Maskerade

tripped, arm in arm, onto the stage, there was an apparent gap.
    This was only filled if the gaze went downward a foot or two, to a small fat ballerina in a huge grin, an overstretched tutu, long white drawers and…boots.
    Henry stared. They were big boots. They moved back and forth at an astonishing speed. The satin slippers of the other dancers twinkled as they drifted across the floor, but the boots flashed and clattered like a tap dancer afraid of falling into the sink.
    The pirouettes were novel, too. While the other dancers whirled like snowflakes, the little fat one spun like a top and moved across the floor like one, too, bits of her anatomy trying to achieve local orbit.
    Around Henry members of the audience were whispering to one another.
    “Oh yes,” he heard someone declare, “they tried this in Pseudopolis…”
    His mother nudged him. “This supposed to happen?”
    “Er…I don’t think so…”
    “’S bloody good, though! A good laugh!”
    As the fat ballerina collided with a donkey in evening dress she staggered and grabbed at his mask, which came off…
    Herr Trubelmacher, the conductor, froze in horror and astonishment. Around him the orchestra rattled to a standstill, except for the tuba player—
    —oom-BAH-oom-BAH-oom-BAH—
    —who had memorized his score years ago and never took much interest in current affairs.
    Two figures rose up right in front of Trubelmacher. A hand grabbed his baton.
    “Sorry, sir,” said André, “but the show must go on, yes?” He handed the stick to the other figure.
    “There you are,” he said. “And don’t let them stop .”
    “Ook!”
    The Librarian carefully lifted Herr Trubelmacher aside with one hand, licked the baton thoughtfully, and then focused his gaze on the tuba player.
    —oom-BAH-oom-BAHhhh…oom…om…
    The tuba player tapped a trombonist on the shoulder.
    “Hey, Frank, there’s a monkey where old troublemaker should be—”
    “Shutupshutupshutup!”
    Satisfied, the orangutan raised his arms.
    The orchestra looked up. And then looked up a bit more. No conductor in musical history, not even the one who once fried and ate the piccolo player’s liver on a cymbal for one wrong note too many, not even the one who skewered three troublesome violinists on his baton, not even the one who made really hurtful sarcastic remarks in a loud voice, was ever the focus of such reverential attention.
    Onstage, Nanny Ogg took advantage of the hush to pull the head off a frog.
    “Madam!”
    “Sorry, thought you might be someone else…”
    The long arms dropped. The orchestra, in one huge muddled chord, slammed back into life.
    The dancers, after a moment’s confusion during which Nanny Ogg took the opportunity to decapitate a clown and a phoenix, tried to continue.
    The chorus watched in bemusement.
    Christine felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned to see Agnes. “Perdita! Where have you been!?” she hissed. “It’s nearly time for my duet with Enrico!”
    “You’ve got to help!” hissed Agnes. But down in her soul Perdita said: Enrico, eh? It’s Señor Basilica to everyone else…
    “Help you what!?” said Christine.
    “Take everyone’s masks off!”
    Christine’s forehead wrinkled beautifully. “That’s not supposed to happen until the end of the opera, is it?”
    “Er…it’s all been changed!” said Agnes urgently. She turned to a nobleman in a zebra mask and tugged it desperately. The singer underneath glared at her.
    “Sorry!” she whispered. “I thought you were someone else!”
    “We’re not supposed to take them off until the end!”
    “It’s been changed!”
    “Has it? No one told me!”
    A short-necked giraffe next to him leaned sideways. “What’s that?”
    “The big unmasking scene is now, apparently!”
    “No one told me !”
    “Yes, but when does anyone ever tell us anything? We’re only the chorus…here, why is old Troublemaker wearing a monkey mask…?”
    Nanny Ogg pirouetted past, cannoned into an elephant in evening dress and beheaded him by the trunk. She whispered: “We’re looking for the Ghost, see?”
    “But…the Ghost is dead, isn’t he?”
    “Hard things to kill, ghosts,” said Nanny.
    The whisper spread outward from that point. There is nothing like a chorus for rumor. People who would not believe a High Priest if he said the sky was blue, and was able to produce signed affidavits to this effect from his white-haired old mother and three Vestal virgins, would trust just about