'Oh, mother.' Henry Lawsy marked his place in his book and raised his runny eyes heavenward, and blinked. Right above him-a long way above him-was a glittering circle of light. His mother followed his gaze. 'What's that, then?'
'I think it's a chandelier, mother.'
'It's a pretty big one. What's holding it up?'
'I'm sure they've got special ropes and things, mother.'
'Looks a bit dangerous, to my mind.'
'I'm sure it's absolutely safe, mother.'
'What do you know about chandeliers?'
'I'm sure people wouldn't come into the Opera House if there was any chance of a chandelier dropping on their heads, mother,' said Henry, trying to read his book. Il Truccatore, The Master of Disguise. Il Truccatore (ten.), a mysterious nobleman, causes scandal in the city when he woos high-born ladies while disguised as their husbands. However, Laura (sop.), the new bride of Capriccio (bar.), refuses to give in to his blandishments- Henry put a bookmark in the book, took a smaller book from his pocket, and carefully looked up 'blandishments'. He was moving in a world he wasn't quite sure of; embarrassment lay waiting at every turn, and he wasn't going to get caught out over a word. Henry lived his life in permanent dread of Being Asked Questions Later. -and with the help of his servant Wingie (ten.) he adopts a subterfuge- The dictionary came out again for a moment. --culminating- And again. -in the scene at the famous Masked Ball at the Duke's Palace. But Il Truccatore has not reckoned with his old adversary the Count de- 'Adversary'. . .Henry sighed, and reached for his pocket. 'Curtain up in five minutes. . .' Salzella reviewed his troops. They consisted of scenebuilders and painters and all those other employees who could be spared for the evening. At the end of the line, about fifty per cent of Walter Plinge had managed to stand to attention. 'Now, you all know your positions,' said Salzella. 'And if you see anything, anything at all, you are to let me know at once. Do you understand ?'
'Mr Salzella!'
'Yes, Walter?'
'We mustn't interrupt the opera Mr Salzella!' Salzella shook his head. 'People will understand, I'm sure-'
'Show must go on Mr Salzella!'
'Walter, you will do what you're told!' Someone raised a hand. 'He's got a point, though, Mr Salzella. . .' Salzella rolled his eyes. 'Just catch the Ghost,' he said. 'If we can do it without a lot of shouting, that's good. Of course I don't want to stop the show.' He saw them relax. A deep chord rolled out over the stage. 'What the hell was that?' Salzella strode behind the stage and was met by André, looking excited. 'What's going on?'
'We repaired it, Mr Salzella! Only. . . well, he doesn't want to give up the seat. . .' The Librarian nodded at the director of music. Salzella knew the orang- utan, and among the things he knew was that, if the Librarian wanted to sit somewhere, then that was where he sat. But he was a first-class organist, Salzella had to admit. His lunchtime recitals in the Great Hall of Unseen University were extremely popular, especially since the
Nan-ny.'
'And no leaving bits of people on the doormat.'
'No, Nan-ny.'
'We'll have no trouble like we did with those robbers last month.'
'No, Nan-ny.' He looked depressed. Humans had no fun. Incredible complications surrounded the most basic activities. 'And no turning back into a cat again until we say.'
'Yess, Nan-ny.'
'Play your cards right and there could be a kipper in this for you.'
'Yess, Nan-ny.'
'What're we going to call him?' said Granny. 'He can't just be Greebo, which I've always said was a damn' silly name for a cat.'
'Well, he looks aristocratic-' Nanny began.
'He looks like a beautiful brainless bully,' Granny corrected her. 'Aristocratic,' repeated Nanny. 'Same thing.'
'We can't call him Greebo, anyway.'
'We'll think of something.' Salzella leaned disconsolately against the marble banister of the foyer's grand staircase and stared gloomily into his drink. It had always seemed to him that one of the major flaws in the whole business of opera was the audience. They were quite unsuitable. The only ones worse than the ones who didn't know anything at all about music, and whose idea of a sensible observation was 'I liked that bit near the end when her voice went wobbly', were the ones who thought they did. . . 'Want a drink do you Mister Salzella? There's lots you know!' Walter Plinge ambled by, his black suit making him look like a very good class of scarecrow. 'Plinge, you just say “Drink, sir?” ' said the director of music. 'And please take off that ridiculous beret.'
'My mum made it for me!'
'I'm sure she did, but-' Bucket sidled up to him. 'I thought I told you to keep Senor Basilica away from the canapes!' he hissed. 'I'm sorry, I couldn't find a big enough crowbar,' said Salzella, waving away Walter and his beret. 'Anyway, isn't he supposed to be communing with his muse in his dressing-room? The curtain goes up in twenty minutes!'
'He says he sings better on a full stomach.'