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Why dont we get some great big diamonds while were 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 elses. 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 (theyre eccentric), so they can also never be rude (theyre 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. Im being punished, aint I, Esme?
Cant imagine what youre talking about, Gytha.
Just cos I had my little moment.
I really dont follow you. Anyway, you said you were at your wits end with thinking what youd do with the money.
Yes, but Id 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 dont 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 bed sheet 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 hed 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.
Youve 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?” Theyre rather slow thinkers.
Oh dear. Does that mean tonights performance is cancelled?
André laughed. He had a rather pleasant laugh. I dont 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. Thats disgusting! said Agnes. You mean theyre coming because it might be dangerous?
Human nature, Im afraid. Of course, some of them want to hear Enrico Basilica. And. . . well. . . Christine seems popular. . . He gave her a sorrowful look. I dont mind, honestly, lied Agnes. Um. . . how long have you worked here, André?
Er. . . only a few months. I. . . used to teach music to the Seriphs 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 theyve heard someone singing in the night, but theyre always saying silly things.
Um. . . are there any secret passages here? He looked at her with his head on one side. Whove 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. Theyre always practising in odd corners. Besides, theyre all halfcrazed with hunger anyway.
Arent 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. Hed been very depressed lately. And hed always been a bit strange. Nervy. Its going to be a bit difficult without him, though. Here, Ive brought you a stack of old programmes. Some of the notes may help, since you havent 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 werent actually going to refuse to sing. It was all a game. The show went on. Shed heard all the stories. Shed 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 predecessors body cooled gently in the wings. Why? It was only a performance, for heavens sake. It wasnt like something important. But. . . the show goes on. Everyone took this so much for granted that they didnt 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 didnt work. Maybe shed caught some of the fog and didnt want it to work. What sort of person could have that feel for music and kill people? Shed been idly turning the pages of an old programme and a name caught her eye. She quickly shuffled 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 doesnt sing, does he? She held up a programme and pointed. What? Oh, no! André laughed. Good heavens. . . its 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 theyd 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. Its 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 dont think he minds. Its hard to tell, isnt 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 dont 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 wheres it gone?
Dont know Mrs Clamp!
And whats 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.
Im not at all sure, said Agnes, that Ive met anyone here who isnt. He grinned again. I know, he said. I mean, everyone acts as if its only the music that matters! The plots dont make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because theyve 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-thats practically normal compared to opera! Its an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying “Leave your common sense here”! If it wasnt for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous! She re
alized he was looking at her with an opera face. Of course, thats it, isnt it? It is the show that matters, isnt it? she said. Its all show.
Its not meant to be real, said André. Its not like theatre. No ones saying, “Youve got to pretend this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king. ” The plots 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. She pulled her hand away. I, er, better go and practise, she said, feeling the blush start. You really picked up the role of Iodine very well, said André. I, er, have a private tutor, said Agnes. Then hes really studied opera; thats all I can say.
I. . . think he has.
Esme?
Yes, Gytha?
Its not that I m complaining or anything. . .
Yes?
. . . but why isnt it me whos being the posh opera patronizes?
Because youre as common as muck, Gytha.
Oh. Right. Nanny subjected this statement to some thought and couldnt see any point of inaccuracy that would sway a jury. Fair enough.
Its not as though I like this.
Shall I do madams feet? said the manicurist. She stared at Grannys boots and wondered if it might be necessary to use a hammer. I got to admit, its a nice hairstyle, said Nanny. Madam has marvellous hair, said the hairdresser. What is the secret?
Youve got to make sure theres no newts in the water, said Granny. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, and went to look away. . . and then sneaked another glance. Her lips pursed. Hmm, she said. At the other end, the manicurist had succeeded in getting Grannys boots and socks off. Much to her amazement there was revealed, instead of the corned and bunioned monstrosities shed been expecting, a pair of perfect feet. She didnt know where to start because there was nowhere to begin, but this manicure was costing twenty dollars and in those circumstances you damn well find something to do. Nanny sat beside their pile of packages and tried to work everything out on a scrap of paper. She didnt have Grannys gift for numbers. They tended to writhe under her gaze and add themselves up wrong. Esme? I reckon weve spent. . . probably moren a thousand dollars so far, and thats not including hirin the coach, and we havent paid Mrs Palm for the room.
You said nothing was too much trouble to help a Lancre girl, said Granny. But I didnt say nothing was too much money, thought Nanny, and then scolded herself for thinking like that. But she was definitely feeling a little lighter in the underwear regions. There seemed to be a general consensus among the artisans of beauty that theyd done what they could. Granny swivelled the chair around. What do you think? she said. Nanny Ogg stared. Shed seen many strange things in her life, some of them twice. Shed seen elves and walking stones and the shoeing of a unicorn. Shed had a farmhouse dropped on her head. But shed never seen Granny Weatherwax in rouge. All her normal expletives of shock and surprise fused instantly, and she found herself resorting to an ancient curse belonging to her grandmother. Well, Ill be mogadored! she said. Madam has extremely good skin, said the cosmetics lady. I know, said Granny. Cant seem to do anything about it.
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