Maskerade d-18

by Terry David John Pratchett

  “The driver seemed to think there was a problem…”

  “Problem?” said Granny. “I didn't notice any problems. Did you, Gytha?”

  “He could've been a bit quicker fetching the ladder,” said Nanny, climbing down. “And I'm sure he muttered something under his breath that time we stopped to admire the view. But I'm prepared to be gracious about it.”

  “You stopped to admire the view?” said the agent. “When?”

  “Oh, several times,” said Nanny. “No sense in rushing around the whole time, is there? More haste less speed, ekcetra. Could you point us in the direction of Elm Street? Only we've lodgings at Mrs Palm's. Our Nev speaks highly of the place, he says no one ever looked for him there…”

  The agent stepped back, as people generally did in the face of Nanny's pump‑action chatter.

  “Elm Street?” he stuttered. “But… respectable ladies shouldn't go there…”

  Nanny patted him on the shoulder. “That's good,” she said. “That way we won't run into anyone we know.”

  As Granny walked past the horses they tried to hide behind the coach.

  Bucket smiled brightly. There were little beads of sweat around the edges of his face.

  “Ah, Perdita,” he said. “Do sit down, lass. Er. You are enjoying your time with us so far?”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr Bucket,” said Agnes dutifully. “Good. That's good. Isn't that good, Mr Salzella? Don't you think that's good, Dr Undershaft?”

  Agnes looked at the three worried faces.

  “We're all very pleased,” said Mr Bucket. “And, er, well, we have an amazing offer for you which I'm sure will help you to enjoy it even more.”

  Agnes watched the assembled faces. “Yes?” she said guardedly.

  “I know you, er, have only been with us hardly any time but we have decided to, er' — Bucket swallowed, and glanced at the other two for moral support — ‘let you sing the part of Iodine in tonight's production of La Triviata.”

  “Yes?”

  “Um. It isn't the major role but of course it does include the famous "Departure" aria…”

  “Oh. Yes?”

  “Er… there is, er… that is, er…” Bucket gave up and looked helplessly at his director of music. “Mr Salzella?”

  Salzella leaned forward. “What in fact we would like you to do… Perdita… is sing the role, indeed, but not, in fact… play the role.”

  Agnes listened while they explained. She'd stand in the chorus, just behind Christine. Christine would be told to sing very softly. It had been done dozens of times before, Salzella explained. It was done far more often than the audiences ever realized — when singers had a sore throat, or had completely dried, or had turned up so drunk they could barely stand, or, in one notorious instance many years previously, had died in the interval and subsequently sung their famous aria by means of a broom‑handle stuck up their back and their jaw operated with a piece of string.

  It wasn't immoral. The show had to go on.

  The ring of desperately grinning faces watched her.

  I could just walk away, she thought. Walk away from these grinning faces and the mysterious Ghost. They couldn't stop me.

  But there's nowhere to walk to except back.

  “Yes, er, yes,” she said. “I'm very… er… but why do it like this? Couldn't I simply take her place and sing the part?”

  The men looked at one another, and then all started talking at once.

  “Yes, but you see, Christine is… has… more stage experience—”

  “—technical grasp—”

  “—stage presence—”

  “—apparent lyrical ability—”

  “—fits the costume—”

  Agnes looked down at her big hands. She could feel the blush advancing like a barbarian horde, burning everything as it came.

  “We would like you, as it were,” said Bucket, “to ghost the part…”

  “Ghost?” said Agnes.

  “It's a stage term,” said Salzella.

  “Oh, I see,” said Agnes. “Yes. Well, of course. I shall certainly do my best.”

  “Jolly good,” said Bucket. “We won't forget this. And I'm certain a very suitable part for you will come along very soon. See Dr Undershaft this afternoon and he will take you through the role.”

  “Er. I know it quite well, I think,” said Agnes, uncertainly.

  “Really? How?”

  “I've been… taking lessons.”

  “That is good, lass,” said Mr Bucket. “Shows keenness. We're very impressed. But see Dr Undershaft in any case…”

  Agnes got up and, still looking down, trooped out.

  Undershaft sighed and shook his head.

  “Poor child,” he said. “Born too late. Opera used to be just about voices. You know, I remember the days of the great sopranos. Dame Violetta Gigli, Dame Clarissa Extendo… whatever became of them, I sometimes wonder.”

  “Didn't the climate change?” said Salzella nastily.

  “There goes a figure that should prompt a revival of The Ring of the Nibelungingung,” Undershaft went on. “Now that was an opera.”

  “Three days of gods shouting at one another and twenty minutes of memorable tunes?” said Salzella. “No, thank you very much.”

  “But can't you hear her singing Hildabrun, leader of the Valkyries?”

  “Yes. Oh, yes. But unfortunately I can also hear her singing Nobbo the dwarf and lo, Chief of the Gods.”

  “Those were the days,” said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. “We had proper opera then. I recall when Dame Veritasi stuffed a musician into his own tuba for yawning—”

  “Yes, yes, but this is the Century of the Fruitbat,” said Salzella, standing up. He glanced at the door again, and shook his head.

  “Amazing,” he said. “Do you think she knows how fat she is?”

  The door of Mrs Palm's discreet establishment opened at Granny's knock.

  The person on the other side was a young woman. Very obviously a young woman. There was no possible way that she could have been mistaken for a young man in any language, especially Braille.

  Nanny peered around the young lady's powdered shoulder at the red plush and gilt interior beyond, and then up at Granny Weatherwax's impassive face, and then back at the young lady.

  “I'll tan our Nev's hide when I get home,” she muttered. “Come away, Esme, you don't want to go in there. It'd take too long to explain—”

  “Why, Granny Weatherwax!” said the girl happily. “And who's this?”

  Nanny looked up at Granny, whose expression hadn't changed.

  “Nanny Ogg,” Nanny said eventually. “Yes, I'm Nanny Ogg. Nev's mum,” she added darkly. “Yes, indeed. Yes. On account of me bein' a” — the words ‘respectable widow woman’ tried to range themselves in her vocal cords, and shrivelled at the sheer enormity of the falsehood, forcing her to settle for “mother to him. Nev. Yes. Nev's mum.”

  “Hello, Colette,” said Granny. “What fascinatin' earrings you are wearing. Is Mrs Palm at home?”

  “She's always at home to important visitors,” said Colette. “Do come in, everyone will be so pleased to see you again!”

  There were cries of welcome as Granny stepped into the scarlet gloom.

  “What? You've been here before?” said Nanny, eyeing the pink flesh and white lace that made up much of the scenery.

  “Oh, yes. Mrs Palm is an old friend. Practic'ly a witch.”

  “You… you do know what kind of place this is, do you, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg. She felt curiously annoyed. She'd happily give way to Granny's expertise in the worlds of mind and magic, but she felt very strongly that there were some more specialized areas that were definitely Ogg territory, and Granny Weatherwax had no business even to know what they were.

  “Oh, yes,” said Granny, calmly.

  Nanny's patience gave out. “It's a house of ill repute, is what it is!”

  “On the contrary,” said Granny. “I believe people speak very hi
ghly of it.”

  “You knew? And you never told me?”

  Granny raised an ironic eyebrow. “The lady who invented the Strawberry Wobbler?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “We all live life the best way we can, Gytha. And there's a lot of people who think witches are bad.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Before you criticize someone, Gytha, walk a mile in their shoes,” said Granny, with a faint smile.

  “In those shoes she was wearin', I'd twist my ankle,” said Nanny, gritting her teeth. “I'd need a ladder just to get in 'em.” It was infuriating, the way Granny tricked you into reading her half of the dialogue. And opened your mind to yourself in unexpected ways.

  “And it's a welcoming place and the beds are soft,” said Granny.

  “Warm too, I expect,” said Nanny Ogg, giving in. “And there's always a friendly light in the window.”

  “Dear me, Gytha Ogg. I always thought you were unshockable.”

  “Shockable, no,” said Nanny. “Easily surprised, yes.

  Dr Undershaft the chorus master peered at Agnes over the top of his half‑moon spectacles.

  “The, um, "Departure" aria, as it is known,” he said, “is quite a little masterpiece. Not one of the great operatic highlights, but very memorable nevertheless.”

  His eyes misted over. “ "Questa maledetta" sings Iodine, as she tells Peccadillo how hard it is for her to leave him… "Questa maledetta porta si blocccccca, Si blocca comunque diavolo to faccccc‑cio…!" ”

  He stopped and made great play of cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief.

  “When Gigli sang it, there wasn't a dry eye in the house,” he mumbled. “I was there. It was then that I decided that I would… oh, great days, indeed.” He put his glasses on and blew his nose.

  “I'll run through it once,” he said, “just so that you can understand how it is supposed to go. Very well, André.”

  The young man who had been drafted in to play the piano in the rehearsal room nodded, and winked surreptitiously at Agnes.

  She pretended not to have seen him, and listened with an expression of acute studiousness as the old man worked his way through the score.

  “And now,” he said, “let us see how you manage.”

  He handed her the score and nodded at the pianist.

  Agnes sang the aria, or at least a few bars of it. André stopped playing and leaned his head against the piano, trying to stifle a laugh.

  “Ahem,” said Undershaft.

  “Was I doing something wrong?”

  “You were singing tenor,” said Undershaft, looking sternly at André.

  “She was singing in your voice, sir!”

  “Perhaps you can sing it like, er, Christine would sing it?”

  They started again.

  “Kwesta!? Maledetta!!…”

  Undershaft held up both hands. André's shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing.

  “Yes, yes. Accurately observed. I daresay you're right. But could we start again and, er, perhaps you would sing it how you think it should be sung?”

  Agnes nodded.

  They started again…

  …and finished.

  Undershaft had sat down, half‑turned away. He wouldn't look round to face her.

  Agnes stood watching him uncertainly. “Er. Was that all right?” she said.

  André the pianist got up slowly and took her hand. “I think we'd better leave him,” he said softly, pulling her towards the door.

  “Was it that bad?”

  “Not… exactly.”

  Undershaft raised his head, but didn't turn it towards her. “More practice on those Rs, madam, and strive for greater security above the stave,” he said hoarsely.

  “Yes. Yes, I will.”

  André led her out into the corridor, shut the door, and then turned to her.

  “That was astounding,” he said. “Did you ever hear the great Gigli sing?”

  “I don't even know who Gigli is. What was I singing?”

  “You didn't know that either?”

  “I don't know what it means, no.”

  André looked down at the score in his hand. “Well, I'm not much good at the language, but I suppose the opening could be sung something like this:

  This damn' door sticks

  This damn' door sticks

  It sticks no matter what the hell I do

  It's marked "Pull" and indeed I am pulling

  Perhaps it should be marked "Push"?”

  Agnes blinked. “That's it?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I thought it was supposed to be very moving and romantic!”

  “It is,” said André. “It was. This isn't real life, this is opera. It doesn't matter what the words mean. It's the feeling that matters. Hasn't anyone told—? Look, I'm in rehearsals for the rest of the afternoon, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? Perhaps after breakfast?”

  Oh, no, thought Agnes. Here it comes. The blush was moving inexorably upwards. She wondered if one day it might reach her face and carry on going, so that it ended up as a big pink cloud over her head.

  “Er, yes,” she said. “Yes. That would be… very helpful.”

  “Now I've got to go.” He gave her a weak little smile, and patted her hand. “And… I'm really sorry it's happening this way. Because… that was astounding.”

  He went to walk away, and then stopped. “Uh…sorry if I frightened you last night,” he said.

  “What?”

  “On the stairs.”

  “Oh, that. I wasn't frightened.”

  “You… er… didn't mention it to anyone, did you? I'd hate people to think I was worrying over nothing.”

  “Hadn't given it another thought, to tell you the truth. I know you can't be the Ghost, if that's what you're worried about. Eh?”

  “Me? The Ghost. Haha!”

  “Haha,” said Agnes.

  “So, er… see you tomorrow, then…”

  “Fine.”

  Agnes headed back to her room, deep in thought.

  Christine was there, looking critically at herself in the mirror. She spun around as Agnes entered; she even moved with exclamation marks.

  “Oh, Perdita!! Have you heard?! I'm to sing the part of Iodine tonight!! Isn't that wonderful?!” She dashed across the room and endeavoured to pick Agnes up and hug her, settling eventually for just hugging her.

  “And I heard they're already letting you in the chorus!?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  “Isn't that nice?! I've been practising all morning with Mr Salzella. Kesta!? Mallydetta!! Porter see bloker!!” She twirled happily. Invisible sequins filled the air with their shine.

  “When I am very famous,” she said, “you won't regret having a friend in me!! I shall do my very best to help you!! I am sure you bring me luck!!”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Agnes, hopelessly.

  “Because my dear father told me that one day a dear little pixie would arrive to help me achieve my great ambition, and, do you know, I think that little pixie is you!!”

  Agnes smiled unhappily. After you'd known Christine for any length of time, you found yourself fighting a desire to look into her ear to see if you could spot daylight coming the other way.

  “Er. I thought we had swapped rooms?”

  “Oh, that!!” said Christine, smiling. “Wasn't I silly?! Anyway, I shall need the big mirror now that I am to be a prima donna! You don't mind, do you!?”

  “What? Oh. No. No, of course not. Er. If you're sure…”

  Agnes looked at the mirror, and then at the bed. And then at Christine.

  “No,” she said, shocked at the enormity of the idea that had just presented itself, delivered from the Perdita of her soul. “I'm sure that will be fine.”

  Dr Undershaft blew his nose and tried to tidy himself up.

  Well, he didn't have to stand for it. Perhaps the child was somewhat on the heavy side, but Gigli, for example, had once crushed a teno
r to death and no one had thought any worse of her for it.

  He'd protest to Mr Bucket.

  Dr Undershaft was a single‑minded man. He believed in voices. It didn't matter what anyone looked like. He never watched opera with his eyes open. It was the music that mattered, not the acting and certainly not the shape of the singers.

  What did it matter what shape she was? Dame Tessitura had a beard you could strike a match on and a nose flattened half across her face, but she was still one of the best basses who ever opened beer bottles with her thumb.

  Of course, Salzella said that, while everyone accepted that large women of fifty could play thin girls of seventeen, people wouldn't accept that a fat girl of seventeen could do it. He said they'd cheerfully swallow a big lie and choke on a little fib. Salzella said that sort of thing.

  Something was going wrong these days. The whole place seemed… sick, if a building could be sick. The crowds were still coming, but the money just didn't seem to be there any more; everything seemed to be so expensive… And now they were owned by a cheesemonger, for heaven's sake, some grubby counter jumper who'd probably want to bring in fancy ideas. What they needed was a businessman, some clerk who could add up columns of figures properly and not interfere. That was the trouble with all the owners he had experienced‑they started off thinking of themselves as businessmen, and then suddenly began to think they could make an artistic contribution.

  Still, possibly cheesemongers had to add up cheeses just so long as this one stayed in his office with the books, and didn't go around acting as though he owned the place just because he happened to own the place…

  Undershaft blinked. He'd gone the wrong way again. No matter how long you'd been here, this place was a maze. He was behind the stage, in the orchestra's room. Instruments and folding chairs had been stacked everywhere. His foot toppled a beer bottle.

  The twang of a string made him look around. Broken instruments littered the floor. There were half a dozen smashed violins. Several oboes had been broken. The trom had been pulled right out of a trombone.

  He looked up into someone's face.