Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [7]
“I’ve been through the mill, I have,” Bucket began, “and I made myself what I am today—”
Self-raising flour? thought Salzella.
“—but I have to, er, declare a bit of a financial interest. Her dad did, er, in fact, er, lend me a fair whack of money to help me buy this place, and he made a heartfelt fatherly request in regard to his daughter. If I bring it to mind correctly, his exact words, er, were: ‘Don’t make me have to break your legs.’ I don’t expect you artistes to understand. It’s a business thing. The gods help those who help themselves, that’s my motto.”
Salzella stuck his hands in his waistcoat pockets, leaned back and started to whistle softly.
“I see,” said Undershaft. “Well, it’s not the first time it’s happened. Normally it’s a ballerina, of course.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” said Bucket hurriedly. “It’s just that with the money comes this girl Christine. And you have to admit, she does look good.”
“Oh, very well,” said Salzella. “It’s your Opera House, I’m sure. And now…Perdita…?”
They smiled at one another.
“Perdita!” said Bucket, relieved to get the Christine business over so that he could go back to being bluff and honest again.
“Perdita X,” Salzella corrected him.
“What will these girls think of next?”
“I think she will prove an asset,” said Undershaft.
“Yes, if we ever do that opera with the elephants.”
“But the range…what a range she’s got…”
“Quite. I saw you staring.”
“I meant her voice, Salzella. She will add body to the chorus.”
“She is a chorus. We could sack everyone else. Ye gods, she can even sing in harmony with herself. But can you see her in a major role?”
“Good grief, no. We’d be a laughingstock.”
“Quite so. She seems quite…amenable, though.”
“Wonderful personality, I thought. And good hair, of course.”
She’d never expected it to be this easy…
Agnes listened in a kind of trance while people talked at her about wages (very little), the need for training (a lot), and accommodation (members of the chorus lived in the Opera House itself, up near the roof).
And then, more or less, she was forgotten about. She stood and watched at the side of the stage while a group of ballet hopefuls were put through their delicate paces.
“You do have an amazing voice,” said someone behind her.
She turned. As Nanny Ogg had once remarked, it was an education seeing Agnes turn around. She was light enough on her feet but the inertia of outlying parts meant that bits of Agnes were still trying to work out which way to face for some time afterward.
The girl who had spoken to her was slightly built, even by ordinary standards, and had gone to some pains to make herself look even thinner. She had long blond hair and the happy smile of someone who is aware that she is thin and has long blond hair.
“My name’s Christine!” she said. “Isn’t this exciting?!”
And she had the type of voice that can exclaim a question. It seemed to have an excited little squeak permanently screwed to it.
“Er, yes,” said Agnes.
“I’ve been waiting for this day for years!”
Agnes had been waiting for it for about twenty-four hours, ever since she’d seen the notice outside the Opera House. But she’d be danged if she’d say that.
“Where did you train?!” said Christine. “I spent three years with Mme. Venturi at the Quirm Conservatory!”
“Um. I was…” Agnes hesitated, trying out the upcoming sentence in her head. “…I trained with…Dame Ogg. But she hasn’t got a conservatory, because it’s hard to get the glass up the mountain.”
Christine didn’t appear to want to question this. Anything she found too difficult to understand, she ignored.
“The money in the chorus isn’t very good, is it?!” she said.
“No.” It was less than you’d get for scrubbing floors. The reason was that, when you advertised a dirty floor, hundreds