Hag-Seed Read online

  High fever. Meningitis. They'd tried to reach him, the women, but he'd been in rehearsal with strict orders not to be interrupted and they hadn't known what to do. When he finally got home there were frantic tears, and then the drive to the hospital, but it was too late, too late.

  The doctors had done everything they could: every platitude had been applied, every excuse offered. But nothing worked, and then she was gone. Carried off, as they used to say. But carried off where? She couldn't have simply vanished from the universe. He'd refused to believe that.

  Lavinia, Juliet, Cordelia, Perdita, Marina. All the lost daughters. But some of them had been found again. Why not his Miranda?

  --

  What to do with such a sorrow? It was like an enormous black cloud boiling up over the horizon. No: it was like a blizzard. No: it was like nothing he could put into language. He couldn't face it head-on. He had to transform it, or at the very least enclose it.

  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.

  This was a lie. They both knew it. Lonnie Gordon, the Chair, would never have dreamed up a putsch like this, and the rest of the Board members were ciphers. Picked men, picked by Tony. And picked women, there were two of those. Tony's recommendations, every single one.

  "My edge?" Felix said. "My fucking edge?" Who had ever been edgier than him?

  "Well, your contact with reality," said Tony. "They think you have mental health issues. It's understandable, I told them, in view of your...But they couldn't see it. The animalskin cape was a bridge too far. They saw the sketches. They say you'd have the animal rights activists down on us like a swarm of hornets."

  "That's ridiculous," said Felix. "Those aren't real animals, they're children's toys!"

  "As you must realize," said Tony with condescending patience, "that isn't the point. They look like animals. And the cape isn't the only objection. They really draw the line at Caliban as a paraplegic, they say it's way beyond bad taste. People would think you're making fun of disability. Some of them would walk out. Or get wheeled out: we do have a substantial number of...Our demographic is not the under-thirties."

  "Oh for cripes' sake!" said Felix. "This is political correctness gone way out of control! It's in the text, he's misshapen! If anything, in this day and age Caliban is the favorite, everyone cheers for him, I'm just--"

  "I understand, but the thing is," said Tony, "we need to fill enough seats to justify the grants. The reviews of late have been...mixed. Especially last season."

  "Mixed?" said Felix. "The reviews last season were sensational!"

  "I kept the bad ones away from you," said Tony. "They were numerous. I have them here in my briefcase, if you'd care to take a look."

  "Why in hell did you do that?" said Felix. "Keep them away? I'm not an infant."

  "Bad reviews make you irritable," said Tony. "Then you take it out on the staff. It's bad for morale."

  "I am never irritable!" Felix shouted. Tony ignored this.

  "Here's the termination letter," he said, drawing an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. "The Board has voted you a retirement package, with thanks for your many years of service. I tried to make it larger." There was a definite smirk.

  Felix took the envelope. His first impulse was to rip it into shreds, but he was in some sense paralyzed. He'd had rows during his career, but he'd never been terminated before. Ejected! Tumbled out! Discarded! He felt numb all over. "But my Tempest," he said. "That goes forward?" Already he was begging. "At least?" His best creation, his wondrous treasure, crushed. Trampled on the floor. Erased.

  "I'm afraid not," said Tony. "We--they felt a clean break would be best. The production will be canceled. You'll find the personal effects from your office out by your car. I'll need your security pass, by the way. When you're ready."

  "I'm taking this to the Heritage Minister," Felix said weakly. He knew this was a non-starter. He'd gone to school with Sal O'Nally, they'd been rivals at the time. There had been a clash over a pencil-stealing incident that Felix had won and Sal had evidently not forgotten. He'd given it as his opinion--in several TV interviews aimed straight at Felix's crotch--that the Makeshiweg Festival should be doing more Noel Coward comedies and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and other musicals. Not that Felix had anything against musicals, he'd started his theatrical career in a student production of Guys and Dolls, but a whole diet of musicals...

  The Sound of Music, said Sal. Cats. Crazy for You. Tap dancing. Things the ordinary person could understand. But the ordinary person could understand Felix's approach perfectly well! What was so difficult about Macbeth done with chainsaws? Topical. Direct.

  "In point of fact, the Heritage Minister is in full agreement," said Tony. "Naturally we ran our decision by Sal--by Minister O'Nally--before the final vote, to confirm that we were taking the right path. Sorry about this, Felix," he added insincerely. "I know it's a shock to you. And very difficult for all of us."

  "You'll have a replacement in mind, I suppose," said Felix, forcing his voice down to a reasonable level. Sal. First-name basis, then. So that's how things stood. He would not lose his cool. He would salvage the rags of his dignity.

  "Actually, yes," said Tony. "Sal...The Board has asked, ah, me to take over. In the interim, of course. Until a candidate of suitable caliber can be found."

  Interim, my ass, Felix thought. It was clear to him now. The secrecy, the sabotage. The snake-like subterfuge. The stupendous betrayal. Tony had been the instigator, he'd been the implementer start to finish. He'd waited until Felix had been at his most vulnerable and then he'd struck.

  "You devious, twisted bastard," he shouted, which was some satisfaction to him. Though a small one, considering everything.

  Two men from Security came into the room then. They must have been waiting outside the door listening for their cue, which most likely was Felix shouting. He kicks himself now for having been so predictable.

  Tony must've rehearsed the Security guys beforehand: he was nothing if not efficient. They stood to either side of Felix, one black, one brown, their muscled arms crossed, their expressions impenetrable. They were new hires: Felix didn't know them. More to the point, they didn't know Felix and would therefore have no loyalty. More of Tony's handiwork.

  "This is unnecessary," Felix said, but by that time Tony was well beyond feeling the need to reply. He gave a small shrug, a nod--the shrug of power, the nod of power--and Felix was escorted, politely but firmly, out to the parking lot, a hand of iron hovering beside each of his elbows.

  There was a stack of cardboard boxes beside his car. His red car, a Mustang convertible he'd bought second-hand in a fit of mid-life defiance, back when he'd still been feeling sporty. Back before Miranda and then no Miranda. It had been rusting even then, and had since rusted more. He'd been planning to trade it in, get another car, a more somber car. So much for that plan: he hadn't opened the severance envelope, but he already knew it would contain the bare minimum. Not enough for splurges, such as semi-new cars.

  It was drizzling. The Security men helped Felix load the cardboard boxes into his rusting Mustang. They didn't say anything and neither did Felix, because what was there to say?

  The boxes were sodden. What was in them? Papers, memorabilia, who knew? At that moment Felix didn't give a rat's ass. He contemplated a grand gesture, such as dumping everything out onto the parking lot and setting fire to it, but with what? Gasoline would be needed, or some kind of explosive, neither of which he had, and anyway why give Tony any more ammunition? (Fire department called, police summoned, Felix hauled off in chains gibbering and screaming, then charged with arson and creating a disturbance. Psychiatric expert brought in, paid by Tony. Diagnosis given. See? Tony would say to the Board. Paranoid. Psychotic. Thank heavens we were able to divest ourselves of him in time, before he went postal right at the theatre.)

  As the three of them were stuffing the last of the soggy boxes into Felix's car, a lone, plump figure came trundling across the parking lot. It was Lonnie Gordon, Chairman of the Festival Board, holding an umbrella over his sparsely tufted, wattled head and carrying a plastic bag, some kind of stick, and what looked like an armful of skunks topped by a dead white cat.

  The treacherous old geezer. Felix did not deign to glance at him.

  Shuffle shuffle, waddle waddle, splish splash through the puddles, up came fat Lonnie, wheezing like a walrus. "I'm really sorry, Felix," he said when he was level with the back of the car.

  "In a pig's ear," said Felix.

  "It wasn't me," Lonnie said dolefully. "I was outvoted."

  "Horse pookey," said Felix. The stick was his fox-head cane; the dead cat was his false Prospero beard; the skunk item, he saw now, was his magic garment. What would have been his magic garment. It was damp, the fur bedraggled. Its many plastic animal eyes gazed beadily out at him through
the fur, its many tails drooped. In the gray light of day it looked stupid. But onstage, finished, interwoven with foliage, spray-painted with gold accents, highlighted with sequins, it would have been splendid.

  "I'm unhappy you feel like that," said Lonnie. "I thought you might want to have these." He thrust the cape, the beard, and the walking stick at Felix, who kept his hands by his sides and simply glared. There was an awkward moment. Lonnie was truly distressed: he was a sentimental old coot, he cried at the end of tragedies. "Please," he said. "As a memento. After all your work." He held out the items again. The black security guard took them from him and crammed them in on top of the boxes.

  "You needn't have bothered," said Felix.

  "And this," said Lonnie, holding out the plastic bag. "It's your script. For The Tempest. With your notes. I took the liberty of looking at...it would have been wonderful," he went on, his voice quavering. "Maybe this will come in handy sometime."

  "You're hallucinating," said Felix. "You and that cesspool, Tony, have ruined my career, and you know it. You might as well have taken me out and shot me." This was an exaggeration, but it was also a relief for Felix to be able to rub someone else's nose in his own misery. Someone with a soft heart and a weak spine and therefore susceptible to nose-rubbing, unlike Tony.

  "Oh, I'm sure everything will work out for you," said Lonnie. "After all, such creativity, such talent...There must be a lot of, well, other places...A new start..."

  "Other places?" said Felix. "I'm fifty, for cripes' sake. Past the sell-by date for new starts, wouldn't you say?"

  Lonnie gulped. "I do see what you...We'll be moving a vote of thanks to you at the next Board meeting, and there's a proposal for a statue, you know, like, a bust, or maybe a fountain, in your name..."