It is spring in Sydney and Australia's most populous city is enjoying a signature day: the wide blue sky is cloud free, the temperature is a balmy 28 degrees Celsius and a gentle breeze is blowing. At Circular Quay, ferries are bustling about on the harbour's sparkling blue water as a train plying the City Circle pulls into the station, the screech of brakes drowning out the traffic and the hungry squawks of seagulls overhead. Nearby, the crisp white sails of the Sydney Opera House stand to rigid attention, gleaming in the afternoon sun, while the Harbour Bridge is already showing signs of peak-hour traffic as the working day winds down.
It is late afternoon and the shadows are beginning to deepen on historic Macquarie Street, a handsome, tree-lined avenue that boasts some of the city's oldest buildings. The bright sunshine of Circular Quay all but disappears behind skyscrapers during the short walk to the InterContinental hotel. In a corner suite on the 24th floor of the hotel, a cable-television crew from Ovation, Australia's only channel dedicated to the arts, is preparing for an interview. Black gaffer tape, electrical cords and silver camera cases litter the plush cream carpet. The curtains have been drawn, blocking out a million-dollar view of Sydney Harbour, and a blaze of portable television lights has been ignited, filling the room with an unflattering artificial glow.
Amid the flurry of activity sits Luciano Pavarotti, arguably the world's greatest tenor. 'Maestro', as he prefers to be called, is at ease as his attractive personal assistant flutters about him, rearranging his trademark, often Hermes, silk scarf - this one is a striking geometric pattern of green, yellow, blue and red set against a white background - around the Italian's broad shoulders. It complements his choice of outfit today: an oversized green button-down shirt, casual white trousers and white trainers.
Under the veneer of calm, lies a man who is very much in control. Pavarotti is staring at the television monitor across from him, his deep brown eyes alert for any flaw in his mirror image. He spots something he doesn't like and begins to direct the cameraman. 'Take away a little bit of this,' Pavarotti orders, hitting his own shoulder twice. The cameraman moves the lens slightly and Pavarotti relaxes, satisfied with the balance of his shoulders in the picture.
The interviewer appears star struck. Clearly a big fan, he boasts that he saw Pavarotti perform a number of times in the 1960s and 70s. He won't - or perhaps can't - stop gushing. Even the biggest of egos have a breaking point and, unfortunately, Pavarotti has reached his. 'Be silent,' he thunders, snapping the interviewer out of his reverie. The room is suddenly quiet; the veteran art critic's embarrassment palpable.
During the television interview, Pavarotti stops often to cough. He takes a sip of water and his assistant interrupts the proceedings to give him a lozenge. At one stage, he stops talking, closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as though trying to control the spasms. The seconds tick by. He begins to speak again, exactly where he left off. The producer breathes a sigh of relief; the interview will be completed.
At 70, Pavarotti has reached the twilight of a remarkable 44-year career, which saw his voice peak in the 70s. Many say he has hung on for too long, that his voice has cracked. But for his legion of fans, the day the maestro hangs up his tuxedo will mark the end of an operatic genius. As it happens, that day is not so far away. Pavarotti is half-way through a global farewell tour that will see him perform in 40 cities - including Hong Kong - over two years. He had originally planned to retire when he turned 70, but is now running behind schedule, giving his fans a one-year respite from the inevitable.