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'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 scenebuilders and painters and all those other employees who could be spared for the evening. At the end of the line, about fifty per cent 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 orang- utan, 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 lunchtime 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 a pound of shelled peanuts was handsome pay by any ape's standards. The human mind was a deep and abiding mystery and the Librarian was glad he didn't have one any more. He inspected the bow-tie. As André had foreseen, it presented certain problems to someone who'd been behind the door when the necks were handed out. Granny Weatherwax stopped in front of Box Eight and looked around. Mrs Plinge wasn't visible. She unlocked the door with what was probably the most expensive key in the world. 'And you behave yourself,' she said. 'Ye-ess, Gran-ny,' moaned Greebo. 'No going to the lavatory in the corners.'
'No, Gran-ny.' Granny glared at her escort. Even in a bow-tie, even with his fine moustaches waxed, he was still a cat. You just couldn't trust them to do anything except turn up for meals. The inside of the Box was rich red plush, picked out with gilt decoration. It was like a soft little private room. There were a couple of fat pillars on either side, supporting part of the weight of the balcony above. She looked over the edge and noted the drop to the Stalls below. Of course, someone could probably climb in from one of the adjacent Boxes, but that'd be in full view of the audience and would be bound to cause some comment. She peeked under the seats. She stood on a chair and felt around the ceiling, which had gilt stars on it. She inspected the carpet minutely. She smiled at what she saw. She'd been prepared to bet that she knew how the Ghost got in, and now she was certain. Greebo spat on his hand and tried ineffectually to groom his hair. 'You sit quiet and eat your fish eggs,' said Granny. 'Ye-ess, Gran-ny.'
'And watch the opera, it's good for you.'
'Ye-ess, Gran-ny.'
'Evenin', Mrs Phnge!' said Nanny cheerfully. 'Ain't this excitin'? The buzz of the audience, the air of expectation, the blokes in the orchestra findin' somewhere to hide the bottles and tryin' to remember how to play. . . all the exhilaration an' drama of the operatic experience waitin' to unfold. . .'
'Oh, hello, Mrs Ogg,' said Mrs Plinge. She was polishing glasses in her tiny bar. 'Certainly very packed,' said Nanny. She looked sidelong at the old woman.[9] 'Every seat sold, I heard.' This didn't achieve the expected reaction. 'Shall I give you a hand cleaning out Box Eight?' she went on. 'Oh, I cleaned it out last week,' said Mrs Plinge. She held a glass up to the light. 'Yes, but I heard her ladyship is very particular,' said Nanny. 'Very picky about things.'
'What ladyship?'
'Mr Bucket has sold Box Eight, see,' said Nanny. She heard a faint tinkle of glass. Ah. Mrs Plinge appeared at the doorway of her nook. 'But he can't do that!'
'It's his Opera House,' said Nanny, watching Mrs Plinge carefully. 'I suppose he thinks he can.'
'It's the Ghost's Box!' Opera-goers were appearing along the corridor. 'I shouldn't think he'd mind just for one night,' said Nanny Ogg. 'The show must go on, eh? Are you all right, Mrs Plinge?'
'I think I'd just better go and-' she began, stepping forward. 'No, you have a good sit down and a rest,' said Nanny, pressing her back with gentle but irresistible force. 'But I should go and-'
'And what, Mrs Plinge? said Nanny. The old woman went pale. Granny Weatherwax could be nasty, but then nastiness was always in the window: you were aware that it might turn up on the menu. Sharpness from Nanny Ogg, though, was like being bitten by a big friendly dog. It was all the worse for being unexpected. 'I daresay you wanted to go and have a word with somebody, did you, Mrs Plinge?' said Nanny softly. 'Someone who might be a little shocked to find his Box full, perhaps? I reckon I could put a name to that someone, Mrs Plinge. Now, if-' The old woman's hand came up holding a bottle of champagne and then came down hard in an effort to launch the SS Gytha Ogg on to the seas of unconsciousness. The bottle bounced. Then Mrs Plinge leapt past and scuttled away, her polished little black boots twinkling. Nanny Ogg caught the doorframe and swayed a little while blue and purple fireworks went off behind her eyes. But there was dwarf in the Ogg ancestry, and that meant a skull you could go mining with. She stared muzzily at the bottle. 'Year of the Insulted Goat,' she mumbled. '
'S a good year.' Then consciousness gained the upper hand. She grinned as she galloped after the retreating figure. In Mrs Plinge's place she'd have done exactly the same thing, except a good deal harder. Agnes waited with the others for the curtain to go up. She was one of the crowd of fifty or so townspeople who would hear Enrico Basilica sing of his success as a master of disguise, it being a vital part of the entire process that, while the chorus would listen to expositions of the plot, and even sing along, they would suffer an instant lapse of memory afterwards so that later unmaskings would come as a surprise.
For some reason, without any word being spoken, as many people as possible seemed to have acquired very broad-brimmed hats. Those who hadn't were taking every opportunity to glance upwards. Beyond the curtain, Herr Trubelmacher launched the overture. Enrico, who had been chewing a chicken leg, carefully put the bone on a plate and nodded. The waiting stage-hand dashed off. The opera had begun. Mrs Plinge reached the bottom of the grand staircase and hung on to the banister, panting. The opera had started. There was no one around. And no sounds of pursuit, either. She straightened up, and tried to get her breath back. 'Coo-ee, Mrs Plinge!' Nanny Ogg, waving the champagne bottle like a club, was already travelling at speed when she hit the first turn in the banister, but she leaned like a professional and kept her balance as she went into the straight, and then tilted again for the next curve. . . . . .which left only the big gilt statue at the bottom. It is the fate of all banisters worth sliding down that there is something nasty waiting at the far end. But Nanny Ogg's response was superb. She swung a leg over as she hurtled downwards and pushed herself off, her nailed boots leaving grooves in the marble as she spun to a halt in front of the old woman. Mrs Plinge was lifted off her feet and carried into the shadows behind another statue. 'You don't want to try and outrun me, Mrs Plinge,' Nanny whispered, as she clamped a hand firmly over Mrs Plinge's mouth. 'You just want to wait here quietly with me. And don't go thinking I'm nice. I'm only nice compared to Esme, but so is practic'ly everyone. . .'
'Mmf!' With one hand tightly around Mrs Plinge's arm and another over her mouth, Nanny peered round the statue. She could hear the singing, far off: Nothing else happened. After a while, she started to fret. Perhaps he'd taken fright. Perhaps Mrs Plinge had left him some sort of signal. Perhaps he'd decided that the world was currently too dangerous for Ghosts, although Nanny doubted he could ever decide that. . . At this rate the first act would be over before- A door opened somewhere. A lanky figure in a black suit and a ridiculous beret crossed the foyer and went up the stairs. At the top, they saw it turn in the direction of the Boxes and disappear. 'Y'see,' said Nanny, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs, 'the thing about Esme is, she's stupid. . .'
'Mmf?'
