but it wasnât the name of Henry Slugg.
âWhoâs Enrico Basilica?â said Nanny Ogg.
âDonât know,â said Granny. âMaybe heâs the person Mr Sluggâs afraid of.â
The coaching inn was a run-down shack, with only two bedrooms for guests. As helpless old ladies travelling alone, the witches got one, simply because all hell would have been let loose if they hadnât.
Mr Bucket looked pained.
âI may just be a big man in cheese to you,â he said, âyou may think Iâm just some hard-headed businessman who wouldnât know culture if he found it floating in his tea, but I have been a patron of theopera here and elsewhere for many years. I can hum nearly the whole ofââ
âI am sure youâve seen a lot of opera,â said Salzella. âBut ⦠how much do you know about production?â
âIâve been behind the scenes in lots of theatresââ
âOh, theatre ,â said Salzella. âTheatre doesnât even approach it. Opera isnât theatre with singing and dancing. Operaâs opera . You might think a production like Lohenshaak is full of passion, but itâs a sandpit of toddlers compared to what goes on behind the scenes. The singers all loathe the sight of one another, the chorus despises the singers, they both hate the orchestra, and everyone fears the conductor; the staff on one prompt side wonât talk to the staff on the opposite prompt side, the dancers are all crazed from hunger in any case, and thatâs only the start of it, because what is reallyââ
There was a series of knocks at the door. They were painfully irregular, as if the knocker were having to concentrate quite hard.
âCome in, Walter,â said Salzella.
Walter Plinge shuffled in, a pail dangling at the end of each arm. âCome to fill your coalscuttle Mr Bucket!â
Bucket waved a hand vaguely, and turned back to the director of music. âYou were saying?â
Salzella stared at Walter as the man carefully piled lumps of coal in the scuttle, one at a time.
âSalzella?â
âWhat? Oh. Iâm sorry ⦠what was I saying?â
âSomething about it being only the start?â
âWhat? Oh. Yes. Yes ⦠you see, itâs fine for actors. Thereâs plenty of parts for old men. Actingâs something you can do all your life. You get better at it. But when your talent is singing or dancing ⦠Time creeps up behind you, all the â¦â He fumbled for a word, and settled lamely for âTime. Time is the poison. You watch backstage one night and youâll see the dancers checking all the time in any mirror they can find for that first little imperfection. You watch the singers. Everyoneâs on edge, everyone knows that this might be their last perfect night, that tomorrow might be the beginning of the end. Thatâs why everyone worries about luck, you see? All the stuff about live flowers being unlucky, you remember? Well, soâs green. And real jewellery worn on stage. And real mirrors on stage. And whistling on stage. And peeking at the audience through the main curtains. And using new makeup on a first night. And knitting on stage, even at rehearsals. A yellow clarinet in the orchestra is very unlucky, donât ask me why. And as for stopping a performance before its proper ending, well, thatâs worst of all. You might as well sit under a ladder and break mirrors.â
Behind Salzella, Walter carefully placed the last lump of coal on the pile in the scuttle and dusted it carefully.
âGood grief,â said Bucket, at last. âI thought it was tough in cheese.â
He waved a hand at the pile of papers and what passed for the accounts. âI paid thirty thousand for this place,â he said. âItâs in the centre of the city! Prime site! I thought it was hard bargaining!â
âTheyâd have probably accepted