Soul Music - Terry Pratchett [73]
Buddy entered and sat down in the corner, leaning against the wall.
And Dibbler followed. “Well, what can I say? What can I say?” he said.
“Don’t ask us,” said Cliff from his prone position. “How should we know?”
“That was magnificent,” said Dibbler. “What’s up with the dwarf? Is he drowning?”
Glod reached out an arm, without looking, smashed the top off another bottle of beer and poured it over his head.
“Mr. Dibbler?” said Cliff.
“Yes?”
“I think we want to talk. Just us, like. Der band. If you don’t mind.”
Dibbler looked from one to the other. Buddy was staring at the wall. Glod was making bubbling noses. Cliff was still on the floor.
“Okay,” he said, and then added brightly. “Buddy? The free performance…great idea. I’ll start organizing it right away and you can do it just as soon as you get back from your tour. Right. Well, I’ll just—”
He turned to leave and walked into Cliff’s arm, which was suddenly blocking the doorway.
“Tour? What tour?”
Dibbler backed off a little. “Oh, a few places. Quirm, Pseudopolis, Sto Lat—” He looked around at them. “Didn’t you want that?”
“We’ll talk about dat later,” said Cliff.
He pushed Dibbler out of the door and slammed it shut.
Beer dripped off Glod’s beard.
“Tour? Three more nights of this?”
“What’s the problem?” said Asphalt. “It was great! Everyone was cheering. You did two hours! I had to keep kickin’ ’em off the stage! I never felt so—”
He stopped.
“That’s it, really,” said Cliff. “The fing is, I go on dat stage, I sits down not knowing even what we’re goin’ to do, next minute Buddy plays something on his…on dat thing, next I’m goin’ bam-Bam-chcha-chcha-BAM-bam. I don’t know what I’m playing. It just comes in my head and down my arms.”
“Yes,” said Glod. “Me too. Seems to me I’m getting stuff out of that horn I never put in there.”
“And it ain’t like proper playing,” said Cliff. “That’s what I’m saying. It’s more like being played.”
“You’ve been in show business a long time, right?” said Glod to Asphalt.
“Yep. Been there, done it. Seen ’em all.”
“You ever seen an audience like that?”
“I’ve seen ’em throw flowers and cheer at the Opera House—”
“Ha! Just flowers? Some woman threw her…clothing at the stage!”
“Dat’s right! Landed on my head!”
“And when Miss VaVa Voom did the Feather Dance down at the Skunk Club in Brewer Street the whole audience rushed the stage when she was down to the last feather—”
“That was like this, was it?”
“No,” the troll admitted. “I got to say it, I ain’t never seen an audience so…hungry. Not even for Miss VaVa Voom, and they were pretty damn peckish then, I can tell you. Of course, no one threw underwear onto the stage. She used to throw it off the stage.”
“Dere’s something else,” said Cliff. “Dere’s four people in dis room and only three of dem’s talking.”
Buddy looked up.
“The music’s important,” he mumbled.
“It ain’t music,” said Glod. “Music don’t do this to people. It don’t make them feel like they’ve been put through a wringer. I was sweating so much I’m going to have to change my vest any day now.” He rubbed his nose. “Also, I looked at that audience, and I thought: They paid money to get in here. I bet it came to more than ten dollars.”
Asphalt held up a slip of paper.
“Found this ticket on the floor,” he said.
Glod read it.
“A dollar-fifty?” he said. “Six hundred people at a dollar-fifty each? That…that’s four hundred dollars!”
“Nine hundred,” said Buddy, in the same flat tone. “But the money isn’t important.”
“The money’s not important? You keep on saying that! What kind of musician are you?”
There was still a muted roar from outside.
“You want to go back to playing for half a dozen people in some cellar somewhere after this?” said Buddy. “Who’s the most famous horn player there ever was, Glod?”
“Brother Charnel,” said the dwarf promptly. “Everyone knows that. He stole the altar gold from the Temple of Offler and had it made into a horn and played magical music until the gods caught up with him and pulled his—”
“Right,” said Buddy.