Valery Gergiev was backstage in Tokyo's Suntory Hall, spending the few minutes between rehearsal and performance shaking hands with sponsors and discussing the rest of the Kirov Orchestra's tour of Japan with promoters.
The first viola popped her head round the door, wanting to check the tempo of the Berlioz Romeo And Juliet. She sang it, he sang it back faster, and she nodded and disappeared.
Then the charismatic, high-energy and formidable artistic director of the Kirov slumped and yawned. His face became ashen, and St Petersburg's 'most eligible bachelor' transformed suddenly and shockingly into an old man.
The 'electric superconductor' was shattered, and I wondered if I was the only person in the room having a terrible premonition.
Probably not: many of the people who revolve around Gergiev - and there are many - were constantly worrying about his health, the fact that he rarely has either time or interest even to eat a sandwich, the fact that his father died at 49, and that he is now 45 and usually exhausted.
This time he recharged himself quickly.