Maskerade

onstage?” André grinned. “In that little beret he wears?”
    “What does he think about it?”
    “I don’t think he minds. It’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”
    There was a crash from the direction of the kitchen, although it was really more of a crashendo—the long-drawn-out clatter that begins when a pile of plates begins to slip, continues when someone tries to grab at them, develops a desperate counter-theme when the person realizes they don’t have three hands, and ends with the roinroinroin of the one miraculously intact plate spinning around and around on the floor.
    They heard an irate female voice.
    “Walter Plinge!”
    “Sorry Mrs. Clamp!”
    “Damn thing keeps holding onto the edge of the pan! Let go, you wretched insect—”
    There was the sound of crockery being swept up, and then a rubbery noise that could approximately be described as a spoing .
    “ Now where’s it gone?”
    “Don’t know Mrs. Clamp!”
    “And what’s that cat doing in here?”
    André turned back to Agnes and flashed her a sad smile. “It is a little cruel, I suppose,” he said. “The poor chap is a bit daft.”
    “I’m not at all sure,” said Agnes, “that I’ve met anyone here who isn’t.”
    He grinned again. “I know,” he said.
    “I mean, everyone acts as if it’s only the music that matters! The plots don’t make sense! Half the stories rely on people not recognizing their servants or wives because they’ve got a tiny mask on! Large ladies play the part of consumptive girls! No one can act properly! No wonder everyone accepts me singing for Christine—that’s practically normal compared to opera! It’s an operatic kind of idea! There should be a sign on the door saying ‘Leave your common sense here’! If it wasn’t for the music the whole thing would be ridiculous!”
    She realized he was looking at her with an opera face.
    “Of course, that’s it, isn’t it. It is the show that matters, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s all show.”
    “It’s not meant to be real,” said André. “It’s not like theater. No one’s saying, ‘You’ve got to pretend this is a big battlefield and that guy in the cardboard crown is really a king.’ The plot’s only there to fill in time before the next song.”
    He leaned forward and took her hand. “This must be wretched for you,” he said.
    No male had ever touched Agnes before, except perhaps to push her over and steal her sweets.
    She pulled her hand away.
    “I, er, better go and practice,” she said, feeling the blush start.
    “You really picked up the role of Iodine very well,” said André.
    “I, er, have a private tutor,” said Agnes.
    “Then he’s really studied opera, that’s all I can say.”
    “I…think he has.”

    “Esme?”
    “Yes, Gytha?”
    “It’s not that I’m complaining or anything…”
    “Yes?”
    “…but why isn’t it me who’s being the posh opera patronizer?”
    “Because you’re as common as muck, Gytha.”
    “Oh. Right.” Nanny subjected this statement to some thought and couldn’t see any point of inaccuracy that would sway a jury. “Fair enough.”
    “It’s not as though I like this.”
    “Shall I do madam’s feet?” said the manicurist. She stared at Granny’s boots and wondered if it might be necessary to use a hammer.
    “I got to admit, it’s a nice hair style,” said Nanny.
    “Madam has marvelous hair,” said the hairdresser. “What is the secret?”
    “You’ve got to make sure there’s no newts in the water,” said Granny. She looked at her reflection in the mirror over the washbasin, and went to look away…and then sneaked another glance. Her lips pursed. “Hmm,” she said.
    At the other end, the manicurist had succeeded in getting Granny’s boots and socks off. Much to her amazement there was revealed, instead of the corned and bunioned monstrosities she’d been expecting, a pair of perfect feet. She didn’t know where to start because there was nowhere to begin, but this manicure was costing twenty dollars and in those circumstances you damn well find something to do.
    Nanny sat beside their pile of packages and tried to work everything out on a scrap of paper. She didn’t have Granny’s gift for numbers. They tended to writhe under her gaze and add themselves up wrong.
    “Esme? I reckon we’ve spent…probably more’n a thousand dollars so far, and that’s not including hirin’ the coach, and we haven’t paid Mrs. Palm for the room.”
    “You said