Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [38]
“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 shriveled 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, eying 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 lo 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,