Maskerade

'What? Oh. Yes. Yes... you see, it's fine for actors. There's plenty of parts for old men. Acting's something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing... Time creeps up behind you, all the...' He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for 'Time. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and you'll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyone's on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. That's why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, so's green. And real jewellery worn on stage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling on stage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting on stage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, don't ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, that's worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors.'

Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully.

'Good grief,' said Bucket; at last. 'I thought it was tough in cheese.'

He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. 'I paid thirty thousand for this place,' he said. 'It's in the centre of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!'

'They'd have probably accepted twenty‑five.'

'And tell me again about Box Eight. You let this Ghost have it?'

'The Ghost considers it is his for every first night, yes.'

'How does he get in?'

'No one knows. We've searched and searched for secret entrances...'

'He really doesn't pay?'

No.

'It's worth fifty dollars a night!'

'There will be trouble if you sell it,' said Salzella.

'Good grief, Salzella, you're an educated man! How can you sit there so calmly and accept this sort of madness? Some creature in a mask has the run of the place, gets a prime Box all to himself, kills people, and you sit there saying there will be trouble?'

'I told you: the show must go on.'

'Why? We never said "the cheese must go on"! What's so special about the show going on?'

Salzella smiled. 'As far as I understand it,' he said, 'the... power behind the show, the soul of the show, all the effort that's gone into it, call it what you will... it leaks out and spills everywhere. That's why they burble about "the show must go on". It must go on. But most of the company wouldn't even understand why anyone should ask the question.'

Bucket glared at the pile of what passed for the Opera House's financial records.

'They certainly don't understand book‑keeping! Who does the accounts?'

'All of us, really,' said Salzella.

'All of you?'

'Money gets put in, money gets taken out...' said Salzella vaguely. 'Is it important?'

Bucket's jaw dropped. 'Is it important?'

'Because,' Salzella went on, smoothly, 'opera doesn't make money. Opera never makes money.'

'Good grief, man! Important? What'd I ever have achieved in the cheese business, I'd like to know, if I'd said that money wasn't important?'

Salzella smiled humourlessly. 'There are people out on the stage right now, sir,' he said, 'who'd say that you would probably have made better cheeses.' He sighed, and leaned over the desk. 'You see,' he said, 'cheese does make money. And opera doesn't. Opera's what you spend money on.'

'But... what do you get out of it?'

'You get opera. You put money in, you see, and opera comes out,' said Salzella wearily.

'There's no profit?'

'Profit... profit,' murmured the director of music, Scratching his forehead. 'No, I don't believe I've come across the word.'

'Then how do we manage?'

'We seem to rub along.'

Bucket put his head in his hands. 'I mean,' he muttered, half to himself, 'I knew the place wasn't making much, but I thought that was just because it was run badly. We have big audiences! We charge a mint for tickets! Now I'm told that a Ghost runs around killing people and we don't even make any money!'

Salzella beamed. 'Ah, opera,' he said.

Greebo stalked over the inn's rooftops.

Most cats are nervous and ill at ease when taken out of their territory, which is why cat books go on about putting butter on their paws and so on, presumably because constantly skidding into the walls will take the animal's mind off where the walls actually are.

But Greebo travelled well, purely because he took it for granted that the whole world was his dirtbox.

He dropped heavily on to an outhouse roof and padded towards a small open window.

Greebo also had a cat's approach to possessions, which was simply that nothing edible had a right to belong to other people.

From the window came a variety of smells which included pork pies and cream. He squeezed through and dropped on to the pantry shelf.