“I've finished now Mr Bucket!”
“Yes, thank you, Walter. You may go.”
“Yes Mr Bucket!”
Walter closed the door behind him, very conscientiously.
“I'm afraid it's working here,” said Salzella. “If you don't find some way of dealing with… are you all right, Mr Bucket?”
“What?” Bucket, who'd been staring at the closed door, shook his head. “Oh. Yes. Er. Walter…”
“What about him?”
“He's… all right, is he?”
“Oh, he's got his… funny little ways. He's harmless enough, if that's what you mean. Some of the stage‑hands and musicians are a bit cruel to him… you know, sending him out for a tin of invisible paint or a bag of nail‑holes and so on. He believes what he's told. Why?”
“Oh… I just wondered. Silly, really.”
“I suppose he is, technically.”
“No, I meant‑ Oh, it doesn't matter…”
Granny Weatherwax and Nanny Ogg left Goatberger's office and walked demurely down the street. At least, Granny walked demurely. Nanny leaned somewhat.
Every thirty seconds she'd say, “How much was that again?”
“Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty‑seven pence,” said Granny. She was looking thoughtful.
“I thought it was nice of him to look in all the ashtrays for all the odd coppers he could round up,” said Nanny. “Those he could reach, anyway. How much was that again?”
“Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty‑seven pence.”
“I've never had seventy dollars before,” said Nanny.
“I didn't say just seventy dollars, I said—”
“Yes, I know. But I'm working my way up to it gradual. I'll say this about money. It really chafes.”
“I don't know why you have to keep your purse in your knicker leg,” said Granny.
“It's the last place anybody would look.” Nanny sighed. “How much did you say it was?”
“Three thousand, two hundred and seventy dollars and eighty‑seven pence.”
“I'm going to need a bigger tin.”
“You're going to need a bigger chimney.”
“I could certainly do with a bigger knicker leg.” She nudged Granny. “You're going to have to be polite to me now I'm rich,” she said.
“Yes, indeed,” said Granny, with a faraway look in her eyes. “Don't think I'm not considering that.”
She stopped. Nanny walked into her, with a tinkle of lingerie.
The frontage of the Opera House loomed over them.
“We've got to get back in there,” Granny said. “And into Box Eight.”
“Crowbar,” said Nanny, firmly. “A No. 3 claw end should do it.”
“We're not your Nev,” said Granny. “Anyway, breaking in wouldn't be the same thing. We've got to have a right to be there.”
“Cleaners,” said Nanny. “We could be cleaners, and… no, 's not right me being a cleaner now, in my position.”
“No, we can't have that, with you in your position.”
Granny glanced down at Nanny as a coach pulled up outside the Opera House. “O' course,” she said, artfulness dripping off her voice like toffee, “we could always buy Box Eight.”
“Wouldn't work,” said Nanny. People were hurrying down the steps with the cuff‑adjusting, sticky looks of welcoming committees everywhere. “They're scared of selling it.”
“Why not?” said Granny. “There's people dying and the opera goes on. That means someone's prepared to sell his own grandmother if he'd make enough money.”
“It'd cost a fortune, anyway,” said Nanny.
She looked at Granny's triumphant expression and groaned. “Oh, Esme! I was going to save that money for me old age!” She thought for a moment. “Anyway, it still wouldn't work. I mean, look at us, we don't look like the right kind of people…”
Enrico Basilica got out of the coach.
“But we know the right kind of people,” said Granny.
“Oh, Esme!”
The shop bell tinkled in a refined tone, as if it were embarrassed to do something as vulgar as ring. It would have much preferred to give a polite cough.
This was Ankh‑Morpork's most prestigious dress shop, and one way of telling was the apparent absence of anything so crass as merchandise. The occasional carefully placed piece of expensive material merely hinted at the possibilities available.
This was not a shop where things were bought. This was an emporium where you had a cup of coffee and a chat. Possibly, as a result of that muted conversation, four or five yards of exquisite fabric would change ownership in some ethereal way, and yet nothing so crass as trade would have taken place.
“Shop!” yelled Nanny.
A lady appeared from behind a curtain and observed the visitors, quite possibly with her nose.
“Have you come to the right entrance?” she said. Madame Dawning had been brought up to be polite to servants and tradespeople, even when they were as scruffy as these two old crows.
“My friend here wants a new dress,” said the dumpier of the two. “One of the nobby ones with a train and a padded bum.”
“In black,” said the thin one.
“And we wants all the trimmings,” said the dumpy one. “Little handbag onna string, pair of glasses onna stick, the whole thing.”
“I think perhaps that might be a leetle more than you're thinking of spending,” said Madame Dawning.
“How much is a leetle?” said the dumpy one.
“I mean that this is rather a select dress shop.”
“That's why we're here. We don't want rubbish. My name's Nanny Ogg and this here is… Lady Esmerelda Weatherwax.”
Madame Dawning regarded Lady Esmerelda quizzically. There was no doubt that the woman had a certain bearing. And she stared like a duchess.
“From Lancre,” said Nanny Ogg. “And she could have a conservatory if she liked, but she doesn't want one.”
“Er…” Madame Dawning decided to play along for a while. “What style were you considering?”
“Something nobby,” said Nanny Ogg.
“I perhaps would like a leetle more guidance than that—”
“Perhaps you could show us some things,” said Lady Esmerelda, sitting down. “It's for the opera.”
“Oh, you patronize the opera?”
“Lady Esmerelda patronizes everything,” said Nanny Ogg stoutly.
Madame Dawning had a manner peculiar to her class and upbringing. She'd been raised to see the world in a certain way. When it didn't act in that certain way she wobbled a bit but, like a gyroscope, eventually recovered and went on spinning just as if it had. If civilization were to collapse totally and the survivors were reduced to eating cockroaches, Madame Dawning would still use a napkin and look down on people who ate their cockroaches the wrong way round.
“I will, er, show you, some examples,” she said. “Excuse me one moment.”
She scuttled into the long workrooms behind the shop, where there was considerably less gilt, and leaned against the wall and summoned her chief seamstress.
“Mildred, there are two very strange—”
She stopped. They'd followed her!
They were wandering down the aisle between the rows of dressmakers, nodding at people and inspecting some of the dresses on the dummies.
She hurried back. “I'm sure you'd prefer—”
“How much is this one?” said Lady Esmerelda, fingering a creation intended for the Dowager Duchess of Quirm.
“I am afraid that one is not for sale—”
“How much would it be if it was for sale?”
“Three hundred dollars, I believe,” said Madame Dawning.
“Five hundred seems about right,” said Lady Esmerelda.
“Does it?” said Nanny Ogg. “Oh, it does, does it?”
The dress was black. At least, in theory it was black. It was black in the same way that a starling's wing is bla
ck. It was black silk, with jet beads and sequins. It was black on holiday.
“It looks about my size. We'll take it. Pay the woman, Gytha.”
Madame's gyroscope precessed rapidly. “Take it? Now? Five hundred dollars? Pay? Pay now? Cash?”
“See to it, Gytha.”
“Oh, all right.”
Nanny Ogg turned away modestly and raised her skirt. There was a series of rustlings and elasticated twangings, and then she turned around, holding a bag.
She counted out fifty rather warm ten‑dollar pieces into Madame Dawning's unprotesting hand.
“And now we'll go back into the shop and have a poke around for the other stuff,” said Lady Esmerelda. “I fancy ostrich feathers myself. And one of those big cloaks the ladies wear. And one of those fans edged with lace.”
“Why don't we get some great big diamonds while we're about it?” said Nanny Ogg sharply.
“Good idea.”
Madame Dawning could hear them bickering as they ambled away up the aisle.
She looked down at the money in her hand.
She knew about old money, which was somehow hallowed by the fact that people had hung on to it for years, and she knew about new money, which seemed to be being made by all these upstarts that were flooding into the city these days. But under her powdered bosom she was an Ankh‑Morpork shopkeeper, and knew that the best kind of money was the sort that was in her hand rather than someone else's. The best kind of money was mine, not yours.
Besides, she was also enough of a snob to confuse rudeness with good breeding. In the same way that the really rich can never be mad (they're eccentric), so they can also never be rude (they're outspoken and forthright).
She hurried after Lady Esmerelda and her rather strange friend. Salt of the earth, she told herself.
She was in time to overhear a mysterious conversation.
“I'm being punished, ain't I, Esme?”
“Can't imagine what you're talking about, Gytha.”
“Just 'cos I had my little moment.”
“I really don't follow you. Anyway, you said you were at your wits' end with thinking what you'd do with the money.”
“Yes, but I'd have quite liked to have been at my wits' end on a big comfy chase longyou somewhere with lots of big strong men buyin' me chocolates and pressin' their favours on me.”
“Money don't buy happiness, Gytha.”
“I only wanted to rent it for a few weeks.”
Agnes rose late, the music still ringing in her ears, and dressed in a dream. But she hung a bedsheet over the mirror first, just in case.
There were half a dozen of the chorus dancers in the canteen, sharing a stick of celery and giggling.
And there was André. He was eating something absentmindedly while staring at a sheet of music. Occasionally he'd wave his spoon in the air with a faraway look on his face, and then put it down and make a few notes.
In mid‑beat he caught sight of Agnes, and grinned. “Hello. You look tired.”
“Er… yes.”
“You've missed all the excitement.”
“Have I?”
“The Watch have been here, talking to everyone and asking lots of questions and writing things down very slowly.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Well, knowing the Watch, probably "Was it you what did it, then?" They're rather slow thinkers.”
“Oh dear. Does that mean tonight's performance is cancelled?”
André laughed. He had a rather pleasant laugh. “I don't think Mr Bucket could possibly cancel it!” he said. “Even if people are dropping like flies out of the flies.”
“Why not?”
“People have been queuing for tickets!”
“Why?”
He told her.
“That's disgusting!” said Agnes. “You mean they're coming because it might be dangerous?”
“Human nature, I'm afraid. Of course, some of them want to hear Enrico Basilica. And… well… Christine seems popular…” He gave her a sorrowful look.
“I don't mind, honestly,” lied Agnes. “Um… how long have you worked here, André?”
“Er… only a few months. I… used to teach music to the Seriph's children in Klatch.”
“Um… what do you think about the Ghost?”
He shrugged. “Just some kind of madman, I suppose.
“Um… do you know if he sings? I mean, is good at singing?”
“I heard that he sends little critiques to the manager. Some of the girls say they've heard someone singing in the night, but they're always saying silly things.”
“Um… are there any secret passages here?”
He looked at her with his head on one side. “Who've you been talking to?”
“Sorry?”
“The girls say there are. Of course, they say they see the Ghost all the time. And sometimes in two places at once.”
“Why should they see him more?”
“Perhaps he just likes looking at young ladies. They're always practising in odd corners. Besides, they're all halfcrazed with hunger anyway.”
“Aren't you interested in the Ghost? People have been killed!”
“Well, people are saying it might have been Dr Undershaft.”
“But he was killed!”
“He might have hanged himself. He'd been very depressed lately. And he'd always been a bit strange. Nervy. It's going to be a bit difficult without him, though. Here, I've brought you a stack of old programmes. Some of the notes may help, since you haven't been in the opera long.”
Agnes stared at them, unseeing.
People were disappearing and the first thought that everyone had was that it was going to be inconvenient without them.
The show must go on. Everyone said that. People said it all the time. Often they smiled when they said it, but they were serious all the same, under the smile. No one ever said why. But yesterday, when the chorus had been arguing about the money, everyone knew that they weren't actually going to refuse to sing. It was all a game.
The show went on. She'd heard all the stories. She'd heard about shows continuing while fire raged around the city, while a dragon was roosting on the roof, while there was rioting in the streets outside. Scenery collapsed? The show went on. Leading tenor died? Then appeal to the audience for any student of music who knew the part, and give him his big chance while his predecessor's body cooled gently in the wings. Why? It was only a performance, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like something important. But… the show goes on. Everyone took this so much for granted that they didn't even think about it any more, as though there were fog in their heads.
On the other hand… someone was teaching her to sing at night. A mysterious person sang songs on the stage when everyone had gone home. She tried to think of that voice belonging to someone who killed people. It didn't work. Maybe she'd caught some of the fog and didn't want it to work. What sort of person could have that feel for music and kill people?
She'd been idly turning the pages of an old programme and a name caught her eye.
She quickly shufed through the others beneath. There it was again. Not in every performance, and never in a major role, but it was there. Generally it played an innkeeper or a servant.
“Walter Plinge?” she said. “Walter? But… he doesn't sing, does he?”
She held up a programme and pointed.
“What? Oh, no!” André laughed. “Good heavens… it's a… a kind of convenient name, I suppose. Sometimes someone has to sing a very minor part… perhaps a singer is in a role that they'd rather not be remembered in… well, here, they just go down on the programme as Walter Plinge. Lots of theatres have a useful name like that. Like A. N. Other. It's convenient for everyone.”
“But… Walter Plinge?”
“Well, I suppose it started as a joke. I mean, can you imagine Walter Plinge on stage?” André grinned. “In that little beret he wears?”
“What does he think about it?”
“
I don't think he minds. It's hard to tell, isn't it?”
There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen, although it was really more of a crashendo the longdrawn‑out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter‑theme when the person realizes they don't have three hands, and ends with the roinroinroin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning round and round on the floor.
They heard an irate female voice.
“Walter Plinge!”
“Sorry Mrs Clamp!”
“Damn' thing keeps holding on to the edge of the pan! Let go, you wretched insect—”
There was the sound of crockery being swept up, and then a rubbery noise that could approximately be described as a spoing.
“Now where's it gone?”
“Don't know Mrs Clamp!”
“And what's that cat doing in here?”
André turned back to Agnes and flashed her a sad smile. “It is a little cruel, I suppose,” he said. “The poor chap is a bit daft.”
“I'm not at all sure,” said Agnes, “that I've met anyone here who isn't.”
He grinned again. “I know,” he said.
“I mean, everyone acts as if it's only the music that matters! The plots don't make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they've got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! No wonder everyone accepts me singing for Christine‑that's practically normal compared to opera! It's an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying "Leave your common sense here"! If it wasn't for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!”
She realized he was looking at her with an opera face.
“Of course, that's it, isn't it? It is the show that matters, isn't it?” she said. “It's all show.”
“It's not meant to be real,” said André. “It's not like theatre. No one's saying, "You've got to pretend this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king." The plot's only there to fill in time before the next song.”
He leaned forward and took her hand. “This must be wretched for you,” he said.
No male had ever touched Agnes before, except perhaps to push her over and steal her sweets.
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