The opera was violent and dramatic, and I was dragged into the story, much like the murdered Prince of Persia was dragged off the stage. Love meant nothing to the Princess Turandot, who ruthlessly had her suitors killed if they didn’t correctly answer three riddles which were next to impossible to figure out.
Throughout the first two acts of the production Serge continually took notes on his tablet, somehow writing without his eyes leaving the stage. During the intermission we never left our seats, and not a word was spoken between us. He leaned away from me, and his leg shook up and down next to mine. Finally, I tried to break the ice.
“Do you want something to drink? The curtain is going to go up in five minutes.” I whispered. He shook his head no and sighed, then wrote on his tablet.
