Maskerade

'I don't want trouble, Esme,' said Nanny Ogg as she hurried after her. 'It's only money.'

'It ain't money any more,' said Granny. 'It's a way of keepin' score.'

Mr Bucket picked up a violin. It was in two pieces, held together by the strings. One of them broke.

'Who'd do something like this?' he said. 'Honestly, Salzella... what is the difference between opera and madness?'

'Is this a trick question?'

'No!'

'Then I'd say: better scenery. Ah... I thought so...'

Salzella rooted among the destruction, and stood up with a letter in his hand.

'Would you like me to open it?' he said. 'It's addressed to you.'

Bucket shut his eyes.

'Go on,' he said. 'Don't bother about the details. Just tell me, how many exclamation marks?'

'Five.'

'Oh.'

Salzella passed the paper over.

Bucket read:

Dear Bucket,

Whoops!

Ahahahahahahahaha!!!!!

Yrs,

The Opera Ghost

'What can we do?' he said. 'One moment he writes polite little notes, the next he goes mad on paper!'

'Herr Trubelmacher has got everyone out hunting for new instruments,' said Salzella.

'Are violins more expensive than ballet shoes?'

'There are few things in the world more expensive than ballet shoes. Violins happen to be among them,' said Salzella.

'Further expense!'

'It seems so, yes.'

'But I thought the Ghost liked music! Herr Trubelmacher tells me the organ is beyond repair!!!'

He stopped. He was aware that he had exclaimed a little less rationally than a sane man should.

'Oh, well,' Bucket continued wearily. 'The show must go on, I suppose.'

'Yes, indeed,' said Salzella.

Bucket shook his head. 'How's it all going for tonight?'

'I think it will work, if that's what you mean. Perdita seems to have a very good grasp of the part.'

'And Christine?'

'She has an astonishingly good grasp of wearing a dress. Between them, they make one prima donna.'

The proud owner of the Opera House got slowly to his feet. 'It all seemed so simple,' he moaned. 'I thought: opera, how hard can it be? Songs. Pretty girls dancing. Nice scenery. Lots of people handing over cash. Got to be better than the cut‑throat world of yoghurt, I thought. Now everywhere I go there's–'

Something crunched under his shoe. He picked up the remains of a pair of half‑moon spectacles.

'These are Dr Undershaft's, aren't they?' he said. 'What're they doing here?'

His eyes met Salzella's steady gaze.

'Oh, no,' he groaned.

Salzella turned slightly, and stared hard at a big double­bass case leaning against the wall. He raised his eyebrows.

'Oh, no,' said Bucket, again. 'Go on. Open it. My hands have gone all sweaty...'

Salzella padded across to the case and grasped the lid. 'Ready?'

Bucket nodded, wearily.

The case was flung open.

'Oh, no!'

Salzella craned round to see.

'Ah, yes,' he said. 'A broken neck, and the body has been kicked in considerably. That'll cost a dollar or two to repair, and no mistake.'

'And all the strings are busted! Are double basses more expensive to rebuild than violins?'

'I am afraid that all musical instruments are incredibly expensive to repair, with the possible exception of the triangle,' said Salzella. 'However, it could have been worse, hmm?'

'What?'

'Well, it could have been Dr Undershaft in there, yes?'

Bucket gaped at him, and then shut his mouth. 'Oh. Yes. Of course. Oh, yes. That would have been worse. Yes. Bit of luck there, I suppose. Yes. Um.'

'So that's an opera house, is it?' said Granny. 'Looks like someone built a great big box and glued the architecture on afterwards.'

She coughed, and appeared to be waiting for something.

'Can we have a look around?' said Nanny dutifully, aware that Granny's curiosity was equalled only by her desire not to show it.

'It can't do any harm, I suppose,' said Granny, as if granting a big favour. 'Seein' as we've nothing else to do right this minute.'

The Opera House was, indeed, that most efficiently multifunctional of building designs. It was a cube. But, as Granny had pointed out, the architect had suddenly realized late in the day that there ought to be some sort of decoration, and had shoved it on hurriedly, in a riot of friezes, pillars, corybants and curly bits. Gargoyles had colonized the higher reaches. The effect, seen from the front, was of a huge wall of tortured stone.

Round the back, of course, there was the usual drab mess of windows, pipes and damp stone walls. One of the rules of a certain type of public architecture is that it only happens at the front.

Granny paused under a window. 'Someone's singing,' she said. 'Listen.'

'La‑la‑la‑la‑la‑LAH,' trilled someone. 'Do‑Re‑Mi‑Fah‑So­La‑Ti‑Do...'

'That's opera, right enough,' said Granny. 'Sounds foreign to me.'

Nanny had an unexpected gift for languages; she could be comprehensibly incompetent in a new one within an hour or two. What she spoke was one step away from gibberish but it was authentically foreign gibberish. And she knew that Granny Weatherwax, whatever her other qualities, had an even bigger tin ear for languages than she did for music.