Maskerade

“That's a good trick,” said Nanny.

“Mr Slugg's got a different trick,” said Granny. “I reckon I know the trick. It's like sugar and water.”

Henry waved his hands uncertainly. “It's just that if they knew…” he began.

“Everything's better if it comes from a long way away. That's the secret,” said Granny.

“It's… yes, that's part of it,” said Henry. “I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg.”

“Where're you from, Henry?” said Nanny.

“Really from,” said Granny.

“I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They're in Ankh?Morpork,” said Henry. “It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out.”

“What was the third way?” said Nanny.

“Oh, you could go down that little alleyway into Shamlegger Street and then cut down into Treacle Mine Road,” said Henry. “But no one ever amounted to anything who went that way.”

He sighed. “I made a few coppers singing in taverns and suchlike,” he said, “but when I tried for anything better they said 'What is your name?' and I said 'Henry Slugg' and they'd laugh. I thought of changing my name, but everyone in Ankh?Morpork knew who I was. And no one wanted to listen to anyone called plain Henry Slugg.”

Nanny nodded. “It's like with conjurers,” she said. “They're never called Fred Wossname. It's always something like The Great Astoundo, Fresh From the Court of the King of Klatch, and Gladys.”

“And everyone takes notice,” said Granny, “and are always careful not to ask themselves: if he's come from the King of Klatch, why's he doing card tricks here in Slice, population seven.”

“The trick is to make sure that everywhere you go, you are from somewhere else,” said Henry. “And then I was famous, but…”

“You'd got stuck as Enrico,” said Granny.

He nodded. “I was only going to do it to make some money. I was going to come back and marry my little Angeline—”

“Who was she?” said Granny.

“Oh, a girl I grew up with,” said Henry, vaguely.

“Sharing the same gutter in the back streets of Ankh-Morpork, kind of thing?” said Nanny, in an understanding voice.

“Gutter? In those days you had to put your name down and wait five years for a gutter,” said Henry. “We thought people in gutters were nobs. We shared a drain. With two other families. And a man who juggled eels.”

He sighed. “But I moved on, and then there was always somewhere else to go, and they liked me in Brindisi… and… and…”

He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket.

“I don't mind the pasta and the squid,” he said. “Well, not much… But you can't get a decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn't what I'd call a good hard cheese in the whole country.”

He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief.

“And people are so kind,” he said. “I thought I'd get a few beefsteaks when I travelled but, wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid…” He shuddered. “Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I'd give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings…”

“Why don't you say?” said Nanny.

He shrugged. “Enrico Basilica eats pasta,” he said. “There's not much I can do about it now.”

He sat back. “You're interested in music, Mrs Ogg?”

Nanny nodded proudly. “I can get a tune out of just about anything if you give me five minutes to study it,” she said. “And our Jason can play the violin and our Kev can blow the trombone and all my kids can sing and our Shawn can fart any melody you care to name.

“A very talented family, indeed,” said Enrico. He fumbled in a waistcoat pocket and took out two oblongs of cardboard. “So please, ladies, accept these as a small token of gratitude from someone who eats other people's pies. Our little secret, eh?” He winked desperately at Nanny. “They're open tickets for the opera.”

“Well, that's amazin',” said Nanny, “because we're going to—Ow!”

“Why, thank you very much,” said Granny Weatherwax, taking the tickets. “How very gracious of you. We shall be sure to go.”

“And if you'll excuse me,” said Enrico, “I must catch up on my sleep.”

“Don't worry, I shouldn't think it's had time to get far away,” said Nanny.

The singer leaned back, pulled the handkerchief over his face and, after a few minutes, began to snore the happy snore of someone who had done his duty and now with any luck wouldn't have to meet these rather disconcerting old women ever again.

“He's well away,” said Nanny, after a while. She glanced at the tickets in Granny's hand. “You want to visit the opera?” she said.

Granny stared into space.

“I said, do you want to visit the opera?”

Granny looked at the tickets. “What I want don't signify, I suspect,” she said.

Nanny Ogg nodded.

Granny Weatherwax was firmly against fiction. Life was hard enough without lies floating around and changing the way people thought. And because the theatre was fiction made flesh, she hated the theatre most of all. But that was it—hate was exactly the right word. Hate is a force of attraction. Hate is just love with its back turned.

She didn't loathe the theatre, because, had she done so, she would have avoided it completely. Granny now took every opportunity to visit the travelling theatre that came to Lancre, and sat bolt upright in the front row of every performance, staring fiercely. Even honest Punch and Judy men found her sitting among the children, snapping things like ‘'Tain't so!’ and ‘Is that any way to behave?’ As a result, Lancre was becoming known throughout the Sto Plains as a really tough gig.

But what she wanted wasn't important. Like it or not, witches are drawn to the edge of things, where two states collide. They feel the pull of doors, circumferences, boundaries, gates, mirrors, masks…

…and stages.

Breakfast was served in the Opera House's refectory at half?past nine. Actors were not known for their habit of early rising.

Agnes started to fall forward into her eggs and bacon, and stopped herself just in time.

“Good morning!!”

Christine sat down with a tray on which was, Agnes was not surprised to see, a plate holding one stick of celery, one raisin and about a spoonful of milk. She leaned towards Agnes and her face very briefly expressed some concern. “Are you all right?! You look a little peaky!!”

Agnes caught herself in mid?snore.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Just a bit tired…”

“Oh, good!!” This exchange having exhausted her higher mental processes, Christine went back to operating on automatic. “Do you like my new dress?!” she exclaimed. “Isn't it fetching?!”

Agnes looked at it. “Yes,” she said. “Very… white. Very lacy. Very figure?hugging.”

“And do you know what?!”

“No. What?”

“I already have a secret admirer!! Isn't that thrilling?! All the great singers have them, you know!!”

“A secret admirer…”

“Yes!! This dress!! It arrived at the stage door just now!! Isn't that exciting?!”