from both of them. What could Felix possibly be suspected of smuggling, a harmless old thespian like him?
It's the words that should concern you, he thinks at them. That's the real danger. Words don't show up on scanners.
"Thanks, Dylan." Felix gives a rueful smile, signalling that all three of them know this routine is pointless in his case. Doddering ancient, a bit addled in the head. Nothing to see here, folks, move along.
"What's it going to be this year?" says Madison. "The play?" The guards have taken to watching the Fletcher Correctional performance videos along with everyone else. He gives a special talk about the play every year just for them, so they will feel included. It's always risky, the prospect that the prisoners might be having more fun than the guards. Resentments can build up, and that could cause problems for Felix. Sabotages could take place, crucial props and technical artifacts could go missing. Estelle forewarned him about that angle, so he's massaged the appropriate sensibilities. But so far nothing bad has happened.
"That Macbeth was great," says Madison. "The way they faked the sword fight!" It goes without saying that real swords had not been allowed, but cardboard is so versatile.
"Yeah! There stands the usurper's cursed head, way to go, Macduff," says Dylan. "Served the fucker right."
"It was wicked!" says Madison. "Like, Something wicked this way comes--that was wicked too!" He crooks his fingers into witchy claws, gives a cackle. It still astonishes Felix, the way everyone wants to get in on the act, once there is an act.
"Eye of newt," says Dylan in an equally camp-hag voice. "How about the one with the arrows? I saw a movie of that on TV. The dogs of war, I remember that part."
"Arrows would be good," says Madison. "And dogs."
"Yeah," says Dylan, "but it can't be real arrows. Or real dogs either."
"This year it'll be a little different," says Felix. "We're doing The Tempest."
"What's that?" says Madison. "Never heard of it." They say this every year as a way of teasing Felix; he can never tell what they really have heard of.
"It's the one with the fairies," says Dylan. "Right? Flying around and that." He doesn't sound too pleased.
"You're thinking of Dream," says Felix. "A Midsummer Night's Dream. This one doesn't have fairies. It has goblins. They're wicked." He pauses. "You'll like it," he assures them.
"Is there a fight scene?" says Madison.
"In a way," says Felix. "It's got a thunderstorm in it. And revenge. Definitely revenge."
"Awesome," says Madison. The two of them brighten up. Revenge is a known quantity: they've seen lots of it in their time. Boot in the kidneys, homemade blade in the neck, blood in the shower.
"You always do good ones. We trust you, Mr. Duke," says Dylan. Foolish lads, thinks Felix: never trust a professional ham.
Pleasantries over, it's on with the formalities. "Here's your security," says Dylan. Felix clips the alarm to his belt: it's like a pager. In case of a crisis he's supposed to press the button and summon the guards. Wearing it is mandatory, though Felix finds the thing vaguely insulting. He's in control, isn't he? The right words in the right order, that's his real security.
"Thanks," he says. "In I go. First day! Always a tough one. Wish me merde!"
"Merde, Mr. Duke." Two thumbs-up from Madison.
It's Felix who's taught them to say merde. An old theatre superstition, he's told them, it's like break a leg. The more he shares about old theatre superstitions the better: widen the circle of illuminati.
"Page us if there's trouble, Mr. Duke," says Dylan. "The guys have got your back."
There will be trouble, thinks Felix, but not of the kind you mean. "Thanks," he says. "I know I can count on you." And he's off down the hallway.
The hallway is in no way dungeon-like: no chains, no shackles, no bloodstains, though there are some of those backstage, as he understands. The walls are painted a medium-light green, on the theory that this shade is calming to the emotions--not like, for instance, a passion-inflaming red. If it weren't for the absence of bulletin boards and posters, this might be a university building of the more modern sort. The floor is gray, of that composition substance that wishes to look like granite but fails. It's clean, with a slight polish. The air in the corridor is static a
nd smells of bleach.
There are doorways, with closed doors. The doors are metal but painted the same green as the walls. They have locks. This isn't a dorm wing, however. The cellblocks are over to the north: the maximum-security block, with men in it whom Felix never sees, and also the medium-security block, which is where his actors come from.
It's in this section of Fletcher that the rehabilitation for the medium-security inmates goes on, such as it is. The courses for credit, the counselling. There are a couple of psychiatrists. There's a chaplain or two. There's a visiting prisoners' rights advocate who conducts his interviews somewhere in here. They come and go.
Felix stays away from these people--the other teachers, the rights advocate, the shrinks and chaplains. He doesn't want to hear their theories. He also doesn't want to get tangled up in their judgment of him and what he's doing. He's had some brief encounters with them over the past three years, and those encounters haven't gone well. He is viewed askance, with a tut-tutting kind of moralizing that he finds obnoxious.
Is he a bad influence? They infer that he is. He has to keep reminding himself that anything he might say in return, or rather yell, will be jotted down in some notebook or other and used against him if these professionals are called upon to, as they say, evaluate his therapeutic and/or pedagogical efficacy. So he keeps his mouth shut while being bombarded with sanctimonious twaddle.
Is it really that helpful, Mr. Duke, to expose these damaged men--and let us tell you how very damaged they are, one way or another, many of them in childhood through abuse and neglect, and some of them would be better off in a mental institution or an asylum for recovering drug addicts, much more suitable for them than teaching them four-hundred-year-old words--is it helpful to expose these vulnerable men to traumatic situations that can trigger anxiety and panic and flashbacks, or, worse, dangerous aggressive behavior? Situations such as political assassinations, civil wars, witchcraft, severed heads, and little boys being smothered by their evil uncle in a dungeon? Much of this is far too close to the lives they have already been leading. Really, Mr. Duke, do you want to run those risks and take those responsibilities upon you?