Maskerade

“Three days of gods shouting at one another and twenty minutes of memorable tunes?” said Salzella. “No, thank you very much.”

“But can't you hear her singing Hildabrun, leader of the Valkyries?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. But unfortunately I can also hear her singing Nobbo the dwarf and lo, Chief of the Gods.”

“Those were the days,” said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. “We had proper opera then. I recall when Dame Veritasi stuffed a musician into his own tuba for yawning—”

“Yes, yes, but this is the Century of the Fruitbat,” said Salzella, standing up. He glanced at the door again, and shook his head.

“Amazing,” he said. “Do you think she knows how fat she is?”

The door of Mrs Palm's discreet establishment opened at Granny's knock.

The person on the other side was a young woman. Very obviously a young woman. There was no possible way that she could have been mistaken for a young man in any language, especially Braille.

Nanny peered around the young lady's powdered shoulder at the red plush and gilt interior beyond, and then up at Granny Weatherwax's impassive face, and then back at the young lady.

“I'll tan our Nev's hide when I get home,” she muttered. “Come away, Esme, you don't want to go in there. It'd take too long to explain—”

“Why, Granny Weatherwax!” said the girl happily. “And who's this?”

Nanny looked up at Granny, whose expression hadn't changed.

“Nanny Ogg,” Nanny said eventually. “Yes, I'm Nanny Ogg. Nev's mum,” she added darkly. “Yes, indeed. Yes. On account of me bein' a” — the words ‘respectable widow woman’ tried to range themselves in her vocal cords, and shrivelled at the sheer enormity of the falsehood, forcing her to settle for “mother to him. Nev. Yes. Nev's mum.”

“Hello, Colette,” said Granny. “What fascinatin' earrings you are wearing. Is Mrs Palm at home?”

“She's always at home to important visitors,” said Colette. “Do come in, everyone will be so pleased to see you again!”

There were cries of welcome as Granny stepped into the scarlet gloom.

“What? You've been here before?” said Nanny, eyeing the pink flesh and white lace that made up much of the scenery.

“Oh, yes. Mrs Palm is an old friend. Practic'ly a witch.”

“You… you do know what kind of place this is, do you, Esme?” said Nanny Ogg. She felt curiously annoyed. She'd happily give way to Granny's expertise in the worlds of mind and magic, but she felt very strongly that there were some more specialized areas that were definitely Ogg territory, and Granny Weatherwax had no business even to know what they were.

“Oh, yes,” said Granny, calmly.

Nanny's patience gave out. “It's a house of ill repute, is what it is!”

“On the contrary,” said Granny. “I believe people speak very highly of it.”

“You knew? And you never told me?”

Granny raised an ironic eyebrow. “The lady who invented the Strawberry Wobbler?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“We all live life the best way we can, Gytha. And there's a lot of people who think witches are bad.”

“Yes, but—”

“Before you criticize someone, Gytha, walk a mile in their shoes,” said Granny, with a faint smile.

“In those shoes she was wearin', I'd twist my ankle,” said Nanny, gritting her teeth. “I'd need a ladder just to get in 'em.” It was infuriating, the way Granny tricked you into reading her half of the dialogue. And opened your mind to yourself in unexpected ways.

“And it's a welcoming place and the beds are soft,” said Granny.

“Warm too, I expect,” said Nanny Ogg, giving in. “And there's always a friendly light in the window.”

“Dear me, Gytha Ogg. I always thought you were unshockable.”

“Shockable, no,” said Nanny. “Easily surprised, yes.

Dr Undershaft the chorus master peered at Agnes over the top of his half?moon spectacles.

“The, um, 'Departure' aria, as it is known,” he said, “is quite a little masterpiece. Not one of the great operatic highlights, but very memorable nevertheless.”

His eyes misted over. “ 'Questa maledetta' sings Iodine, as she tells Peccadillo how hard it is for her to leave him… 'Questa maledetta porta si blocccccca, Si blocca comunque diavolo to faccccc?cio…!' ”

He stopped and made great play of cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief.

“When Gigli sang it, there wasn't a dry eye in the house,” he mumbled. “I was there. It was then that I decided that I would… oh, great days, indeed.” He put his glasses on and blew his nose.

“I'll run through it once,” he said, “just so that you can understand how it is supposed to go. Very well, Andre.”

The young man who had been drafted in to play the piano in the rehearsal room nodded, and winked surreptitiously at Agnes.

She pretended not to have seen him, and listened with an expression of acute studiousness as the old man worked his way through the score.

“And now,” he said, “let us see how you manage.”

He handed her the score and nodded at the pianist.

Agnes sang the aria, or at least a few bars of it. Andre stopped playing and leaned his head against the piano, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Ahem,” said Undershaft.

“Was I doing something wrong?”

“You were singing tenor,” said Undershaft, looking sternly at Andre.

“She was singing in your voice, sir!”

“Perhaps you can sing it like, er, Christine would sing it?”

They started again.

“Kwesta!? Maledetta!!…”

Undershaft held up both hands. Andre's shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing.

“Yes, yes. Accurately observed. I daresay you're right. But could we start again and, er, perhaps you would sing it how you think it should be sung?”

Agnes nodded.

They started again…

…and finished.

Undershaft had sat down, half?turned away. He wouldn't look round to face her.

Agnes stood watching him uncertainly. “Er. Was that all right?” she said.

Andre the pianist got up slowly and took her hand. “I think we'd better leave him,” he said softly, pulling her towards the door.

“Was it that bad?”

“Not… exactly.”

Undershaft raised his head, but didn't turn it towards her. “More practice on those Rs, madam, and strive for greater security above the stave,” he said hoarsely.

“Yes. Yes, I will.”

Andre led her out into the corridor, shut the door, and then turned to her.

“That was astounding,” he said. “Did you ever hear the great Gigli sing?”

“I don't even know who Gigli is. What was I singing?”

“You didn't know that either?”