Maskerade - Terry Pratchett [84]
“It’s a pretty big one. What’s holding it up?”
“I’m sure they’ve got special ropes and things, mother.”
“Looks a bit dangerous, to my mind.”
“I’m sure it’s absolutely safe, mother.”
“What do you know about chandeliers?”
“I’m sure people wouldn’t come into the Opera House if there was any chance of a chandelier dropping on their heads, mother,” said Henry, trying to read his book.
Il Truccatore, The Master of Disguise. Il Truccatore (ten.), a mysterious nobleman, causes scandal in the city when he woos high-born ladies while disguised as their husbands. However, Laura (sop.), the new bride of Capriccio (bar.), refuses to give in to his blandishments—
Henry put a bookmark in the book, took a smaller book from his pocket, and carefully looked up “blandishments.” He was moving in a world he wasn’t quite sure of; embarrassment lay waiting at every turn, and he wasn’t going to get caught out over a word. Henry lived his life in permanent dread of Being Asked Questions Later.
—and with the help of his servant Wingie (ten.) he adopts a subterfuge—
The dictionary came out again for a moment.
—culminating—
And again.
—in the scene at the famous Masked Ball at the Duke’s Palace. But Il Truccatore has not reckoned with his old adversary the Count de—
“Adversary”…Henry sighed, and reached for his pocket.
Curtain up in five minutes…
Salzella reviewed his troops. They consisted of scene builders and painters and all those other employees who could be spared for the evening. At the end of the line, about fifty percent of Walter Plinge had managed to stand to attention.
“Now, you all know your positions,” said Salzella. “And if you see anything, anything at all, you are to let me know at once. Do you understand?”
“Mr. Salzella!”
“Yes, Walter?”
“We mustn’t interrupt the opera Mr. Salzella!”
Salzella shook his head. “People will understand, I’m sure—”
“Show must go on Mr. Salzella!”
“Walter, you will do what you’re told!”
Someone raised a hand. “He’s got a point, though, Mr. Salzella…”
Salzella rolled his eyes. “Just catch the Ghost,” he said. “If we can do it without a lot of shouting, that’s good. Of course I don’t want to stop the show.” He saw them relax.
A deep chord rolled out over the stage.
“What the hell was that?”
Salzella strode behind the stage and was met by André, looking excited.
“What’s going on?”
“We repaired it, Mr. Salzella! Only…well, he doesn’t want to give up the seat…”
The Librarian nodded at the director of music. Salzella knew the orangutan, and among the things he knew was that, if the Librarian wanted to sit somewhere, then that was where he sat. But he was a first-class organist, Salzella had to admit. His lunch-time recitals in the Great Hall of Unseen University were extremely popular, especially since the University’s organ had every single sound-effect that Bloody Stupid Johnson’s inverted genius had been able to contrive. No one would have believed, before a pair of simian hands had worked on the project, that something like Doinov’s romantic Prelude in G could be rescored for Whoopee Cushion and Squashed Rabbits.
“There’s the overtures,” said André, “and the ballroom scene…”
“At least get him a bow-tie,” said Salzella.
“No one can see him, Mr. Salzella, and he hasn’t really got much of a neck…”
“We do have standards, André.”
“Yes, Mr. Salzella.”
“Since you seem to have been relieved of employment this evening, then perhaps you could help us apprehend the Ghost.”
“Certainly, Mr. Salzella.”
“Fetch him a tie, then, and come with me.”
A little later, left to himself, the Librarian opened his copy of the score and placed it carefully on the stand.
He reached down under the seat and pulled out a large brown paper bag of peanuts. He wasn’t entirely sure why André, having talked him into playing the organ this evening, had told the other man that it was because he, the Librarian, wouldn’t budge. In fact, he’d got some interesting cataloguing to do and had been looking forward to it. Instead, he seemed to be here for the night, although