Maskerade

was wearin’, I’d twist my ankle,” said Nanny, gritting her teeth. “I’d need a ladder just to get in ’em.” It was infuriating, the way Granny tricked you into reading her half of the dialogue. And opened your mind to yourself in unexpected ways.
    “And it’s a welcoming place and the beds are soft,” said Granny.
    “Warm, too, I expect,” said Nanny Ogg, giving in. “And there’s always a friendly light in the window.”
    “Dear me, Gytha Ogg. I always thought you were unshockable.”
    “Shockable, no,” said Nanny. “Easily surprised, yes.”

    Dr. Undershaft the chorus master peered at Agnes over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
    “The, um, ‘Departure’ aria, as it is known,” he said, “is quite a little masterpiece. Not one of the great operatic highlights, but very memorable nevertheless.”
    His eyes misted over. “‘ Questa maledetta ’ sings Iodine, as she tells Peccadillo how hard it is for her to leave him…‘ Questa maledetta porta si blocccccca, Si blocca comunque diavolo lo faccccc-cio…! ’”
    He stopped and made great play of cleaning his glasses with his handkerchief.
    “When Gigli sang it, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house,” he mumbled. “I was there. It was then that I decided that I would…oh, great days, indeed.” He put his glasses on and blew his nose.
    “I’ll run through it once,” he said, “just so that you can understand how it is supposed to go. Very well, André.”
    The young man who had been drafted to play the piano in the rehearsal room nodded, and winked surreptitiously at Agnes.
    She pretended not to have seen him, and listened with an expression of acute studiousness as the old man worked his way through the score.
    “And now,” he said, “let us see how you manage.”
    He handed her the score and nodded at the pianist.
    Agnes sang the aria, or at least a few bars of it. André stopped playing and leaned his head against the piano, trying to stifle a laugh.
    “Ahem,” said Undershaft.
    “Was I doing something wrong?”
    “You were singing tenor,” said Undershaft, looking sternly at André.
    “She was singing in your voice, sir!”
    “Perhaps you can sing it like, er, Christine would sing it?”
    They started again.
    “Kwesta!? Maledetta!!…”
    Undershaft held up both hands. André’s shoulders were shaking with the effort of not laughing.
    “Yes, yes. Accurately observed. I dare say you’re right. But could we start again and, er, perhaps you would sing it how you think it should be sung?”
    Agnes nodded.
    They started again…
    …and finished.
    Undershaft had sat down, half-turned away. He wouldn’t look round to face her.
    Agnes stood watching him uncertainly. “Er. Was that all right?” she said.
    André the pianist got up slowly and took her hand. “I think we’d better leave him,” he said softly, pulling her toward the door.
    “Was it that bad?”
    “Not…exactly.”
    Undershaft raised his head, but didn’t turn it toward her. “More practice on those R s, madam, and strive for greater security above the stave,” he said hoarsely.
    “Yes. Yes, I will.”
    André led her out into the corridor, shut the door, and then turned to her.
    “That was astounding,” he said. “Did you ever hear the great Gigli sing?”
    “I don’t even know who Gigli is . What was I singing?”
    “You didn’t know that either?”
    “I don’t know what it means , no.”
    André looked down at the score in his hand. “Well, I’m not much good at the language, but I suppose the opening could be sung something like this:

    This damn door sticks
    This damn door sticks
    It sticks no matter what the hell I do
    It’s marked “Pull” and indeed I am pulling
    Perhaps it should be marked “Push”?

    Agnes blinked. “That’s it ?”
    “Yes.”
    “But I thought it was supposed to be very moving and romantic!”
    “It is ,” said André. “It was . This isn’t real life, this is opera . It doesn’t matter what the words mean. It’s the feeling that matters. Hasn’t anyone told—? Look, I’m in rehearsals for the rest of the afternoon, but perhaps we could meet tomorrow? Perhaps after breakfast?”
    Oh, no, thought Agnes. Here it comes. The blush was moving inexorably upward. She wondered if one day it might reach her face and carry on going, so that it ended up as a big pink cloud over her head.
    “Er, yes,” she said. “Yes. That would be…very helpful.”
    “Now I’ve got to go.” He gave her