turandot

There is a woman who stares at me each day, as I wake and as I fall. Her gaze is cold, distant, and made frozen and permanent by an antique frame. Her lips are pursed, and she appears somewhat choked from the glass that lays inextricable from her face. Beneath her indigo blouse reads her name: TURANDOT.


I never really was quite fond of opera, but I have always been a fan of the color indigo. Because I was moving into a new home, I wanted to fill my space with colors and textures that I liked. So one day while antiquing, I came across my frozen friend. She was hidden away behind some miserable 19th century landscape that romanticized the hunt. I was immediately captivated by the far away look in her eyes, the richness of her clothing, and her ornate jewelry. The attendant came to assist me.

"How much do you want for her?" I asked.

She seemed stunned. "For this?"

I nodded.

"Well let me even see, it's been here so long I've forgotten we've even had it." She mulled through the hunting paintings, searching (I'm assuming) for one of a similar size and with a similar frame for price comparison. "Are you sure you don't just want one of these, these are great landscapes."

I shook my head. "No, I really like this one. For whatever reason." I was a bit peeved that she seemed surprised at my interest. "Why, do you have something against this or something?"

She wiped the dust from her hands. "Well, no. I just think she looks evil. Those eyes, they are so distant, so cold. I'll charge you $75."

I took her.

I brought her upstairs to my new home, the first day of a new year and decade, and she fit beautifully by my bedside, and we became quick and close friends. However, her identity remained somewhat of a mystery to me. I decided to do some research.

From what I gathered, "Turandot" was the final work of the great Giacomo Puccini, and it was the tale of a princess (my framed friend) named Turandot. She was a beautiful girl and almost too clever for her own good. It soon grew time for her to choose someone to marry, and despite her good looks and choice of anyone in the lands, she wanted no men, and more than that, she wanted no one. To avoid having to make this decision, she would give any potential suitor three seemingly unsolvable riddles that they must answer. If they answered all three correctly, she would marry them. If they did not, they were to be beheaded. Suffice it to say, no one could solve the unsolvable and win Turandot's heart. Her mind was a crutch to avoid intimacy with others.

One day, however, a prince from a nearby land expressed interest in her. No one really knew his name. He was persistent (almost obnoxiously so), and would not leave until he could see Turandot and answer her riddles. She begrudgingly accepted, and began her questioning. The first question was as follows:

"What is born each night and dies each dawn?"

The prince answered, "Hope."

He was correct.

Coolly, Turandot posed the next question: "what flickers red and warm like a flame, yet is not fire?"

"Blood," the prince said.

He was correct again.

Slightly unnerved, the princess posed her final and most difficult question: "What is like ice, but burns like fire?"

The prince cried the correct answer immediately, "Turandot!"

She was disgusted. To be married? Let alone to an unknown? But he was relentless. Despite her unceasing requests for this stranger to go away at once and never return, he kissed her and held her in his arms. That initial contact, that human touch, was all Turandot needed. She was no longer imprisoned in her mind and no longer desired to be alone. She entered her father's throne, and introduced the name of her soon-to-be husband: "Love."

And it ended, and the two were wed. Happily Ever After.


However happy of a story that may be, it is important to note that Puccini died before finishing it. The final moments of that final act were not from his mind, but from another's. Another composer took on his vision, and intentionally or not, altered it (NB-it wasn't received well at all, the final act was called incredibly disjointed and an insult to Puccini's genius, and how sad it was that such a great would fade away with a second rate symphony). Beyond that, I somehow doubt that an old man on a death bed afflicted with throat cancer would have such a rosy outlook on life, anyway.

In Puccini's vision, maybe Turandot was successful at using her mind to make him leave, and maybe her feeling was only a temporary lift from her permanent numbness. Fire and ice are very difficult to get rid of, anyway. I doubt she believed in Happily Ever After to begin with.

I'm looking at her now, with those far away eyes, and am horrified at how perfectly she rests in my room among my things. It's almost as if she has been here all along, and is just now coming to the surface.