Aida, by Giuseppe Verdi, set design and direction by Franco Zeffirelli, at the Verona Arena in Italy.

Once upon a time, long before Covid deprived us of live performances, I found myself on a humid summer night perched on a stone step in the vast Verona Arena. I would be voluntarily corralled for at least six hours among thousands and thousands of spectators who, like others for centuries, had flocked to see the entertainment on offer.

The opera lent itself to the grandeur of the venue with Zeffirelli's direction bringing light and colour to spectacular effect. The world-famous interpreters had been a draw, although their limited availability for rehearsal resulted in diminished interpersonal fluidity and engagement. Nevertheless, the setting and production warranted the opera's ongoing popularity as did the music. But as a couple psychotherapist, it was Aida and Radamès' story which absorbed my attention.

Radamès, an Egyptian warrior, declares his love for “heavenly Aida, form divine”, an Ethiopian slave to Amneris, the King of Egypt's daughter. He relishes the prospect of victory in leading the Egyptian army to battle against Aida's homeland, not just for the widespread acclaim he will receive but also for restoring her country to her. Seductive as such idealisation and rhetoric may initially be, we have an immediate sense of its precariousness with the high B-flat (pianissimo morendo) note, the undoing of many a tenor's ambitions, and the rapid unfolding of a more complex scenario.

We are thrust into a threesome dynamic characterised by secrecy, suspicion, and fear of exposure. Radamès and Aida ultimately fail to keep their passion hidden from Amneris who, humiliated and jealous, is little inclined to allow the relationship to thrive even if her feelings are unreciprocated. In addition, we soon realise that Radamès is unaware that Aida is actually the daughter of the King of Ethiopia and that she is deeply conflicted between her love for Radamès and loyalty to her country and family.