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'Cos I reckon he'd like to see the show stopped. The show must go on, eh? Isn't that what you believe? Could he have got out of the building?'
'I sent Corporal Nobbs to the stage-door and Sergeant Detritus is in the foyer,' said André. 'When it comes to standing in doorways, they're among the best.'
'Excuse me, what's happening?' said Bucket. 'He could be anywhere!' said Agnes. 'There're hundreds of hiding-places!'
'Who?' said Bucket. 'How about these cellars everyone talks about?' said Granny. 'Where?'
'There's only one entrance,' said André. 'He's not stupid.'
'He can't get into the cellars,' said Nanny. 'He ran off? Probably in a cupboard somewhere by now!'
'No, he'll stay where there's crowds,' said Granny. 'That's what I'd do.'
'What?' said Bucket. 'Could he have got into the audience from here?' said Nanny. 'Who?' said Bucket. Granny jerked a thumb towards the stage. 'He's somewhere on there. I can feel him.'
'Then we'll wait until he comes off!'
'Eighty people coming off stage all at once?' said Agnes. 'Don't you know what it's like when the curtain goes down?'
'And we don't want to stop the show,' Granny mused. 'No, we don't want to stop the show,' said Bucket, grasping at a familiar idea as it swept by on a tide of incomprehensibility. 'Or give people their money back in any fashion whatsoever. What are we talking about, does anyone know?'
'The show must go on. . .' murmured Granny Weatherwax, still staring out of the wings. 'Things have to end right. This is an opera house. They should end. . . operatically. . .' Nanny Ogg hopped up and down excitedly. 'Oo, I know what you're thinking, Esme!' she squeaked. 'Oo, yes! Can we? Just so's I can say I done it! Eh? Can we? Go on! Let's!' * * * Henry Lawsy peered closely at his opera notes. He had not, of course, fully understood the events of the first two acts, but knew that this was perfectly OK because one would have to be quite naive to expect good sense as well as good songs. Anyway, it would all be explained in the last act, which was the Masked Ball in the Duke's Palace. It would almost certainly turn out that the woman one of the men had been rather daringly courting would be his own wife, but so cunningly disguised by a very small mask that her husband wouldn't have spotted that she wore the same clothes and had the same hairstyle. Someone's serving man would turn out to be someone else's daughter in disguise; someone would die of something that didn't prevent them from singing about it for several minutes; and the plot would be resolved by some coincidences which, in real life, would be as likely as a cardboard hammer. He didn't know any of this for a fact. He was making a calculated guess. In the meantime Act Three opened with the traditional ballet, this time apparently a country dance by the Maidens of the Court. Henry was aware of muffled laughter around him. This was because, if you ran an eye at head-height along the row of ballerinas as they tripped, arm in arm, on to the stage, there was an apparent gap. This was only filled if the gaze went downwards a foot or two, to a small fat ballerina in a huge grin, an overstretched tutu, long white drawers and. . . boots. Henry stared. They were big boots. They moved back and forth at an astonishing speed. The satin slippers of the other dancers twinkled as they drifted across the floor, but the boots flashed and clattered like a tap dancer afraid of falling into the sink. The pirouettes were novel, too. While the other dancers whirled like snowflakes, the little fat one spun like a top and moved across the floor like one too, bits of her anatomy trying to achieve local orbit. Around Henry members of the audience were whispering to one another. 'Oh yes,' he heard someone declare, 'they tried this in Pseudopolis. . .' His mother nudged him. 'This supposed to happen?'
'Er. . . I don't think so. . .'
' 'S bloody good, though! A good laugh!' As the fat ballerina collided with a donkey in evening dress she staggered and grabbed at his mask, which came off. . . Herr Trubelmacher, the conductor, froze in horror and astonishment. Around him the orchestra rattled to a standstill, except for the tuba player -oom-BAH-oom-BAH-oom-BAH-
-who had memorized his score years ago and never took much interest in current affairs. Two figures rose up right in front of Trubelmacher. A hand grabbed his baton. 'Sorry, sir,' said André, 'but the show must go on, yes?' He handed the stick to the other figure. 'There you are,' he said. 'And don't let them stop.'
'Ook!' The Librarian carefully lifted Herr Trubelmacher aside with one hand, licked the baton thoughtfully, and then focused his gaze on the tuba player. -oom-BAH-oom-BAHhhh. . . oom. . . om. . . The tuba player tapped a trombonist on the shoulder. 'hey, Frank, there's a monkey where old troublemaker should be-'
'shutupshutupshutup!' Satisfied, the orang-utan raised his arms. The orchestra looked up. And then looked up a bit more. No conductor in musical history, not even the one who once fried and ate the piccolo- player's liver on a cymbal for one wrong note too many, not even the one who skewered three troublesome violinists on his baton, not even the one who made really hurtful sarcastic remarks in a loud voice, was ever the focus of such reverential attention. On stage, Nanny Ogg took advantage of the hush to pull the head off a frog. 'Madam!'
'Sorry, thought you might be someone else. . .' The long arms dropped. The orchestra, in one huge muddled chord, slammed back into life. The dancers, after a moment's confusion during which Nanny Ogg took the opportunity to decapitate a clown and a phoenix, tried to continue. The chorus watched in bemusement. Christine felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see Agnes. 'Perdita! Where have you been!?' she hissed. 'It's nearly time for my duet with Enrico!'
'You've got to help!' hissed Agnes. But down in her soul Perdita said: Enrico, eh? It's Senor Basilica to everyone else. . . 'Help you what!?' said Christine. 'Take everyone's masks off!' Christine's forehead wrinkled beautifully. 'That's not supposed to happen until the end of the opera, is it?'
'Er. . . it's all been changed!' said Agnes urgently. She turned to a nobleman in a zebra mask and tugged it desperately. The singer underneath glared at her. 'Sorry!' she whispered. 'I thought you were someone else!'
'We're not supposed to take them off until the end!'
'It's been changed!'
'Has it? No one told me!' A short-necked giraffe next to him leaned sideways. 'What's that?'
'The big unmasking scene is now, apparently!'
'No one told me!'
'Yes, but when does anyone ever tell us anything? We're only the chorus. . . here, why is old Troublemaker wearing a monkey mask. . . ?' Nanny Ogg pirouetted past, cannoned into an elephant in evening dress and beheaded him by the trunk. She whispered: 'We're looking for the Ghost, see?'
'But. . . the Ghost is dead, isn't he?'
'Hard things to kill, ghosts,' said Nanny.
The whisper spread outwards from that point. There is nothing like a chorus for rumour. People who would not believe a High Priest if he said the sky was blue, and was able to produce signed affidavits to this effect from his white-haired old mother and three Vestal virgins, would trust just about anything whispered darkly behind their hand by a complete stranger in a pub. A cockatoo spun around and pulled the mask off a parrot. . . Bucket sobbed. This was worse than the day the buttermilk exploded. This was worse than the flash heat wave that had led a whole warehouse full of Lancre Extra Strong to riot. The opera had turned into a pantomime. The audience was laughing. About the only character still with a mask on was Senor Basilica, who was watching the struggling chorus with as much aloof amazement as his own mask could convey -and this, amazingly enough, was quite a lot. 'Oh, no. . .' moaned Bucket. 'We'll never live it down! He'll never come back! It'll be all over the opera circuit and no one will ever want to come here ever again!'
'Ever again wha'?' mumbled a voice behind him. Bucket turned. 'Oh, Senor Basilica,' he said. 'Didn't see you there. . . I was just thinking, I do hope you don't think this is typical!' Senor Basilica stared through him, swaying slightly from side to side. He was wearing a torn shirt. 'Summon. . .' he said. 'I'm sorry?'
