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.' he said.'I'm sorry?''Summon.summon hit me onna head,' said the tenor.'Wanna glassa water pliss.''But you're.just about.to.sing.aren't you?' said Bucket.He grabbed the stunned man by thecollar to pull him closer, but this simply meant that he dragged himself off the floor, bringing hisshoes about level with Basilica's knees.'Tell me.you're out there.on the stage.please!!!'Even in his stunned state, Enrico Basilica a.k.a.Henry Slugg recognized what might be called theessential dichotomy of the statement.He stuck to what he knew.'Summon bashed me inna corridor.' he volunteered.'That's not you out there?'Basilica blinked heavily."M not me?''You're going to sing the famous duet in a moment!!!'Another thought staggered through Basilica's abused skull."M I?' he said."S good.'ll look forwa'to that.Ne'er had a chance to hear me befo'.'He gave a happy little sigh and fell full-length backwards.Bucket leaned against a pillar for support.Then his brow furrowed and, in the best traditions ofthe extended double-take, he stared at the fallen tenor and counted to one on his fingers.Thenhe turned towards the stage and counted to two.He could feel a fourth exclamation mark coming on any time now.The Enrico Basilica on stage turned his mask this way and that.Stage right, Bucket waswhispering to a group of stage-hands.Stage left, André the secret pianist was waiting.A largetroll loomed next to him.The fat red singer walked to centre-stage as the prelude to the duet began.The audience settleddown again.Fun and games among the chorus was all very well-it might even be in the plot-butthis was what they'd paid for.This was what it was all about.Agnes stared at him as Christine walked towards him.Now she could see he wasn't right.Oh, hewas fat, in a pillow-up-your-shirt sort of way, but he didn't move like Basilica.Basilica movedlightly on his feet, as fat men often do, giving the effect of a barely tethered balloon.She glanced at Nanny, who was also watching him carefully.She couldn't see GrannyWeatherwax anywhere.That probably meant she was really close.The expectancy of the audience dragged at them all.Ears opened like petals.The fourth wall ofthe stage, the big black sucking darkness outside, was a well of silence begging to be filled up.Christine was walking towards him quite unconcerned.Christine would walk into a dragon'smouth if it had a sign on it saying 'Totally harmless, I promise you'.at least, if it was printed inlarge, easy-to-understand letters.No one seemed to want to do anything.It was a famous duet.And a beautiful one.Agnes ought to know.She'd been singing it all lastnight.Christine took the false Basilica's hand and, as the opening bars of the duet began, opened hermouth'Stop right there!'Agnes put everything she could into it.The chandelier tinkled.The orchestra went silent in a skid of wheezes and twangs.In a fading of chords and a dying of echoes, the show stopped.Walter Plinge sat in the candlelit gloom under the stage, his hands resting on his lap.It was notoften that Walter Plinge had nothing to do, but, when he did have nothing to do, he did nothing.He liked it down here.It was familiar.The sounds of the opera filtered through.They were muffled,but that didn't matter.Walter knew all the words, every note of music, every step of every dance.He needed the actual performances only in the same way that a clock needs its tiny littleescapement mechanism; it kept him ticking nicely.Mrs Plinge had taught him to read using the old programmes.That's how he knew he was part ofit all.But he knew that anyway.He'd cut what teeth he had on a helmet with horns on it.The firstbed he could remember was the very same trampoline used by Dame Gigli in the infamousBouncing Gigli incident.Walter Plinge lived opera.He breathed its songs, painted its scenery, lit its fires, washed its floorsand shined its shoes.Opera filled up places in Walter Plinge that might otherwise have beenempty.And now the show had stopped.But all the energy, all the raw pent-up emotion that is dammed up behind a show-all thescreaming, the fears, the hopes, the desires-flew on, like a body hurled from the wreckage.The terrible momentum smashed into Walter Plinge like a tidal wave hitting a teacup.It propelled him out of his chair and flung him against the crumbling scenery.He slid down and rolled into a twitching heap on the floor, clapping his hands over his ears to shutout the sudden, unnatural silence.A shape stepped out of the shadows.Granny Weatherwax had never heard of psychiatry and would have had no truck with it even ifshe had.There are some arts too black even for a witch.She practised headology-practised, infact, until she was very good at it.And though there may be some superficial similarities betweena psychiatrist and a headologist, there is a huge practical difference.A psychiatrist, dealing with aman who fears he is being followed by a large and terrible monster, will endeavour to convincehim that monsters don't exist.Granny Weatherwax would simply give him a chair to stand on anda very heavy stick.'Stand up, Walter Plinge,' she said.Walter stood up, staring straight ahead of him.'It's stopped! It's stopped! It's bad luck to stop theshow!' he said hoarsely.'Someone better start it again,' said Granny.'You can't stop the show! It's the show!''Yes.Someone better start it again, Walter Plinge.'Walter didn't appear to notice her.He pawed aimlessly through his stack of music and ran hishands through the drifts of old programmes.One hand touched the keyboard of the harmoniumand played a few neurotic notes.'Wrong to stop.Show must go on.''Mr Salzella is trying to stop the show, isn't he, Walter?'Walter's head shot up.He stared straight ahead of him [ Pobierz caÅ‚ość w formacie PDF ]