Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [37]
As Granny walked past the horses they tried to hide behind the coach.
Bucket smiled brightly. There were little beads of sweat around the edges of his face.
“Ah, Perdita,” he said. “Do sit down, lass. Er. You are enjoying your time with us so far?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Bucket,” said Agnes dutifully.
“Good. That’s good. Isn’t that good, Mr. Salzella? Don’t you think that’s good, Dr. Undershaft?”
Agnes looked at the three worried faces.
“We’re all very pleased,” said Mr. Bucket. “And, er, well, we have an amazing offer for you which I’m sure will help you to enjoy it even more.”
Agnes watched the assembled faces. “Yes?” she said guardedly.
“I know you, er, have only been with us hardly any time but we have decided to, er”—Bucket swallowed, and glanced at the other two for moral support—“let you sing the part of Iodine in tonight’s production of La Triviata.”
“Yes?”
“Um. It isn’t the major role but of course it does include the famous ‘Departure’ aria…”
“Oh. Yes?”
“Er…there is, er…that is, er…” Bucket gave up and looked helplessly at his director of music. “Mr. Salzella?”
Salzella leaned forward. “What in fact we would like you to do…Perdita…is sing the role, indeed, but not, in fact…play the role.”
Agnes listened while they explained. She’d stand in the chorus, just behind Christine. Christine would be told to sing very softly. It had been done dozens of times before, Salzella explained. It was done far more often than the audiences ever realized—when singers had a sore throat, or had completely dried, or had turned up so drunk they could barely stand, or, in one notorious instance many years previously, had died in the interval and subsequently sung their famous aria by means of a broom handle stuck up their back and their jaw operated with a piece of string.
It wasn’t immoral. The show had to go on.
The ring of desperately grinning faces watched her.
I could just walk away, she thought. Walk away from these grinning faces and the mysterious Ghost. They couldn’t stop me.
But there’s nowhere to walk to except back.
“Yes, er, yes,” she said. “I’m very…er…but why do it like this? Couldn’t I simply take her place and sing the part?”
The men looked at one another, and then all started talking at once.
“Yes, but you see, Christine is…has…more stage experience—”
“—technical grasp—”
“—stage presence—”
“—apparent lyrical ability—”
“—fits the costume—”
Agnes looked down at her big hands. She could feel the blush advancing like a barbarian horde, burning everything as it came.
“We would like you, as it were,” said Bucket, “to ghost the part…”
“Ghost?” said Agnes.
“It’s a stage term,” said Salzella.
“Oh, I see,” said Agnes. “Yes. Well, of course. I shall certainly do my best.”
“Jolly good,” said Bucket. “We won’t forget this. And I’m certain a very suitable part for you will come along very soon. See Dr. Undershaft this afternoon and he will take you through the role.”
“Er. I know it quite well, I think,” said Agnes, uncertainly.
“Really? How?”
“I’ve been…taking lessons.”
“That is good, lass,” said Mr. Bucket. “Shows keenness. We’re very impressed. But see Dr. Undershaft in any case…”
Agnes got up and, still looking down, trooped out.
Undershaft sighed and shook his head.
“Poor child,” he said. “Born too late. Opera used to be just about voices. You know, I remember the days of the great sopranos. Dame Violetta Gigli, Dame Clarissa Extendo…whatever became of them, I sometimes wonder.”
“Didn’t the climate change?” said Salzella nastily.
“There goes a figure that should prompt a revival of The Ring of the Nibelungingung,” Undershaft went on. “Now that was an opera.”
“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 Io, Chief of the Gods.”
“Those were the days,” said Undershaft sadly, shaking his head. “We