‘Help me to do what?!’
‘Don’t you want to be the best singer in the opera?’
‘Oh, Perdita is a lot better than me!!’
There was silence for a moment, and then the voice said: ‘But while I cannot teach her to look and move like you, I can teach you to sing like her.’
Agnes stared into the darkness, shock and humiliation rising from her like steam.
‘Tomorrow you will sing the part of Iodine. But I will teach you how to sing it perfectly. . .’
Next morning the witches had the interior of the coach almost to themselves. News like Greebo gets around. But Henry Slugg was there, if that was indeed his name, sitting next to a very well-dressed, thin little man.
‘Well, here we are again, then,’ said Nanny Ogg. Henry smiled nervously.
‘That was some good singing last night,’ Nanny went on.
Henry’s face set in a good-natured grimace. In his eyes, terror waved a white flag.
‘I am afraid Senor Basilica doesn’t speak Morporkian, ma’am,’ said the thin man. ‘But I will translate for you, if you like.’
‘What?’ said Nanny. ‘Then how come- Ow!’
‘Sorry,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘My elbow must have slipped.’
Nanny Ogg rubbed her side. ‘I was saying,’ she said, ‘that he was- Ow!’
‘Dear me, I seem to have done it again,’ said Granny. ‘This gentleman was telling us that his friend doesn’t speak our language, Gytha.’
‘Eh? But-What? Oh. But- Ah. Really? Oh. All right,’ said Nanny. ‘Oh, yes. Eats our pies, though, when- Ow!’
‘Excuse my friend, it’s her time of life. She gets confused,’ said Granny. ‘We did enjoy his singing. Heard him through the wall.’
‘You were very fortunate,’ said the thin man primly. ‘Sometimes people have to wait years to hear Senor Basilica-‘
‘probably waiting for him to finish his dinner‘ a voice muttered.
‘-in fact, at La Scalda in Genua last month his singing made ten thousand people shed tears.’
‘hah, I can do that, I don’t see there’s anything special about that‘
Granny’s eyes hadn’t left Henry ‘Senor Basilica’ Slugg’s face. He had the expression of a man whose profound relief was horribly tempered by a dread that it wouldn’t last very long.
‘Senor Basilica’s fame has spread far and wide,’ said the manager primly.
‘-just like Senior Basilica,’ muttered Nanny. ‘On other people’s pies, I expect. Oh, yes, too posh for us now, just because he’s the only man you could find on an atlas-Ow!’
‘Well, well,’ said Granny, smiling in a way that everyone except Nanny Ogg would think of as innocent. ‘It’s nice and warm in Genua. I expect Senor Basilica really misses his home. And what do you do, young sir?’
‘I am his manager and translator. Er. You have the advantage of me, ma’am.’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Granny nodded.
‘We have some good singers where we come from too,’ said Nanny Ogg, rebelliously.
‘Really?’ said the manager. ‘And where do you ladies come from?’
‘Lancre.’
The man politely endeavoured to position Lancre on his mental map of great centres of music. ‘Do you have a conservatory there?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Nanny Ogg stoutly, and then, just to make sure, she added, ‘You should see the size of my tomatoes.’
Granny rolled her eyes. ‘Gytha, you haven’t got a conservatory. It’s just a big windowsill.’
‘Yes, but it catches the sun nearly all day – Ow. . .’
‘I expect Senor Basilica is going to Ankh-Morpork?’ said Granny.
‘We,’ said the manager, primly, ‘have allowed the Opera House to engage us for the rest of the season-‘
His voice faltered. He’d looked up at the luggage rack. ‘What’s that?’
Granny glanced up. ‘Oh, that’s Greebo,’ she said.
‘And Mister Basilica’s not to eat him,’ said Nanny.
‘What is it?’
‘He’s a cat.’
‘It’s grinning at me.’ The manager shifted uneasily. ‘And I can smell something,’ he said.
‘ ‘S funny,’ said Nanny. ‘I can’t smell a thing.’
There was a change in the sound of the hooves outside, and the coach lurched as it slowed.
‘Ah,’ said the manager awkwardly, ‘I. . . er. . .I see we’re stopping to change horses. It’s a, a nice day. I think I may just, er, see if there’s room on the seats outside.’
He left when the coach stopped. When it started again, a few minutes later, he hadn’t come back.
‘Well, well,’ said Granny, as they lurched away again, ‘it seems there’s just you and me, Gytha. And Senor Basilica, who doesn’t speak our language. Does he, Mr Henry Slugg?’
Henry Slugg took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. ‘Ladies! Dear ladies! I beg you, for pity’s sake. . .’
‘Have you done anything bad, Mr Slugg?’ said Nanny. ‘Took advantage of women who dint want to be took advantage of? Stole? (Apart from lead on roofs and other stuff people wouldn’t miss.) Done any murders of anyone who dint deserve it?’
‘No.!’
‘He tellin’ the truth, Esme?’
Henry writhed under Granny Weatherwax’s stare.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, well, that’s all right, then,’ said Nanny. ‘I understand. I don’t have to pay taxes myself, but I know all about people not wantin’ to.’
‘Oh, it’s not that, I assure you,’ said Henry. ‘I have people to pay my taxes for me. . .’
‘That’s a good trick,’ said Nanny.
‘Mr Slugg’s got a different trick,’ said Granny. ‘I reckon I know the trick. It’s like sugar and water.’
Henry waved his hands uncertainly. ‘It’s just that if they knew. . .’ he began.
‘Everything’s better if it comes from a long way away. That’s the secret,’ said Granny.
‘It’s. . . yes, that’s part of it,’ said Henry. ‘I mean, no one wants to listen to a Slugg.’
‘Where’re you from, Henry?’ said Nanny.
‘Really from,’ said Granny.
‘I grew up in Rookery Yard in the Shades. They’re in Ankh-Morpork,’ said Henry. ‘It was a terrible rough place. There were only three ways out. You could sing your way out or you could fight your way out.’
‘What was the third way?’ said Nanny.
‘Oh, you could go down that little alleyway into Shamlegger Street and then cut down into Treacle Mine Road,’ said Henry. ‘But no one ever amounted to anything who went that way.’
He sighed. ‘I made a few coppers singing in taverns and suchlike,’ he said, ‘but when I tried for anything better they said “What is your name?” and I said “Henry Slugg” and they’d laugh. I thought of changing my name, but everyone in Ankh-Morpork knew who I was. And no one wanted to listen to anyone called plain Henry Slugg.’
Nanny nodded. ‘It’s like with conjurers,’ she said. ‘They’re never called Fred Wossname. It’s always something like The Great Astoundo, Fresh From the Court of the King of Klatch, and Gladys.’
‘And everyone takes notice,’ said Granny, ‘and are always careful not to ask themselves: if he’s come from the King of Klatch, why’s he doing card tricks here in Slice, population seven.’
‘The trick is to make sure that everywhere you go, you are from somewhere else,’ said Henry. ‘And then I was famous, but. . .’
‘You’d got stuck as Enrico,’ said Granny.
He nodded. ‘I was only going to do it to make some money. I was going to come back and marry my little Angeline-‘
‘Who was she?’ said Granny.
‘Oh, a girl I grew up with,’ said Henry, vaguely.
‘Sharing the same gutter in the back streets of Ankh-Morpork, kind of thing?’ said Nanny, in an understanding voice.
‘Gutter? In those days you had to put your name down and wait five years for a gutter,’ said Henry. ‘We thought people in gutters were nobs. We shared a drain. With two other families. And a man who juggled eels.’
He sighed. ‘But I moved on, and then there was always somewhere else to go, and they liked me in Brindisi. . . and. . . and. . .’
He blew his nose on the handkerchief, carefully folded it up, and produced another one from his pocket.
‘I don’t mind the pasta and the squid,’ he said. ‘Well, not much. . . But you can’t get a .decent pint for love nor money and they put olive oil on everything and tomatoes give me a rash and there isn’t what I’d call a good hard cheese in the whole country.’
He dabbed at his face with the handkerchief.
‘And people are so kind,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d get a few beefsteaks when I travelled but, wherever I go, they do pasta especially for me. In tomato sauce! Sometimes they fry it! And what they do to the squid. . .’ He shuddered. ‘Then they all grin and watch me eat it. They think I enjoy it! What I’d give for a plate of nice roast mutton with clootie dumplings. . .’
‘Why don’t you say?’ said Nanny.
He shrugged. ‘Enrico Basilica eats pasta,’ he said. ‘There’s not much I can do about it now.’