Maskerade (Discworld 18)

'Mrs. . . ?'

'Ogg., 'Please just go away.' Nanny nodded, gathered up the teacups and wandered out of the office. If no one questioned an old lady with a tray of tea, they certainly weren't bothered about one behind a pile of washing-up. Washing-up is a badge of membership anywhere. As far as Nanny Ogg was concerned, washing-up was also something that happened to other people, but she felt that it might be a good idea to stay in character. She found an alcove with a pump and a sink in it, rolled up her sleeves, and set to work. Someone tapped her on the shoulder. 'You shouldn't do that, you know,' said a voice. 'That's very unlucky.'

She glanced around at a stage-hand. 'What, washing-up causes seven years' bad luck?' she said. 'You were whistling.'

'Well? I always whistle when I'm thinkin'.'

'You shouldn't whistle on stage, I meant.' It's unlucky?'

'I suppose you could say that. We use whistle codes when we're shifting the scenery. Having a sack of sandbags land on you could be unlucky, I suppose.' Nanny glanced up. His gaze followed hers. just here the ceiling was about two feet away. 'It's just safest not to whistle,' the boy mumbled. 'I'll remember that,' said Nanny. 'No whistlin'. Interestin'. We do live and learn, don't we?' The curtain went up on Act Two. Nanny watched from the wings. The interesting thing was the way in which people contrived to keep one hand higher than their necks in case of accidents. There seemed to be far more salutes and waves and dramatic gestures than were strictly called for in the opera. She watched the duet between Iodine and Bufola, possibly the first in the history of the opera where both singers kept their eyes turned resolutely upwards. Nanny enjoyed music, as well. If music were the food of love, she was game for a sonata and chips at any time. But it was clear that the sparkle -had gone out of things tonight. She shook her head. A figure moved through the shadows behind her, and reached out. She turned, and looked at a fearsome face. 'Oh, hello, Esme. How did you get in?'

'You've still -got the tickets so I had to talk to the man on the door. But he'll be right as rain in a minute or two. What's been happening?'

'Well. . . the Duke's sung a long song to say that he must be going, and the Count has sung a song saying how nice it is in the springtime, and a dead body's fallen out of the ceiling.'

'That goes on a lot in opera, does it?'

'Shouldn't think so.'

'Ah. In the theatre, I've noticed, if you watch dead bodies long enough you can see them move.'

'Doubt if this one'll move. Strangled. Someone's murdering opera people. I bin chatting to the ballet girls.'

'Indeed?'

'It's this Ghost they're all talking about.'

'Hmm. Wears one of those black opera suits and a white mask?'

'How did you know that?' Granny looked smug. 'I mean, I can't imagine who'd want to murder opera people. . .' Nanny thought of the expression on Dame Timpani's face. 'Except p'raps other opera people. And p'raps the musicians. And some of the audience, p'raps.'

'I don't believe in ghosts,' said Granny firmly. 'Oh, Esme! You know I've got a dozen of 'em in my house!'

'Oh, I believe in ghosts,' said Granny. 'Sad things hangin' around goin' woogy woogy woogy. . . but I don't believe they kill people or use swords.' She walked away a little. 'There's too many ghosts here already.' Nanny kept quiet. It was best to do so when Granny was listening without using her ears.

'Gytha?'

'Yes, Esme?'

'What does “Bella Donna” mean?'

'It's the nobby name for Deadly Nightshade, Esme.'

'I thought so. Huh! The cheek of it!'

'Only, in opera, it means Beautiful Woman.'

'Really? Oh.' Granny's hand reached up and patted the iron-hard bun of her hair. 'Foolishness!' . . .he'd moved like music, like someone dancing to a rhythm inside his head. And his face for a moment in the moonlight was the skull of an angel. . . The duet got another standing ovation. Agnes faded gently back into the chorus. She had to do little else during the remainder of the act except dance, or at least move as rhythmically as she could, with the rest of the chorus during the Gypsy Fair, and listen to the Duke singing a song about how lovely the countryside was in summer. With an arm extended dramatically above his head. She kept peering into the wings. If Nanny Ogg was here then the other one would be around somewhere. She wished she'd never written those wretched letters home. Well. . . they wouldn't drag her back, no matter what they tried. . . * * * The remainder of the opera passed without anyone dying, except where the score required them to do so at some length. There was a minor upset when a member of the chorus was almost brained by a sandbag dislodged from a gantry by the stage-hands stationed there to prevent accidents. There was more applause at the end. Christine got most of it. And then the curtains closed. And opened and closed a few times as Christine took her bows. Agnes felt perhaps she took one more bow than the applause really justified. Perdita, looking out through her eyes, said: of course she did. And then they closed the curtains for the last time. The audience went home. From the wings, and up in the flies, the stagehands whistled their commands. Parts of the world vanished into the aerial darkness. Someone went round and put out most of the lights. Rising like a birthday cake, the chandelier was winched into its loft so that the candles could be snuffed. Then there were the footsteps of the men leaving the loft. . . Within twenty minutes of the last handclap of applause the auditorium was empty and dark, except for just a few lights. There was the clank of a bucket. Walter Plinge walked on to the stage, if such a word could be employed for his mode of progress. He moved like a puppet on elastic strings, so that it seemed only coincidentally that his feet touched the ground. Very slowly, and very conscientiously, he began to mop the stage. After a few minutes a shadow detached itself from the curtains and walked over to him. Walter looked down. 'Hello Mister Pussy Cat,' he said. Greebo rubbed against his legs. Cats have an instinct for anyone daft enough to give them food, and Walter certainly was well qualified. 'I shall go and find you some milk shall I Mister Cat?' Greebo purred like a thunderstorm.

Walking his strange walk, advancing only by averages, Walter disappeared into the wings. There were two dark figures sitting in the balcony. 'Sad,' said Nanny. 'He's got a good job in the warm and his mother keeps an eye on him,' said Granny. 'A lot of people fare worse.'

'Not a big future for him, though,' said Nanny. 'Not when you think about it.'

'There was a couple of cold potatoes and half a herring for their supper,' said Granny. 'Hardly a stick of furniture, too.'

'Shame.'

'Mind you, she's a little bit richer now,' Granny conceded. 'Especially if she sells all those knives and boots,' she added to herself. 'It's a cruel world for old ladies,' said Nanny, matriarch of a vast extended tribe and undisputed tyrant of half the Ramtops. 'Especially one as terrified as Mrs Phnge,' said Granny. 'Well, I'd be frightened too, if I was old and had Walter to think about.'