Agnes had been brought up in the knowledge that a lot of things were wrong. It was wrong to listen at doors, to look people directly in the eye, to talk out of turn, to answer back, to put yourself forward. . .
But behind the walls she could be the Perdita she’d always wanted to be. Perdita didn’t care about anything. Perdita got things done. Perdita could wear anything she wanted. Perdita X Nitt, mistress of the darkness, magdalen of cool, could listen in to other people’s lives. And never, ever have to have a wonderful personality.
Agnes knew she should go back up to her room. Whatever lay in the increasingly shadowy depths was probably something she ought not to find.
Perdita continued downwards. Agnes went along for the ride.
The pre-luncheon drinks were going quite well, Mr Bucket thought. Everyone was making polite conversation and absolutely no one had been killed up to the present moment.
And it had been very gratifying to see the tears of gratitude in Senor Basilica’s eyes when he was told that the cook was preparing a special Brindisian meal, just for him. He’d seemed quite overcome.
It was reassuring that he knew Lady Esmerelda. There was something about the woman that left Mr Bucket terribly perplexed. He was finding it a little difficult to converse with her. As a conversational gambit, ‘Hello, I understand you have a lot of money, can I have some please?’ lacked, he felt, a certain subtlety.
‘So, er, madam,’ he ventured, ‘what brings you to our, er, city?’
‘I thought perhaps I could come and spend some money,’ said Granny. ‘Got rather a lot of it, you know. Keep havin’ to change banks ‘cos they get filled up.’
Somewhere in Bucket’s tortured brain, part of his mind went ‘whoopee’ and clicked its heels.
‘I’m sure if there’s anything I can do-‘ he murmured.
‘As a matter of fact, there is,’ said Granny. ‘I was thinking of-‘
A gong banged.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Bucket. ‘Luncheon is served.’
He extended his arm to Granny, who gave it an odd look before remembering who she was and taking it.
There was a small exclusive dining-room off his office. It contained a table set for five and, looking rather fetching in a waitress’s lacy bonnet, Nanny Ogg.
She bobbed a curtsey.
Enrico Basilica made a tiny strangling noise at the back of his throat.
‘ ‘Scuse me, there’s been a bit of a problem,’ said Nanny.
‘Who’s dead?’ said Bucket.
‘Oh, no one’s dead,’ said Nanny. ‘It’s the dinner, it’s still alive and hangin’ on to the ceiling. And the pasta’s all gone black, see. I said to Mrs Clamp, I said, it may be foreign but I don’t reckon it should be crunchy
‘This is terrible! What a way to treat an honoured guest!’ said Bucket. He turned to the interpreter. ‘Please assure Senor Basilica that we will send out for fresh pasta straight away. What were we having, Mrs Ogg?’
‘Roast mutton with clootie dumplings,’ said Nanny.
Behind the face of Senor Basilica the throat of Henry Slugg made another little growling sound.
‘And there’s some nice slumpie with a knob of butter,’ Nanny went on.
Bucket looked around, puzzled. ‘Is there a dog somewhere in here?’ he said.
‘Well, I for one don’t believe in pandering to singers,’ said Granny Weatherwax. ‘Fancy food, indeed! I never heard the like! Why not give him mutton with the rest of us?’
‘Oh, Lady Esmerelda, that’s hardly a way to treat-‘ Bucket began.
Enrico’s elbow nudged his interpreter, with the special nudge of a man who could see clootie dumplings vanishing into the long grass if he weren’t careful. He rumbled out a very pointed sentence.
‘Senor Basilica says he would be more than happy to taste the indigenous food of Ankh-Morpork,’ said the interpreter.
‘No, we really can’t-‘ Bucket tried again.
‘In fact Senor Basilica insists that he tries the indigenous food of Ankh-Morpork,’ said the interpreter.
‘S’ right. Si,’ said Basilica.
‘Good,’ said Granny. ‘And give him some beer while you’re about it.’ She gave the tenor’s stomach a playful poke, losing her finger down to the second joint. ‘Why, in a day or two I expect you could practically turn him into a native!’
*
The wooden stairs gave way to stone.
Perdita said: He’ll have a vast cave somewhere under the Opera House. There will be hundreds of candles, casting an exciting yet romantic light over the, yes, the lake, and there will be a dinner-table shining with crystal glass and silverware, and of course he will have, yes, a huge organ-
Agnes blushed hotly in the darkness.
-on which, that is to say, he will play in a virtuoso style many operatic classics.
Agnes said: It’ll be damp. There will be rats.
‘Another clootie dumpling, Senior?’ said Nanny Ogg.
‘Mmfmmfmmf!’
‘Take two while you’re about it.’
It was an education watching Enrico Basilica eat. It wasn’t as though he gobbled his food, but he did eat continuously, like a man who intends to go on doing it all day on industrial lines, his napkin tucked neatly into his collar. The fork was loaded while the current consignment was being thoroughly masticated, so that the actual time between mouthfuls was as small as possible. Even Nanny, no stranger to a metabolism going for the burn, was impressed. Enrico Basilica ate like a man freed at last from the tyranny of tomatoes with everything.
‘I’ll order another mint-sauce tanker, shall I?’ she said.
Mr Bucket turned to Granny Weatherwax. ‘You were saying that you might be inclined to patronize our Opera House,’ he murmured.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Granny. ‘Is Senor Basilica going to sing tonight?’
‘Mmfmmf’
‘I hope so,’ muttered Salzella. ‘That or explode.’
‘Then I shall definitely want to be there,’ said Granny. ‘A little more lamb here, my good woman.’
‘Yes ma’am,’ said Nanny Ogg, making a face at the back of Granny’s head.
‘Er. . . seats for tonight, in fact, are-‘ Bucket began.
‘A Box would do me,’ said Granny. ‘I’m not fussy.’
‘In fact, even the Boxes are-‘
‘How about Box Eight? I’ve heard as Box Eight is always empty.’
Bucket’s knife rattled on his plate. ‘Er, Box Eight, Box Eight, you see, we don’t. . .’
‘I was thinking of donating a little something,’ said Granny.
‘But Box Eight, you see, although technically unsold, is. . .’
‘Two thousand dollars was what I had in mind,’ said Granny. ‘Oh, dear me, your waitress has let her dumplings go all over the place. It’s so difficult to get reliable and polite staff these days, ain’t it. . . ?’
Salzella and Bucket stared at one another across the table.
Then Bucket said, ‘Excuse me, my lady, I must just have a brief discussion with my director of music.’
The two men hurried to the far end of the room, where they began to argue in whispers.
‘Two thousand dollars!’ hissed Nanny, watching them.
‘It might not be enough,’ said Granny. ‘They’re both looking very red in the face.’
‘Yes, but two thousand dollars!’
‘It’s only money.’
‘Yes, but it’s only my money, not only your money,’ Nanny pointed out.
‘We witches have always held everything in common, you know that,’ said Granny.
‘Well, yes,’ said Nanny, and once again cut to the heart of the sociopolitical debate. ‘It’s easy to hold everything in common when no one’s got anything.’
‘Why, Gytha Ogg,’ said Granny, ‘I thought you despised riches!’
‘Right, so I’d like to get the chance to despise them up close.’ ,
‘But I knows you, Gytha Ogg. Money’d spoil you.’
‘I’d just like the chance to prove that it wouldn’t, that’s all I’m saying.’
‘Hush, they’re coming back-‘
Mr Bucket approached, smiled uneasily, and sat down. ‘Er,’ he began, ‘it has to be Box Eight, does it? Only we could perhaps persuade someone in one of the other-‘
‘Wouldn’t hear of it,’ said Granny. ‘I’ve heard that there’s no one ever seen in Box Eight.’
‘Er. . . haha. . . it’s laughable, I know, but there are some old theatrical traditions associated with Box Eight,, absolute rubbish of course, but. . .’
He left the ‘but’ hanging there hopefully. It froze in the face of Granny’s stare.
‘You see, it’s haunted,’ he mumbled.
‘Oh lawks,’ said Nanny Ogg, vaguely remembering to stay in character. ‘Another vat of slumpie, Senior Basilica? And how about another quart of beer?’
‘Mmfmmf,’ said the tenor encouragingly, taking time out from his eating to point a fork at his empty mug.
Granny went on staring.
‘Excuse me,’ said Bucket again.
He and Salzella went into another huddle, out of which came sounds like ‘But two thousand dollars! That’s a lot of shoes!’
Bucket surfaced again. His face was grey. Granny’s stare could do that to people.
‘Er. . . because of the danger, er, which of course doesn’t exist, haha, we. . . that is, the management. . . feel it incumbent on us to insist, that is, politely request, that if you do enter Box Eight you do so in company with a. . . man.’