Riva San Biagio, Venice The early-morning sun is masked by cloud as Antonio Pavarotti guns up the old family motorboat moored near Riva San Biagio and sets out for Isola Mario. A glance at his watch tells him he'll arrive about twenty minutes early, long enough to stray a little and get a water-level view of the boathouse. He throttles up as he eases his way into one of the lagoon's well-defined navigation channels.
The boat's an old twenty-seven footer, bought by his father Angelo almost twenty years ago and gifted to his son on his twenty-first birthday. It's been cherished over the decades and in recent years almost completely overhauled by Antonio. His latest labour of love was fitting new windows and reconditioning the trusty old diesel engine. Next on his list is another repaint of the ever-needy blue hull that's now bouncing over some particularly choppy waves. He soon sees the reason why. He's following in the wake of the Number 41 waterbus heading out to Ferrovia and Murano. Get caught in the tracks of one of those and it's about as comfortable as being pulled naked across a ploughed field by your ankles.
Antonio opens a flask of tea he's brought with him and sticks it in a holder at the front of the wheelhouse. It's a beautifully restored and fully covered area, resplendent in French-polished wood and freshly cleaned brass. It opens up into a good-sized galley kitchen complete with a temperamental gas oven and two-ring burner that in their time have heated up a lot of his mamma's home cooking. At the rear is a seating area that doubles as a bunk or two.
Through the spray and thinning mist, Isola di San Michele bobs into view – but for once Antonio's thoughts are not on his grandparents and the other souls lying in their island graves. He's thinking of the happy times he's had on the craft. His first trip with his mother and father. Fishing with college friends. Precious, private time with his girlfriends before he moved out of his parents' apartment and got a place of his own.
The last memory lingers and brings a smile to his face as he clicks a self-firing ring on the stove to get a light for his first cigarette of the day. He'll give up soon. Maybe when this undercover job is over. Mamma will be pleased when he finally quits.
For a split second something seems wrong.
The air in the cabin feels like it's disappeared. Sucked away by a giant invisible straw.
Antonio's ears burst with pain and his body shakes.
Metal from the stove becomes shrapnel and rips into his face.
He sees it all in slow motion, the moment of realisation when he knows what's happening but can't do anything about it.
He's blind and dizzy.
The thunderous roar of the gas explosion ripples across the open sea.
Antonio feels the splash of waves in his face but can't see anything.
Tourists on the back of the waterbus gawp slack-jawed, the full horror yet to sink in.
A raw orange fireball corkscrews into the grey mist, followed by palls of thick black smoke.
Wooden planks and chunks of plastic fill the sky, then drift apart on the waves.
Passing boats kill their engines. In the eerie silence, onlookers stare and wonder if it's safe to head over.
The flames die down.
Among the glistening oil and splinters of shattered craft, the shape of Antonio Pavarotti can be seen floating amid the debris.