"Fine," says Felix. "Now: what function does he perform in the play?"
An undertone of mumbling. "What do you mean by 'function'?" says Bent Pencil. "As you suggested in your notes, he's the good servant. He does what he's told. Caliban is the bad servant."
"Yes, yes," says Felix. "But where would the play be without the tasks Ariel carries out for Prospero? Without the thunder and lightning? Without, in fact, the tempest? Ariel performs the single most important act in the whole plot, because without that tempest there's no play. So he's crucial. But he acts behind the scenes--nobody but Prospero knows that it's Ariel making the thunder and singing the songs and creating the illusions. If he were here with us now, he'd be called the special-effects guy." Felix does another of his panoramic around-the-room scans, aiming for eye contact. "So, he's like a digital expert. He's doing 3-D virtual reality."
Tentative grins. "Cool," says 8Handz. "Scurvy cool."
"In our play, then, Ariel is the character Ariel, but he's also the special effects," says Felix. "Lighting, sound, computer simulation. All of that. And Ariel needs a team, like the team of spirits he's in charge of in the play."
Light is dawning: they love fooling with computers, on the rare occasions when it's possible for them.
"Monster cool!" says Shiv.
"So who wants to be on Team Ariel?" says Felix. "Any takers?"
Every hand in the room goes up. Now that they grasp the possibilities, they all want to be on Team Ariel.
The sun's declining; its light is cold, pale yellow. Along the top of the inner fence two crows are perched, keeping watch. No hope for you, my friends, thinks Felix. I'm the only one coming out today and I'm not dead yet. He climbs into his frozen car. After two tries, the motor starts.
The outer gate swings open, propelled by invisible hands. My thanks, ye demi-puppets, Felix addresses them silently, ye elves of barbed wire, tasers, and strong walls, weak masters though ye be. As he drives away downhill the gate closes behind him, locking itself with a metallic thud. Already the air is darkening; behind him, the searchlights blare into life.
His car follows the highway, then turns off and snouts its way along the narrow snowy roadway toward his cave, almost as if he isn't steering it but commanding it by thought alone. He allows himself to feel relief: the first and greatest obstacles have now been overcome, the first goals achieved. He has captured his Miranda, and Ariel has been transformed and accepted. He can sense the rest of his cast emerging as if from a fog, their faces indistinct but present. So far, his charms hold good.
His car stops as if grounded. Luckily there's no new windrow of hard-packed snow and frozen sludge to be shoveled. He parks and locks, then trudges up the lane to his hovel, snow creaking underfoot. From the field to the left comes a glassy whispering: it's the dead weed stalks that are sticking up through the drifts, glazed with ice, stirred by the wind. Tinkling like bells.
All dark within, no light at the window. Almost he knocks, but who would answer? He has a sudden cold sensation, as if from news of a boundless loss. He opens the door.
Empty. Devoid. No presence. Inside the shack it's chilly; he banked the woodstove before going off to Fletcher that morning, but he doesn't like to leave the electrical heater on when he's not there. Too risky, though surely Miranda would keep a watch on it. Wouldn't she?
Fool, he tells himself. She's not here. She was never here. It was imagination and wishful thinking, nothing but that. Resign yourself.
He can't resign himself.
--
He builds up the fire, switches on the heater. It won't take the place long to warm up. He'll have an egg for supper and a couple of soda crackers. A cup of tea. He's not very hungry. After the adrenalin hit of this first week he's having a letdown; surely that's all it is. But he feels a weakness within himself, a dejection, a fissure in his will, a faltering.
Lately his vengeance has seemed so close. All he had to do was wait until Tony and Sal came to Fletcher Correctional for their VIP visit, then make sure they did not view the video of the play upstairs with the Warden but in the sealed wing--where he would be expecting them, although unseen by them at first. Once the video began to run, it would split in two. One version would be the video running onscreen in the rest of the prison. The other version would suddenly have real people in it, directed and controlled by himself. Creating an illusion through doubles--it's one of the oldest theatrical gimmicks in the box.
But now his vision is blurring. Why is he so sure he can pull this off? Not the play itself; that will already exist as a finished video. But the other play, the improvised drama he has in mind for his distinguished enemies--how to arrange it? He'll need a degree of technical expertise he doesn't possess. And even if he can solve that problem, how foolhardy of him to attempt such a gambit! How risky! So much could go wrong. His actors might get carried away, especially in the presence of a tough-on-crime Minister of Justice. That situation could prove tempting for them. Someone might be hurt.
"No harm, no harm," he tells himself. But there could very well be harm. He doesn't have any obedient elementals backing him up, he has no real alchemy. He has no weapons.
Better to abdicate. Give up his plans for retribution, for restoration. Kiss his former self goodbye. Go quietly into the dark. What has he ever accomplished in his life, anyway, beyond a few gaudy hours, a few short-lived triumphs of no importance in the world where most people live? Why did he ever feel he was entitled to special consideration from the universe at large?
Miranda doesn't like it when he's depressed. It makes her anxious. Maybe that's why she's rendered herself invisible, though she's usually almost invisible anyway. Is that her, in the other room? Does he hear a humming? Or is it only the bar fridge?
--
The bedroom has a medicinal smell, as if someone's been ill in it. An invalid, for a long time. No, she's not in here. Only the photo in its silver frame: the small girl on the swing, frozen in Time's jelly. Visible but not alive.
He switches on the bedside lamp, opens the door of the large armoire. There's his wizard's garment; it's been waiting for him now for a dozen years. Must it go to waste, after all? Its many eyes glint, alive, aware.
"Not yet," he tells his magic animals. "Not quite yet. It is not the hour."
Their hour will be his hour. His vengeful hour. There must be a way he can make it work. Surely he still has a few tricks left.
--
He moves back into the front room. "Dear one," he says out loud; and there she is, over in the corner. Luckily she's wearing white: she glimmers. What is this fretful energy he's feeling? She's picked up on his worries, and now she's worrying herself.
"There's no harm done," he says. "And there won't be, I promise. I will do nothing but in care of thee."
But what has his care amounted to? He's protected her, true, but hasn't he overdone it? There are so many things he should be able to offer her. She should have what other girls her age take for granted, not that he knows what those things are. Clothes, certainly. Pretty clothes, more clothes than she has at her disposal now. She seems to go around in makeshifts, fabricated out of cheesecloth and old bed sheets. She ought to have silks and velvets, or mini-skirts and those tall boots girls these days seem so fond of. She ought to have an iPhone, in a pastel shade. She ought to be painting her nails blue or silver or green, chattering with her friends, listening to music through her pink ear buds. Going to parties.
He's been such a failure as a parent. How can he make it up to her? It's a wonder she isn't sulkier, cooped up here with nobody but her shabby old father; but then, she doesn't know what she's missing. Still, he's been able to teach her a lot of things that most girls her age would never have a chance of learning.
"What have you been up to all day?" he says to her. "Would you like a game of chess?"
Reluctantly--is that reluctance?--she moves to the chess board, set up as usual on the red Formica table.
Black or white? she asks him.
/>
By Monday morning Felix has recovered his confidence. He must proceed as if everything is unfolding as it usually does with a Fletcher Correctional Players production. This week he'll help the class explore the main characters, as a prelude to casting them. Now that the troublesome matter of Ariel and Miranda has been dealt with, there shouldn't be much difficulty over the others, except for Caliban. Caliban is bound to raise uncomfortable issues.
As for his other enterprise, the secret one, he must keep the thread tight in his grasp. He must follow it forward into darkness. Whatever the form the thing assumes, it will depend on exact timing. This is his last chance. It's his only chance. To vindicate himself, to restore his name, to rub their noses in it--the noses of his foes. If he misses it, his fortunes will ever after droop. They've been droopy enough as it is.
He can't back off, he can't hesitate. He needs to sustain the momentum. Everything depends on his will.
--
"How's it going, Mr. Duke?" Dylan asks as Felix passes through the security check.
"All's well so far," says Felix cheerfully.
"Who's playing the fairy?" says Madison.
"It's not a fairy," says Felix.
"Really?"
"Trust me on that," says Felix. "By the way, next week I'm bringing in a guest actor--a very distinguished actress, actually. Her name is Anne-Marie Greenland. She'll be playing the female part in the play. Miranda."
"Yeah, we heard," says Madison. The grapevine is highly active inside Fletcher Correctional, at least on some matters; or perhaps it's the surveillance system. Gossip spreads like the flu. "We're looking forward, eh?" He grins.
"She got clearance?" says Dylan.
"Of course," says Felix with more authority than he feels. Estelle has arranged that for him. It was a tight squeeze--there were some objections--but Estelle knows which strings to pull and which egos to massage. "I hope that everyone here--the staff--I hope you'll be welcoming to her."
"She'll need to wear a security pager," says Dylan. "The actress, or whatever. We'll show her how to use it. In case of difficulties." Their curiosity is palpable: they'd like to ask for more details about this girl, but they're not about to betray themselves by showing too much enthusiasm. Should Felix throw them a crumb, tell them about the freely available YouTube video of Anne-Marie making lasagna out of her two male dancing partners? Better not, he decides.
"There won't be any difficulties," he says, "but that's very kind of you."
"No problem, Mr. Duke," says Dylan.
"We aim to please," says Madison.
"You can count on us. Enjoy your day, Mr. Duke," says Dylan. "Merde!"
"Merde, eh?" says Madison. He gives Felix two thumbs-up.
--
"The whole play takes place on an island," says Felix, standing beside his whiteboard. "But what kind of island is it? Is it magic in itself? We never really know. It's different for each one of the people who's landed on it. Some of them fear it, some of them want to control it. Some of them just want to get away from it.
"The first person to set foot on it is Caliban's mother, Sycorax, said to be a loathsome witch. She dies before the play begins, but not before Caliban is born on the island. He grows up on it, and he's the only one who really likes it. When Caliban is a young boy, Prospero is kind to him, but then sex gets in the way and Caliban loses it and gets locked up. After that he's afraid of Prospero and his imps and goblins because they torment him. But he's never afraid of the island. In turn, it sometimes plays sweet music to him."
He writes CALIBAN on the whiteboard.
"There's another character who's been there as long as Sycorax, but he's not a human. That would be Ariel. What does he think about the island? We don't know. He's in charge of creating illusions on it, but he's only doing what he's told."
Under CALIBAN he writes ARIEL.
"The next ones to come to the island are Prospero, the rightful Duke of Milan, and baby Miranda, who have been set adrift in a leaky boat by Prospero's wicked brother, Antonio. They're lucky they landed there because otherwise they would have starved or drowned. But they have to live in a cave and there aren't any other people, except Caliban, so Prospero's main aim is to get himself and Miranda off the island and back to Milan as fast as possible. He wants his old position back, he wants his daughter well married, and he can't have any of that if he stays on the island. Miranda herself is neutral on the subject. She hasn't known anything else, so she's fine with the island until an alternative arrives."
PROS & MIR, he writes.
"Then, after twelve years have passed, a number of others wash up as the result of a tempest staged by Prospero and Ariel. The tempest is an illusion, but they're convinced by it: they think they've been shipwrecked. For Alonso, the King of Naples, the island is a place of sorrow and loss, because he believes his son, Ferdinand, has been drowned offshore.
"For King Alonso's brother, Sebastian, and Prospero's evil brother, Antonio, the island is a place of opportunity: it seems to give them the occasion to murder Alonso and his councillor, Gonzalo, after which Sebastian would inherit the kingdom of Naples--not that he has the least idea about how he's going to get himself back there. These two think the island is a barren place, without any charm.
"Gonzalo, the elderly, well-meaning councillor, thinks the island is rich and fertile. He amuses himself by describing the ideal kingdom he'd set up on it, in which all the citizens would be equal and virtuous, and none would have to do any work. The others make fun of his vision.
"All of these men are thinking mostly about ruling and rulers. Who should rule, and how. Who should have power, how they should get it, and how they should use it."
Felix writes ALON, GON, ANT, SEB, and draws a line under them.
"The next character is very different. He's Ferdinand, son of Alonso. Since he swam ashore to a different part of the island, he believes his father has drowned. As he's mourning his loss, Ariel lures him away with music. At first he thinks the island is magic; then, when he sees Miranda, he initially thinks she's a goddess. When he hears that she's a human girl and unmarried into the bargain, he falls in love with her at first sight and proposes to marry her. So his island is a place of wonder, and then of romantic love."
Felix writes FERD, draws another line.
"At the bottom of the heap come Stephano and Trinculo," he says. "They're fools. Also they're drunk. Like Antonio and Sebastian, they see the island as a place of opportunity. They want to exploit the gullible Caliban by making him their servant; they even consider exhibiting him as a freak or selling him, once they get back to civilization. But they're quite ready to add theft, murder, and rape to their repertoire. Get rid of Prospero, Caliban tells them, and the island will be their kingdom, with Miranda thrown in as a bonus.
"They too are concerned with who should rule, and how; they're comic versions of Antonio and Sebastian. Or you might say that Antonio and Sebastian are fools in better clothing."
STEPH & TRINC, he writes.
He pauses, looks out over the room: no hostility, but no real enthusiasm either. They're watching him. "Maybe the island really is magic," he says. "Maybe it's a kind of mirror: each one sees in it a reflection of his inner self. Maybe it brings out who you really are. Maybe it's a place where you're supposed to learn something. But what is each one of these people supposed to learn? And do they learn it?"
He draws a double line under his list. "So," he says. "Those are the main characters. Write them down in that order, all except Prospero and Miranda--I'll be playing Prospero, and you know who's playing Miranda. Then write a number beside each of those names, from zero to ten. Ten means you'd really like to play that character; zero means you have zero interest in it. Consider whether you think you can do a good job of the part. For instance, it would help for Ferdinand to be reasonably young, just as Gonzalo should be reasonably old.
"Between now and the time I cast the parts, we'll be reading some speeches. After we've done that, you might c
hange your mind about your preferred character. If so, feel free to scratch the number out and write a new one in."
They all set to work; there's the laborious creaking of pencils.
Is the island magic? Felix asks himself. The island is many things, but among them is something he hasn't mentioned: the island is a theatre. Prospero is a director. He's putting on a play, within which there's another play. If his magic holds and his play is successful, he'll get his heart's desire. But if he fails...
"He won't fail," Felix says. A few heads come up, a few stares are directed his way. Has he said that out loud? Is he talking to himself?
Watch that tendency, he tells himself. You don't want them to think you're on drugs.
On Tuesday morning Felix counts the votes. Of the twenty members of his acting company, only one wants to play the worthy Gonzalo. Happily it's Bent Pencil, the warped accountant. Felix writes him in.
King Alonso and his brother, Sebastian, don't have any takers; they're well down the list for everyone, but they don't get any zeros.
Antonio, Prospero's evil brother, is more popular: five list him as a nine.
Stephano and Trinculo: two each. That makes four who see themselves as jokers.
Eight of them fancy themselves as Ferdinand, of which six are wishful thinkers: no way they could be convincing as the romantic lead. But two are possible.
Ariel, twelve. Many, it seems, are seriously interested in aliens and special effects.
And Caliban, an astonishing fifteen.
Hard choices to be made on Wednesday, thinks Felix. He'll start with Caliban. Caliban is secretly poetic. By the time they've talked that aspect through, some of the contenders will surely have dropped out. There's more to Caliban, he'll tell them, than just an ugly face.
--
In preparation for the stern task ahead, Felix takes his weekly bath in the tin washtub. It's a production. First he has to heat the water, on the hotplate and also in the electric kettle. Then he has to mix the hot with cold from the hand pump. Then he has to disrobe. Then he has to get in. It's a chilly, slippery business at this time of year, with a draft coming in under the door and--right now--ice pellets pattering against the window. Matters are not helped by the threadbare towel. He ought to get another one; what holds him back? His sense of design, that's what. A new towel would not fit the sparse, monkish decor.