Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [110]
“I hope he didn’t hurt Christine,” he mumbled. “Why isn’t anyone seeing to her?”
“Probably because she makes sure she screams and faints before anything happens,” said Perdita, through Agnes.
André set off across the stage. Agnes trailed after him. A couple of dancers were kneeling down next to Christine.
“It’d be terrible if anything happened to her,” said André.
“Oh…yes.”
“Everyone says she’s showing such promise…”
Walter stepped up beside him. “Yes. We should get her somewhere,” he said. His voice was clipped and precise.
Agnes felt the bottom start to drop out of her world. “Yes, but…you know it was me doing the singing.”
“Oh, yes…yes, of course…” said André, awkwardly. “But…well…this is opera…you know…”
Walter took her hand.
“But it was me you taught!” she said desperately.
“Then you were very good,” said Walter. “I suspect she will never be quite that good, even with many months of my tuition. But, Perdita, have you ever heard of the words ‘star quality’?”
“Is it the same as talent?” snapped Agnes.
“It is rarer.”
She stared at him. His face, however it was controlled now, was quite handsome in the glare of the footlights.
She pulled her hand free. “I liked you better when you were Walter Plinge,” she said.
Agnes turned away, and felt Granny Weatherwax’s gaze on her. She was sure it was a mocking gaze.
“Er…we ought to get Christine into Mr. Bucket’s office,” André said.
This seemed to break some sort of spell.
“Yes, indeed!!!” said Bucket. “And we can’t leave Mr. Salzella corpsing onstage, either. You two, you’d better take him backstage. The rest of you…well, it was nearly over anyway…er…that’s it. The…opera is over…”
“Walter Plinge!”
Nanny Ogg entered, supporting Mrs. Plinge. Walter’s mother fixed him with a beady gaze. “Have you been a bad boy?”
Mr. Bucket walked over to her and patted her hand. “I think you’d better come along to my office, too,” he said. He handed the sheaf of music to André, who opened it at random.
André gave it a glance, and then stared. “Hey…this is good,” he said.
“Is it?”
André looked at another page. “Good heavens!”
“What? What?” said Bucket.
“I’ve just never…I mean, even I can see…tum-ti TUM tum-tum…yes…Mr. Bucket, you do know this isn’t opera? There’s music and…yes…dancing and singing all right, but it’s not opera. Not opera at all. A long way from opera.”
“How far? You don’t mean…” Bucket hesitated, savoring the idea, “you don’t mean that it’s just possible that you put music in and you get money out?”
André hummed a few bars. “This could very well be the case, Mr. Bucket.”
Bucket beamed. He put one arm around André and the other around Walter. “Good!!!!!” he said. “This calls for a very lar…for a medium-sized drink!!!!!”
One by one, or in groups, the singers and dancers left the stage. And the witches and Agnes were left alone.
“Is that it?” said Agnes.
“Not quite yet,” said Granny.
Someone staggered onto the stage. A kindly hand had bandaged Enrico Basilica’s head, and presumably another kindly hand had given him the plate of spaghetti he was holding. Mild concussion still seemed to have him in its grip. He blinked at the witches and then spoke like a man who’d lost his hold on immediate events and so was clinging hard to more ancient considerations.
“Summon give me some ’ghetti,” he said.
“That’s nice,” said Nanny.
“Hah! ’Ghetti is fine for them as likes it…but not me! Hah! Yes!” He turned and peered muzzily at the darkness of the audience.
“You know what I’m goin’ to do? You know what I’m goin’ to do now? I’m sayin’ goodbye to Enrico Basilica! Oh yes! He’s chewed his last tentacle! I’m goin’ to go right out now and have eight pints of Turbot’s Really Odd. Yes! And probably a sausage ina bun! And then I’m goin’ down to the music hall to hear Nellie Stamp sing ‘A Winkle’s No Use if You Don’t Have a Pin’—and if I sing again here it’s goin’ to be under the proud old name of Henry Slugg, do you hear—?”
There was a shriek from