Virtually Perfect (17 page)

Ben bought Eve a programme.  She settled into her cheap plastic chair.  He left her studying it while he went off to find them some drinks.

Turandot

by Giacomo Puccini

A tale is told in the Forbidden City, of a princess, with beauty beyond compare.  A bloodthirsty ruler, with a heart as cold as ice.  A woman who hates all men. 

Calaf is a prince travelling incognito.  He sees the Princess in the moonlight.  For Calaf, it is love at first sight.

Turandot's hand is not easy to win.  Failure comes at the ultimate price.  Any prince wishing to marry her must solve three riddles.  If he succeeds, he will win her.  If he fails, he must pay with his life.

Where many before him have tried and failed, Calaf is triumphant.  He solves all three of the Princess's riddles.  And yet, for Calaf, the victory is hollow.  He does not want her by force.  He submits a riddle of his own.  She must guess his name by sunrise.  If she cannot, they must marry.  If she guesses correctly, he will die...

'It's filling up,' said Ben.  'They'll be starting soon.'

Eve's head had been buried in the programme, she hadn't noticed all the people arriving. 

They weren't the only ones who'd dressed up, not in their section, anyway.  She'd felt a bit of a plonker as they came through the stalls, Ben grinning at her as he was frisked for contraband booze.  But they were OK here.  He must have got VIP tickets.  How had he managed to get tickets at all? 

The stadium was packed.  Eve looked up around them, she'd never seen so many people; tens of thousands, sweeping off up to the rafters.

Ben held out a plastic cup.  Eve took it.  Ben sat down next to her.  She peered inside, sniffed at the contents.  She sipped it cautiously.  Pinot Grigio.  It was chilled.  It was very nice.

'It seems weird sitting down at a concert,' mused Eve.

'This isn't a concert.  This is opera.'

'You know what I mean,' she said.  'Isn't this where the mosh pit normally is?'

Ben grinned, raising an eyebrow.

'Oh yes?  How many times have you
moshed
?'

Eve furnished him with one of her looks.

'Two words, darling,' she said, with a smirk.  '...
Lighthouse Family
.'

He pursed his lips and squinted.

The cacophony from the orchestra pit gradually died down as the last stragglers took their seats.  The lights of the stadium slowly faded.  Expectant chatter droned all around, the blackness punctuated by mobile phones, twinkling like stars in the night.  They were extinguished one by one until they sat in virtual darkness. 

Suddenly someone, somewhere, flicked a switch.  The orchestra was bathed in light. 

A silver-haired man picked his way through the musicians.  They stood, shaking his hand as he passed.  The audience broke out in rapturous applause.

'Do you know who that is?' Ben shouted to Eve, clapping.

'Yes,' Eve shouted back, clapping too.  'That's the conductor,' she said confidently.

A playful smile flashed back in the dim light.

'That's Placido Domingo.'             

Eve squinted at the man in the bowtie and tails stepping up to the podium.  Ben must have been having her on.  She peered over the music stands, the bows poised at the ready, squinting at the man's dark arching eyebrows.  Eve turned to Ben, wide-eyed, mouth slightly ajar.  He just smiled.  Eve turned back to the orchestra.  Domingo raised his hands.

The opening was deafening.  The drumbeat reverberated through the metal legs of Eve's chair,  up her spine, she could feel it in her chest, so strong it almost hurt.  The stage began to glow. 

The lights grew brighter and brighter.  The set was phenomenal.  They were in the Forbidden City.  A gargantuan Chinese palace towered in front of them, made entirely from gold.  A crimson staircase rolled through the centre, there must have been at least thirty steps.  Huge columns, pagoda roofs, rows of windows, paper lanterns - it was so intricately done.  There were hoards of Chinese ladies, big, black bouffant hair, piled up on top of their heads.  They wore white kimonos, tied around the waist with red sashes.  There were mandarin guards dressed in heavy bronze armour.  There was singing.  So much singing.  It was as if they were all trying to outdo one another.  There must have been at least fifty of them.  Eve had goosebumps all over. 

An old man with long white hair came down the staircase.  Suddenly, he tripped and tumbled, slamming down on the stone floor.  Eve gasped, she almost got up.  Ben pinned her down by her thigh, smiling, shaking his head.  The old man started to sing.  He had the deepest voice she'd ever heard. 

Eve felt a nudge.  She followed Ben's finger to a screen to the right of the stage, saw the words rolling across it.  Subtitles.  Eve took his hand, squeezing his fingers, shaking her head, her eyes returning to the stage. 

She'd recognised two words so far, 'Turandot' and 'principessa'.  That was enough.  She didn't want to miss anything.

A young man was brought on by the guards, swathes of silk wrapped around his head.  He was dark and very attractive.  He looked like an Arabian prince. 

There were chants of 'principessa'.  Turandot made her entrance.  She wasn't exactly what you'd expect from the programme.  Kate Middleton had nothing to fear.

A guy with a beard came on, singing.  He must have been Calaf.  He had the most powerful voice of all of them.  He reminded Eve of a young Pavarotti. 

There was lots of warbling.  Turandot came down the steps.  She took one look at the turbaned man and drew her finger across her throat.  The guards drew their swords.  A hoard of Chinese ladies swarmed the stage, opening their parasols.  After they closed them, the turbaned man lay limp.  Apparently, the dastardly deed had been done. 

The guards lifted him up and carried him off.  Calaf warbled and swooned over Turandot.  Eve shook her head and sighed to herself. 
What a funny lot.
  

One character stood out for Eve - the blind man's maid servant, Liù.  She was tiny, dressed in rags, with a mane of flowing black hair.  Her voice was haunting.  Ben smiled to himself.  Eve was utterly entranced.

They all tried to sing Calaf out of it.  He was such an arrogant shit.  He banged the gong regardless, making a play for the princess - despite the fact that Liù was in love with him (even Eve got that).  Liù was a thousand times nicer.  If he'd just married her, Turandot could have married that nice Arabian chap; job's a goodun.  They could all go home. 

The curtain fell.  Cheers and thunderous applause erupted all around them.  The lights were raised; people got up for the intermission.  Ben was looking at her. 

'...Well?  What do you think?'

Eve took a deep breath.

'Calaf's a knuckle-head, Turandot's a cow, Ping, Pang and Pong are pretty annoying, but Liù's alright and I like the king...  I just wish I understood it.'

'Read the subtitles!' chastised Ben.  'I tried to tell you!'

'Yes, but I can't read the subtitles and watch at the same time.  I can read the story when I get home, but I'll never get to see this again.'

Ben snatched the empty cup from her fingers.  He caught Eve off-guard with a kiss.

'...Maybe you should learn Italian,' he said. 

Her gaze flickered from his eyes to his upturned lips.

'Maybe I should,' she said, kissing him back.

'...Come on,' said Ben, eventually breaking away.  'Let's go to the bar.' 

He stood, rubbing his head with a boyish smile.  Eve smiled back, taking his hand.

Eve sloped off to the toilets whilst Ben was at the bar.  As she waited in the queue, she pulled her mobile from her handbag, opening up her web browser.  She went to Google Translate, looking around anxiously to make sure no one was watching.  When she was sure no one was, she started tapping on the keypad. 
English to Italian
.  As the cubicle door clicked open and the blonde lady smiled and exited, she slid her phone into her bag.  Eve promptly took it out again once she'd locked the door behind her.  She pressed the speaker icon and put the phone to her ear to listen to the pronunciation.  She'd listened a dozen times by the time she came back out.  She had to get it right.

She stood at the basins washing her hands, blasting the water off under the drier.  She didn't need the pashmina anymore.  She unfurled it from her shoulders, folding it up and squeezing it into her bag.  She gave her lips a fresh coat of paint.  A little old lady to the right looked up and smiled.  Eve smiled back politely, pushing the lipstick back into her bag.  She smoothed down her dress, checked her teeth for errant lipstick, then hurried back to the bar.

Ben heard her click-clacking across the concourse.  He turned to her.  She smiled.

'Sorry,' she said.  'There was a queue.'

'Don't worry,' he told her, handing her a fresh plastic cup.  'We'd better get back though.  They've rung the bell.'

The lights had already begun to fade by the time they'd retraced their seats, apologetically squeezing down the aisle, stepping over their neighbours' feet.  They were just in time to see Turadot appear, warbling her way down the steps in a red dress and treacherously high block soles.

Eve glanced at Ben.  He was watching the play, sipping from his cup.  His face looked blue in the light, his lips stained black from the wine.  Eve leant across, her hand curled on his shoulder.  She whispered Italian in his ear.

Ben spluttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

...Did she really just stay that?

He felt Eve's fingers close around his, squeezing tightly.  Her eyes wouldn't budge from the stage.

She could see him in her periphery, staring, wide-eyed.  She fought the smile from her lips. 

She looked so innocent, so ladylike, in her posh frock and pearls.  No, no.  He must have misheard.

Slowly, she turned to him.  He saw the twinkle in her eye, the wicked smile creasing her lips; finally a confirming wink.

Eve watched his gaze flicker down, then wander back, his dopey grin spreading, rubbing his head, eyes like dinnerplates.

Ben could see her interest in Turandot was on the wane.  Of course it was.  She couldn't understand a fucking word.  She sat, elbow perched on the armrest between them, chin nestled in her palm.  He stroked her neck, smiled as she shuddered, pulled her closer to him.  She leant her head against his chest, her fingers on his thigh.  He'd made a big mistake.

In less than 48 hours he'd be in Saudi, they should be making the most of their time together.  They should never have left the hotel.  Watching football, drinking beer by himself,
'I think I might go for a swim'
- what the hell was he thinking?  She didn't want to go to the spa and he knew it, he saw the look on her face. 

He'd rejected her, and for what?  Because things got a little bit awkward?  Just a smidgen uncomfortable?  Monique was right.  If he kept this crap up, one of these days, she'd stop answering the phone.  Who could blame her?  She was obviously embarrassed by what happened.  What was his reaction?  Tune her out.  Push her away. 

Eve felt Ben's arms pulling her closer, holding her tightly against him.  She could hear his heartbeat against her ear, smell his cologne, felt him press a warm kiss to her brow.

The stage was plunged into darkness.  Slowly, blue lights rose.  Calaf was in a garden in the moonlight, standing beneath a pergola, surrounded by cherry blossom.  A female choir sang from somewhere offstage. 

Eve could hear it:
Nessun Dorma. 
She sat up slowly, pulling out of Ben's arms, holding his hand as she sat bolt upright in her seat. 

She hated Calaf by this point, Turandot too.  The love story was over for Eve.  Ah, but that aria.  The melody floated from his lips, out into the night, ringing in Eve's ears; tugging her heart.  It was the most exquisite singing she'd heard, so gentle, almost like a lullaby.  And yet, the sound of it was tearing her in two. 

Ben squeezed her hand.  She turned to him, tried to smile.  She looked sad.  He'd either got it spectacularly right, or spectacularly wrong.

Eve was on the edge of her seat for Liù's death scene.  She watched her dash at one of the guards, grasping the hilt of his sword.  She heaved it from the scabbard, driving it through her own heart. 

Liù slumped to the cold floor, motionless.  Crowds of peasants laid white roses around her.  The old man, Timur, began to sing, deep and mournful.  Snow was falling.  Ben felt Eve let go of his hand.  He heard her sniff, watched her quickly wipe a tear from her cheek.

Turandot and Calaf were left alone.  He stormed up to her, singing loudly -
principessa
.  Calaf suddenly grabbed Turandot's wrists.  He pulled her towards him, kissing her roughly.  Eve felt Ben stroking her thigh.  She turned to him.  He smiled. 

They were back at the palace for the final scene.  Turandot flounced out, wearing a floaty pink dress.  Evidently she'd ditched the Maggie Thatcher power colours and gone for a softer look now that she'd got laid.  Her hair was long and loose.  She was all smiles, skipping about like a brunette Miss Piggy.  And so, they lived happily ever after.  Eve frowned, tutting a little more loudly than intended.  It was all too silly for words.