"Colonialism," says 8Handz, who spent a lot of time on the Internet in his former life as a hacker. "Prospero thinks he's so awesome and superior, he can put down what other people think."
Multiculturalism at its finest, thinks Felix. He's anticipated the objection to "earth," but not the one to "tortoise." He takes that jump first. " 'Tortoise' just means slowpoke," he says. "In this play."
"Like, dragging your ass," says HotWire helpfully.
"So, I vote we don't use that one, anyway," says Red Coyote.
"Your choice," says Felix. "As for 'earth,' it's the opposite of 'air,' here. It's supposed to mean low-down."
"I vote we don't use that one too," says Red Coyote.
"Again, your choice," says Felix. "More?"
"I'm putting it on record," says Red Coyote. "Anyone who calls me tortoise or earth, just sayin'."
"Okay, we hear you," says Leggs.
"I got one," says Shiv. "One question. Is 'shit' a curse word? Can we use it, or what?"
It's a fine point, thinks Felix. Technically, "shit" might not be considered a curse word as such, only a scatological expression, but he doesn't want to hear it all the time. Shit this, shitty that, you shit. He could let them vote on it, but what's the point of being in charge of this motley assemblage if he refuses to take charge? " 'Shit' is off bounds," he says. "Adjust your cursing accordingly."
" 'Shit' was okay last year," says Leggs. "So how come?"
"I changed my mind," says Felix. "I got tired of it. Too much shit is monotonous, and monotony is anti-Shakespeare. Now, if there are no more questions, let's do the spelling quiz. No peeking at anyone else's paper. I can see everyone from here. Ready?"
Felix has already engaged the Miranda he wants. She's the girl he'd cast in the part twelve years ago for his canceled Tempest: Anne-Marie Greenland, the one-time child gymnast.
Of course she'd be older now, he'd reflected, though not that much older by absolute standards since she'd been very young twelve years earlier. With her body type--slender, wiry--she could surely still get away with Miranda. Supposing she hadn't bloated.
It had taken him some ingenuity to track her down. He didn't want to go through a casting agency, since no agency would wish to place a client inside a penal institution: there might be liabilities. He'd need to contact her himself and talk her into it. He would even offer to pay her; he could use some of his tiny budget for that.
The Internet came in handy: once he started searching, he found her CV fairly quickly. She was posted on ActorHub, she was on CastingGame. After his Tempest had been canceled she'd done a few minor parts at Makeshiweg: a prostitute at the bawdy house in Pericles, a slave girl in Antony and Cleopatra, a dancer in West Side Story. Nothing big. Playing Miranda would have done wonders for her: he could have brought out her talent, he could have taught her so much. It would have made her career. He isn't the only person whose life has been seriously damaged by Tony and Sal.
After West Side Story Anne-Marie had crossed over completely into dance. She'd done several seasons as an apprentice and then as a guest dancer with Kidd Pivot: he'd found an outstanding YouTube video of her in a vigorous routine with two male dancers. However, due to an injury she'd had to leave before the company's spectacular The Tempest Replica, and had disappeared from her own CV for eight months. Then she appeared again as the choreographer for a semi-amateur production of Crazy for You in Toronto. That was last year.
Hard times in the world of Anne-Marie, he'd guessed. Did she have a husband, a partner? None was mentioned.
She had a Facebook account, though she hadn't posted much on it recently. A few pictures of herself: a thin, muscular honey blonde. Big eyes. Yes, she could still do Miranda. But would she want to?
Felix asked to be her Friend on Facebook, using his real name; miraculously, he was accepted.
Next to make the pitch. Did she remember him? he queried online. Yes, she did, was the terse reply. No exclamations of joy. Was she available for theatrical work? That would depend, she replied. He'd let her down once, he assumed she was thinking, so why did he think he could waltz back into her life as if nothing had happened?
It turned out she was working as a part-time barista in a coffee emporium--Horatio's--right in Makeshiweg. Hoping to pick up something at the Festival, was his guess. He set up a meeting time, then collected her at Horatio's. He wasn't too worried about anyone from his former life recognizing him: he looked so different now, with his white beard and eyebrows, and anyway most of the old crowd had gone: he'd checked that out on the company website.
Anne-Marie was still young-looking, he noted with relief. If anything, she was thinner. Her hair was up in a dancer's bun; each of her ears held two small gold earrings. She was wearing skinny jeans and a white shirt, which seemed to be the barista uniform at Horatio's.
He steered her around the corner to one of the noisier bars, the Imp and Pig-Nut: the sign outside sported some kind of red-eyed troll, grinning like a slasher-flick trailer. Once they'd settled into a dark-wood booth, Felix ordered a local craft beer for Anne-Marie and one for himself. "Something to eat?" he asked. It was edging toward lunchtime.
"Burger and fries," she replied, watching him with her huge gamine eyes. "Medium rare." He remembered the starving actor's first rule: never pass up free food. How many green room grapes-and-cheese plates had he himself once devoured?
"So," she said. "It's been a while. You just, like, vanished. Nobody knew where you went."
"Tony got me axed," he said.
"Yeah, word went around," she said. "Some of us thought he really did axe you. Clove you through the skull. Stuck you in a hole in the ground."
"Almost," he said. "It felt like that."
"You didn't say goodbye," she said reproachfully. "To any of us."
"I know. I apologize. I couldn't," he said. "There were reasons."
She relented a little, gave him a tiny smile. "Must've been hard for you."
"I was especially sorry," he said, "that I wasn't able to direct you. In The Tempest. You'd have been spectacular."
"Yes, well," she said, "I was sorry about that too." She rolled up her shirtsleeves--it was hot in here among the craft beers--and he saw that she had a bee tattooed on her arm. "What's up?"
"Better late than never," he said. "I want you to play Miranda. In The Tempest."
"No shit," she said. "You're not joking?"
"Not in any way," he said. "It's a slightly odd situation."
"They all are," she said. "But I still remember the lines. I was working so hard on that, I could say them in my sleep. Where are you doing it?"
He paused for a breath. "In Fletcher Correctional," he said. "I teach a class there. For the, ah, the inmates. Some of them are quite good as actors, you'd be surprised."
Anne-Marie took a hefty pull at her beer. "Let me get this straight," she said. "You want me to go inside a prison with nothing in it but a lot of men criminals and do Miranda?"
"None of them was willing to be a girl," he said. "You can see why not."
"I know, right? I don't blame them," she said with a hard edge to her voice. "Being a girl is the pits, trust me."
"You'd be very welcome," he said. "In the company. They're thrilled at the prospect."
"I bet," she said.
"No, really. They'd respect you."
"Bunch of lily-white no-touchy Ferdinands, are they?"
"There's security," he said. "With tasers and guards and what-not." He paused. "Not that they'd be needed. Really." He paused again. "You'd get paid." Another pause, then his final inducement: "You'll never have another theatrical experience like it. Guaranteed."
"You couldn't get anyone else to do it, could you," she said, and he knew he was almost there.
"You're the first one I asked," he said truthfully.
"I'm too old, though," she said. "It's not twelve years ago."
"You're perfect," he said. "You have a freshness."
"Like new-laid shit," she said, a
nd he blinked. That foul mouth of hers had always startled him. He was never ready when a slice of filth came out of her child-like mouth.
"It's because you think I look like a kid," she said. "No tits."
Scant use denying it. "Tits are overrated," said Felix--music to the ears of a small-titted woman, always--and she grinned a little.
"You're doing Prospero yourself?" she said. "Not some bank robber taking on the enchanting old fart? Because I loved it, those speeches of his. I couldn't stand to hear them fucked up."
"Correct," he said. "Wizardry in the slammer: it's a challenge for me. Acting on an ordinary stage is a walk in the park, compared. Or look at it this way: it could be my last chance to do it."
She gave him a sudden wide smile. "You're as crazy as ever," she said. "What the crap, you're inspired! Fuck, who else would try a caper like this? Okay, you're on!" She held out a hand so they could shake on it, but Felix wasn't done.
"Only two things," he said. "First, my name in there is Mr. Duke. No one knows about the Festival--that I was once...It's a long story, I'll tell you sometime. But 'Felix Phillips' is off bounds. It could raise questions and cause trouble."
"You're suddenly afraid of trouble?" she asks. "You?"
"This would be bad trouble. Second, no conventional swearing. It's not allowed: my rules. They can only use the curse words that are in the actual play."
She gave it a moment of thought. "Okay, I can manage that," she said. "How now, moon-calf? Kiss the book! It's a bargain!"
This time they shook on it. She had a grip like a jar-opener. Chastity won't be the only reason his Prospero will be warning the Ferdinand lad to keep away from this girl: Ferdinand wouldn't want to be a pre-mangled bridegroom.
"I like your bee," he said. "The tattoo. Any special meaning?"
She looked down at the table. "I was having a thing with the Ariel," she said. "The actor, in your play. Fun while it lasted, though he broke my heart. The bee was sort of our joke."
"A joke? What kind of joke?" As soon as he said it Felix realized he didn't want to hear the answer. Luckily the hamburger arrived, and Anne-Marie sank her small white teeth into it with a sigh of pleasure. Felix watched her devour it, trying to remember what it had been like to be that hungry.
Felix opens the Friday class with a hook. "I've got some news about the actress," he says. "The one I said would play Miranda." He keeps his voice level, takes a few beats. Is it good news or bad news? they'll be wondering.
They're alert: not a mutter, not a grunt. "It was difficult," he says. "Only an exceptional woman would take this on." Imperceptible nodding. "She had quite a few reservations. I had to do a lot of convincing," he goes on, spinning it out. "I thought I'd failed. But finally..."
"Yeah!" says 8Handz. "You did it! F...I mean, scurvy awesome!"
"Yes. Finally, I succeeded!"
"Way to red plague go!" says PPod.
"Thank you," says Felix. He allows himself a smile, gives a little bow. They expect him to be slightly formal. Courtly, as befits an old-school gentleman like the one he imitates. "Her name is Anne-Marie Greenland," he continues, "and she's not only an actress, she's a dancer as well. A very athletic dancer," he adds. "I've brought a clip to show you."
He's downloaded the YouTube video onto a memory stick, which he plugs into the class computer. "Lights out, please."
There's Anne-Marie in her dancing days, wearing a black halter top and green satin shorts. She throws her lithe male partner to the ground, then winds her arms and legs around him like an octopus and pulls his head back in a chokehold. He fights her off, flings her into the air, swirls her around in a circle, her head barely off the floor. Now she's slithering between his legs, then she's up on her feet, into the air again, feet akimbo. Now she's got him in a vise grip and is twisting one of his elbows to a painful right angle. The muscles in her sinewy arms are clearly visible.
"Whoa," says a voice. "That's...what the pied ninny is this?"
"She could tear a whoreson strip off you!"
"She's got a plaguey tattoo!"
"Poisonous poxy!"
"What's it scurvy about?"
"Romantic love," says Felix. "I suppose." Immediately he's ashamed of himself: such jaded cynicism has no place in the enchanted world he'll soon be asking them to believe in.
Anne-Marie pirouettes, circling her partner, who is rolling across the floor. She does a backflip, lands on her feet. A second male dancer bounces in, picks her up, and slings her over his shoulder, her feet flailing. She's on the ground again; she takes, briefly, the stance of a boxer, but then she flees and there's a chase, with both of the male dancers pursuing her. She stops, lifts a foot, flexes it, kicks with her heel. Down they go, in graceful tandem. Anne-Marie leaps into the air, higher than you'd think possible.
Blackout.
A roomful of men exhales.
"Lights, please," says Felix. Illumination: he's confronting a vista of wide-eyed faces. "That was a small sampling of our new Miranda's many talents. Anne-Marie will be joining us for a full readthrough week after next, once we've dealt with the casting process."
"Is she, like, a black belt?" Leggs wants to know.
"Man, she's...she's malignant, man!" This from PPod.
"She kicks you in the nuts, they shoot right out your mouth," says SnakeEye. "I bet she's a red plague dyke--one way to find out!" Nobody laughs.
"She's poxy skin and bones," says Phil the Pill. "Eating disorder."
"I like the poxy wenches curvier myself," says PPod.
"Beggars can't be choosers," says Krampus the doleful Mennonite.
"Yeah, toad-face," says Leggs. "She looks hot to me!"
"She's a very talented performer," says Felix. He's pleased to note that they're already practising their chosen curse words. "We're lucky she's agreed to work with us. But I wouldn't cross her, if I were you. You can see why."
"I bet she can kill with her scurvy thumbs," says WonderBoy sadly.
--
"Now," says Felix, "let's talk about Ariel. Who thinks he might like the part?"
"No way, man," says a voice from the back of the room. "Not playing a fairy, that's final. Like I said." SnakeEye, a man of definite opinions.
A universal sentiment: no hands go up, all faces close. He can hear what they're thinking: as with Miranda, so with Ariel. Too weak. Too gay. Out of the question.
"You're bringing in an actress for Miranda, right? So, bring in a fairy for the fairy," says Shiv. Murmurs of "Yeah," soft laughter.
Felix could ask them why they think Ariel is a fairy, but he knows why. Flies through the air, sleeps in flowers, delicate. Looks like a fairy, acts like a fairy, is a fairy. As for Ariel's song that claims he sucks like a bee, forget it: who with any sense of self-preservation would sing that? Not only is Ariel a fairy, he's a super-sucking fairy. You'd never live it down. You'd be reduced to a cipher. You'd suck, in every possible way.
It would be useless for Felix to point out that Ariel isn't a fairy, he's an elemental air-spirit. Equally useless to tell them that that "suck" in Shakespeare's time did not have the many derogatory meanings it has since acquired, because it has those meanings now, and now is when they're putting on the play.
"Let's talk about Ariel for a minute," says Felix, which means that he will talk about Ariel, because no one else in the room is going to open his mouth on that risky subject. "Maybe we're seeing this character as a fairy because we aren't thinking widely enough." He pauses to let this sink in. Wide thinking? What is that?
"So, before sticking on a label, let's list his qualities. What sort of a creature is he? First, he can be invisible. Second, he can fly. Third, he has superpowers, especially when it comes to thunder, wind, and fire. Fourth, he's musical. But fifth, and most important." He pauses again. "Fifth: he's not human." He gazes around the room.
"What if he's not even real?" says Red Coyote. "Like, if it's Prospero talking to himself? Maybe he's shaken hands with Mr. Peyote Button. Wasted out of his
mind, or maybe he's crazy?"
"Maybe it's, like, a dream he's having," says Shiv.
"Maybe that boat sinks, the one they put him in. So the whole play happens right when he's drowning." One of the newbies: VaMoose.
TimEEz: "I saw a movie like that once."
"Or he's got an imaginary friend," says PPod. "My kid had one of them."
"Nobody else sees him," says Leggs.
"They see him when he appears as the harpy," says Bent Pencil.
"They hear him," says HotWire.
"Well, yeah, okay," says Red Coyote. "Though it could be that Prospero's some kind of a ventriloquist."
"Let's suppose that Ariel is real in some way," says Felix. He's pleased: at least they're talking. "Suppose you'd never heard of this play, and all you knew about this being called Ariel was what I told you about him. What kind of a creature have I just been describing?"
Mutterings. "Like, a superhero," says Leggs. "Fantastic Four. Superman kind of thing. Except Prospero's got the kryptonite or whatever, so he's got the control."
"Star Trek kind of thing," says PPod. "He's an alien, like, he's had some kind of spaceship accident, he ended up on Earth. He's trapped here. He wants to take off, go up to his home planet or whatever, like in E.T., remember that one? That could cover it, right?"
"Doing what Prospero says so Prospero will help him get back there." 8Handz this time. "Earning his freedom."
"Then he can be with his own people," says Red Coyote.
Murmurings of agreement. This all makes sense! An alien! Way better than a fairy.
"How do you see the costume?" says Felix. "What does he look like?" He won't mention any of the traditional ways of portraying Ariel: the bird feathers, the dragonfly outfit, the angel, the butterfly wings. He won't mention, either, that for two centuries Ariel was always played by a woman.
"He'd be, like, green," says PPod. "With those bug eyes, like aliens have those big eyes with no pupils."
"Green is for trees. Blue's better," says Leggs. "Because of air. Ariel for air. Air's blue."
"Can't eat human food. Only flowers and stuff." Red Coyote speaking. "Natural. Like, he's a vegan."
General nodding: with this theory the bee-sucking activity is covered with no loss of honor, because that's the kind of thing you expect from aliens: weird eating habits.