Excerpt:

Chapter 1

The sky over the Gulf of Naples was a glorious blue. Until the previous day, the city at the foot of Mount Vesuvius had been unusually hot and humid, even for the end of July. Since the early afternoon, the sky had darkened more and more and the clouds, which were getting thicker and blacker, seemed to want to bury the entire gulf under them. In the late afternoon, the storm clouds unloaded right over the city and torrential rain poured down on Naples. The water ran down the streets in torrents and drove the Neapolitans into their homes. After almost two hours, the clouds finally broke, and while a slight rumble of thunder could still be heard in the distance, the evening sun began to dry the drenched city with its red rays. Apart from a few puddles, there was now no sign of the storm. The mighty Castel Nuovo with its crenellated corner towers gleamed, illuminated by the sun, and watched over what was happening in the adjacent harbor as it had done for more than eight centuries.

Marco Spinelli stood at the railing of the Quirino and let his gaze wander over the hustle and bustle of the Molo Beverello. According to the timetable, his ferry should have left for Ischia long ago, but there were still several cars standing in front of the lowered tailgate, waiting to be swallowed up by the ferry's huge hull as if by a giant whale's mouth.

“And in an hour they'll be spat out again by the whale, just like Jonah, only he had to spend three whole days in the whale,” mused Spinelli.

Two young backpackers hurried over from the bus stop opposite, heavily laden, and joined the long queue of people waiting at the ticket counters, while passengers kept coming running from there, hurrying to get on board the ferry in time. The ground beneath Spinelli's feet shook just as much as the railing when the ship's engines started up with a loud rumble, clearly announcing that the ferry's departure was imminent. A white, rather dirty Fiat panel van and a loudly rattling red Ape were the last vehicles to be waved onto the ferry by the ticket inspector. Empty fruit crates were stacked on the loading area of the three-wheeled Ape, the Vespa's big sister, so to speak. As soon as it had disappeared into the hull, the thick iron chains to which the tailgate was attached became tauter and tighter, and the tailgate was lifted up and closed piece by piece, groaning and squeaking.

“How many times have I stood here like this?”, Spinelli wondered as his eyes wandered over the pier, the ticket offices and the adjacent taxi waiting area towards Castel Nuovo. “Probably forty times”, he thought to himself as the pounding of the ship's engines increased and the thick ropes that secured the ferry to the pier were untied and thrown on board. 

Spinelli's father Antonio had gone to Germany as a guest worker in the years of the first major wave of immigration. After the German-Italian recruitment treaty of 1955, the ‘German Commission’, a branch of the Federal Employment Agency, was set up to recruit and place Italian workers, first in Verona and then in Naples in 1960. There, Antonio had to endure the complex recruitment process, obtain countless official certificates, present an extract from his criminal record and undergo a thorough medical examination. However, as he was a strong young man of just twenty-three who had never been guilty of anything, it was no problem to be accepted as a guest worker. So he left Naples, equipped with a ticket for the journey to Germany and a leaflet on rules of conduct in the Federal Republic, returned to his parents and his fiancée Anna on the island of Ischia for a week and then set off on the long journey to distant, unknown Germany with a sinking feeling in his stomach. While most arriving Italians had to change trains at Munich Central Station and were sent on to the Ruhr region, Antonio was able to stay in Munich as he was assigned a job in a machine factory in the north of Munich. Once a year, full of longing, he made the journey home, married his Anna on Ischia in 1963 and took her with him to Germany. Marco was born there a year and a half later and so, in the summer of 1965, a small family of three made the annual trip south for the first time. Although Marco was born in Munich, every trip to Ischia was something of a homecoming for him. He fondly remembered how he looked forward to the start of the summer vacation every year until he was allowed to board the Munich-Napoli train with his parents at the end of July and the long journey finally began. Although Papa Antonio had to start his return journey after just three weeks, he himself enjoyed his vacation almost to the last day and then returned to Munich with his mom in the hope that the time until the next July would pass as quickly as possible. 

The Quirino gradually picked up speed, and as the pier and the harbor became smaller and smaller, more and more of the huge metropolis of Naples with Mount Vesuvius in the background became visible. Soon after, the Sorrento peninsula and the island of Capri were clearly visible to the left. Spinelli had meanwhile taken a seat on one of the wooden benches at the stern of the ferry, sat leaning back with his eyes closed, letting the warm sun shine on his face and enjoying the fresh, salty sea air that the breeze blew towards him. On this day, the sea was very calm throughout the Gulf. Not only once had he experienced it being so stormy that the ferry was tossed to and forth by the churning water and the vacation began with an unpleasant surprise for some of the tourists who were leaning over the railing, their faces rather pale. It had been the same four years earlier when he accompanied his parents to Ischia. Papa Antonio had celebrated his sixty-fifth birthday a few weeks earlier and because he and his Anna had never felt really at home in Germany, there was no question that they would return home as soon as possible once Antonio had reached retirement age and was able to give up his job in Munich. Unfortunately, Antonio was not allowed to enjoy his well-earned retirement for long, as he died suddenly of a heart attack just under a year later. 

“I don't want the same thing to happen to me,” Marco vowed at the time. “I won't wait until I'm a pensioner to turn my back on Germany.”

His mother was also pleased that he wanted to come to Ischia as soon as possible and encouraged him in his plans. He had been able to put some money aside recently, so he was already a good deal closer to his big dream of owning his own pizzeria on Ischia. He also wanted to use his vacation this year to find out where he might be able to take over an existing pizzeria from the old owner in the foreseeable future or where he might be able to open a completely new restaurant on his own. But first he wanted to relax for a few days and, above all, celebrate the St. Anne festival. It is one of the biggest festivals on the island and is celebrated every year on July 26, the feast day of St. Anne, the patron saint of Ischia Ponte. In previous years, he had always managed to time his vacation so that he could arrive shortly before the festival.

In the meantime, the ferry made a short stopover in Procida, the small sister island of Ischia and Capri, but only a few passengers got on and off. Despite its proximity to the famous sisters, Procida had successfully prevented mass tourism from taking over the island in recent decades. Apart from a few small hotels, there were only a few private accommodations, and Procida had basically remained a quiet, picturesque fishing island that was usually only visited by a few day tourists. In the harbor of Sancio Cattolico, the facades of the small, pastel-coloured fishermen's houses were reflected in the blue sea and it seemed as if time had stood still here over the last few decades.

The red Ape, which had been the last vehicle to board the ferry in Naples, now rattled noisily off the boat, startling Spinelli, who had dozed off a little. In the meantime, several tourists around him had found a spot outside and were now noisily enjoying the picturesque view of the harbor and capturing a few images of it with their digital cameras. Spinelli picked up his suitcase and travelling bag and strolled along the railing towards the bow, dragging the suitcase behind him. As soon as the ferry had cast off from Procida and left the coastal area of the island, Monte Epomeo, a long-extinct volcano and the highest point on Ischia, could finally be seen. The last short leg of his long journey was always a special treat for Spinelli as his destination, the island of his beloved parents, drew closer and closer, more and more details became visible and the ferry finally arrived in the harbor of Ischia Porto. 

Chapter 2

“Lake-view Clinic, you're speaking to nurse Monika, what can I do for you?”

“Hello, this is Schmidt,” he answered with a false name. “I would have liked to speak to Professor Fischer.”

“One moment please, I'll check if the professor is back from his rounds yet.”

There was a crack on the line and he was immediately treated to Mozart's Little Night Music. After a while, Jürgen Specht began to hum along to the melody. He was sitting in his small office in the center of Rosenheim and could see the pedestrian zone from his window. Although it was already late morning, he had only just arrived at his office. Having been out late the previous evenings, he had allowed himself a little more time in bed today, showered and made his way to his office without breakfast. On the edge of the pedestrian zone, he enjoyed a strong coffee and a pretzel in a small bakery, had another one packed and taken it with him. His office consisted of a single room with a small anteroom and a tiny bathroom. One wall was completely taken up by a bookshelf, in which various files and photos were piled up, some in folders, some in loose sheets. Opposite, on his somewhat wobbly little desk, there wasn't much more space than for his laptop, a lamp and several empty coffee cups. The only luxury was the swivel and very comfortable leather armchair on which he was now turning back and forth, bored, while the tape with the Little Night Music was just starting from the beginning for the second time. As a private detective, he was on the road most of the time anyway, so his small office was more than enough for him. He had also experienced times when he hadn't necessarily been able to land many jobs, so it was an advantage if he could keep his running costs very low.

Suddenly there was another crack on the line and it was nurse Monika on the line again:

“You're in luck, the professor has just returned to his room, just a moment, I'll put you through.”

“Yes, Fischer,” the professor answered in his deep, sonorous voice.

“It's me,” replied Specht. “I've now got pretty much all the information you wanted.”

You could literally feel the tension rising at the other end of the line.

“Then let hear what you've found out.”

“Well, he's Italian, his name is Marco Spinelli and he's forty-one years old. He's lived here in Rosenheim for two years and has been working as a pizza baker at Pizzeria Da Silvio ever since. He previously worked in Munich, where he was born, and is a second-generation migrant worker. His parents moved back from Munich to the island of Ischia in the Gulf of Naples a few years ago, but his father is now dead. Apart from his job as a pizza baker, he doesn't seem to have many hobbies. He occasionally goes to the gym in the late morning and, apart from a break in the afternoon, he is at the pizzeria from half past eleven in the afternoon until eleven at night. He also seems to be single, I've been watching him for more than a week now, I haven't seen him with a woman in all that time. He has mostly spent his break alone, only twice has he been out and about in the city center with another Italian who works as a waiter in his pizzeria. Last night, he boarded the night train to Naples, loaded down with his suitcase and travel bag; he spends his vacation on Ischia every year. Although he would get to Naples much quicker by plane, he always has to take the train because he is afraid of flying. He'll be back in three weeks.”

“Have you been able to establish any connection with my clinic?”, the professor asked after a short pause, and you could tell from his tone that he was not completely satisfied despite all the information he had received about this Italian.

“No, unfortunately not, since I followed him around Lake Chiemsee over a week ago, he's been in Rosenheim the whole time and hasn't met anyone who could be suspected of having any connection to your clinic. I will send you his exact address and a few photos of him by e-mail. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“No, not at the moment,” the professor replied. “I'll take care of everything else myself. If I need anything else, I'll get in touch with you.”

“Okay, then I'll send the email straight away.”

“Yes, thank you very much. Was my advance sufficient or did you have any major expenses?”

“No, no, the advance was enough for these ten days, even though I've had to eat more pizza in the past week than I have for a long time.”

But the professor was obviously in no mood for jokes, because he ignored Specht's last remark without comment, said goodbye briefly and hung up. 

While Specht set about sending off the email with the photos he had taken over the past ten days, Professor Fischer got up, opened the window and took two or three deep breaths. Outside, in the clinic's garden, which stretched as far as the shore of the Lake Chiemsee, a few patients went for a walk before it got too hot for that in the glorious July sun around midday and it was best to stay in the shade. The garden could not be seen from the street or the clinic's parking lot, which was particularly appreciated by the patients who were in the public eye. The professor was one of the most sought-after plastic surgeons, especially in the celebrity scene, and those who went under the knife with him were naturally anxious to be able to recover after the operation undisturbed and, above all, unobserved. Two paparazzi once dared to approach the garden across the lake in a rowing boat, but they were noticed in time and the object of their desire, a famous Munich actress, was able to escape inside the clinic before the two sensational journalists could take a close-up photo of her.

While the professor watched the walkers leave, he went over the details that Specht had just told him in his mind.

“I have to do something and I will do something,” he said to himself forcefully with a clenched fist, closed the window, turned around and went back to his desk to switch on the PC.

“Then we'll take a closer look at this fellow.” 

Chapter 3

On the morning of July 26, Marco Spinelli was up early. His mother was still asleep when he slipped out of the apartment and headed for Via Luigi Mazzella, the main street of Ischia Ponte. At the Bar dei Pescatori, he enjoyed a strong, hot coffee, as he did every day, ate a chocolate-filled cornetto, and glanced at the headlines on the front page of the pink Gazetta dello Sport about the latest million-dollar transfers in Serie A, Italy's top soccer league. Usually, he liked to read the daily must-read for Italian tifosi from cover to cover, but today he didn't have time.

After breakfast, he left the bar and walked down the street toward Castello Aragonese. At the end of Via Luigi Mazzella, in the small piazza, there were a few market stalls selling freshly caught fish, fruit, vegetables, and fresh flowers.

On the opposite side of the piazza begins the approximately two-hundred-meter-long Ponte Aragonese, which is more of a dam than a bridge. It gave the town its name and connects it to a huge volcanic rock off the coast of the island with the island's landmark, the Castello Aragonese. A fortress was first built on the rock in the fifth century B.C. Almost two thousand years later, it was a king of Naples, Alfonso I d'Aragona, who had a castle built on the remains of the old fortress and at the same time had the rock connected to the island by the dam. Over the centuries, the fortress had often been a refuge for up to two thousand families who lived on the island and tried to save themselves from attacks by Spanish or French conquerors. Most recently, in 1809, it was the English who bombarded the fortress with their cannons and caused great damage. After the fortress island had also served as a prison for several decades, it now had been in private ownership for many years.

Well, so early in the morning, the Ponte was still deserted, but it wouldn't be long before tourists on their way to the castle would populate it as they did every day, and a few amateur fishermen would look for a good spot to fish with their rods. Towards evening on this day, countless locals would also join them, as the celebrations for the Feast of Saint Anne took place mainly in the lagoon between the fortress rock and the town, and the bridge offered an excellent view of the annual spectacle.

At one of the market stalls, Spinelli bought a large, colorful, and wonderfully fragrant bouquet of flowers and set off for home. When he was almost at his mother's apartment, he ran into Luigi Rasoni. He was about the same age as Marco, and although they had known each other since childhood, they had never hit it off. On the contrary, from the very beginning, Luigi had disliked the fact that Marco came to Ischia every year, got along so well with the other boys from the small town, and always had exciting and interesting stories to tell from faraway Germany. Luigi always saw him as an intruder and made it clear that he did not consider him an Ischitano. In later years, their mutual dislike had escalated more and more, with many an argument turning into a full-blown brawl and ending with bloody noses, black eyes, or split lips. The situation escalated when they were both eighteen and Marco, having just arrived in Ischia for the summer holidays, met Giulia, befriended her, and fell in love with her. Luigi had had his eye on Giulia for some time, but she had always rejected him, and the fact that the German, as he usually disparagingly referred to Marco, had won her over so quickly only fueled his hatred for him even more.

Towards the end of his vacation, Marco had rowed out to sea with Giulia one late afternoon in the lagoon between Castello and the village, and neither of them had noticed that Luigi had been watching them the whole time. When they were already quite a distance from the beach, Luigi had gotten into his father's small motorboat, approached them at full speed, and rammed their rowboat lengthwise, causing both of them to end up in the water. Marco had had some trouble climbing back into the rocking boat and pulling Giulia, who was kicking, flailing her arms wildly, and screaming for help, out of the water. The romantic boat trip had come to an abrupt end, and to make matters worse, Giulia had then told him that although she had enjoyed their vacation together, she couldn't imagine a long-term relationship with him. So Marco sat in the rowboat feeling like a drowned rat in more ways than one when they reached the beach again. The evening before his departure, Marco took revenge by slashing the tires of Luigi's brand-new Vespa so thoroughly that they could not be repaired. 

When they met on the street, Luigi gave him a more than contemptuous look, as if to say, “What are you doing here again?”

Marco initially walked past him without saying a word, but then couldn't resist turning around and calling after him:

“By the way, I'm opening my own pizzeria here soon.”

He was going out on a limb with that statement, because his plans were far from finalized. But that one sentence did not fail to have an effect. It was clear to see how Luigi flinched, and when he turned around, his eyes spoke of pure hatred.

“Don't get too excited just yet! As you know, my father is on the local council, which would have to approve any new opening, and besides, there are other ways and means of preventing a nobody like you from making a fortune here.”

This threat also hit its mark, because although Marco had already thought of many ideas for his pizzeria, he hadn't given any thought to the administrative hassle involved in opening a new business in Italy. Without responding to Luigi's threat, he turned away, because a reply on his part would only have led to a loud argument again, which might well have ended in another scuffle. So he refrained from giving him the sharp reply he would have liked to hurl at him and continued on his way. 

Marcos' mother was tidying up in the kitchen when he came home.

“Auguri, Mama. Happy name day.”

He hugged her and pressed the large bouquet of flowers into her hands.

“Such beautiful flowers,” she said happily. “But you shouldn't always give me such expensive gifts. Thank you very much.”

“Oh, it's just a little something, and I know how much you love fresh flowers.”

Despite her joy at receiving the flowers, Marco thought he detected a hint of worry in her eyes, and his suspicion was immediately confirmed.

“Shortly before you arrived, I saw Luigi walking by. Did you run into him?”

“Yes, unfortunately. He threatened to prevent me from opening my pizzeria.”

“But how did he find out?”

“Unfortunately, I let it slip,” Marco confessed. “Just the way he looked at me when we ran into each other was enough to provoke me. And then it just slipped out about the pizzeria. At least I gave him a good scare.”

“Still, it would have been better if he hadn't found out about your plans yet. You know that he is always out to harm you.”

"Yes, I know, but it's already happened and I can't change it. But I'm not going to let someone like him ruin this beautiful day. I'm so looking forward to meeting all my friends down at the beach. I'm sure the first ones have already started preparing the rafts for tonight."

When he set off for the beach a few minutes later, his mother called after him anxiously, telling him to stay away from Luigi if possible. 

At the Spiaggia dei Pescatori, the fishermen's beach, which begins just behind the cathedral and the fishermen's houses of Ischia Ponte, stretches quite a distance towards Ischia Porto, and from which you can always see the Castello Aragonese in the opposite direction, there was already a lot of hammering and sawing going on when Marco arrived. Roberto, Pasquale, and Emilio, three of his friends whom he had not seen in the two days since his arrival, immediately dropped their tools when they saw Marco coming and hugged him joyfully in greeting. After briefly catching up on the most important news and events since Marco's last vacation in Ischia, they got back to work together on the preparations for the festival.

As every year, several rafts were assembled at the Spiaggia dei Pescatori for the Feast of Saint Anne, on which the most important buildings of Ischia Ponte were recreated in papier-mâché. Once the rafts were ready, the difficult task of getting them from the beach into the water began. Fortunately, the sea was very calm that day. In some years, high waves had made the task almost impossible at times, so it was necessary to wait for the most favorable moment to get the rafts into the water undamaged. On days when there were hardly any waves breaking on the beach, it was much easier, and everyone who could helped push, pull, and shove to transport one raft after another across the sand and into the water. In the water, the rafts were then attached to the fishing boats with ropes and carefully pulled towards Castello. Another difficult task was to navigate these teams around the fortress rocks, where treacherous currents prevail, which had already almost proved fatal to many an inexperienced boatman. Once this difficulty had been overcome and all the rafts were floating side by side in the lagoon between Castello and the town, the small town of Ischia Ponte existed twice for one day – once on the solid ground of the island and once on the sea in front of it.

This time, Marco had worked with Roberto, Pasquale, and Emilio on the raft on which the cathedral of Ischia Ponte was being rebuilt, as always with real bells. The church bells were used in the evening to herald the start of the spectacle. Marco had noticed that Luigi, who was working on one of the other rafts, kept looking at him suspiciously while he and his friends finished the cathedral, laughing and joking. After they had pushed and pulled their raft onto the water undamaged, their part was done, because they were no longer involved in transporting the rafts to the lagoon; the fishermen took care of that. So the four friends were able to enjoy a glass of red wine at the beach bar on the edge of the Spiaggia dei Pescatori.

Pasquale was also a pizza baker and, like Roberto and Emilio, knew about Marco's plans to start his own business. He secretly hoped that he might be able to get involved if Marco really did open his own pizzeria, even though he had no idea how he would raise the necessary capital. The exuberant atmosphere on this glorious summer day was the perfect opportunity for him to take the plunge and tell Marco about his idea for the first time. Marco's reaction was unexpected for Pasquale, unexpectedly fierce even. Marco was stunned that someone wanted to interfere with his plans and projects. From one moment to the next, the atmosphere became tense as Marco loudly and very clearly made it clear to Pasquale that he should get these pipe dreams out of his head. Roberto and Emilio, who had been staring at Marco and Pasquale in amazement during the initial exchange, quickly sided with Pasquale in the ensuing heated debate, because they not only thought Marco's reaction was exaggerated, but also knew that it was not so easy to build one's own existence on Ischia.

“You should be happy and grateful that Pasquale wants to help you make your dream come true,” was the reproachful tone of Roberto and Emilio, who were trying to calm the sudden aggressive mood.

But Marco remained stubborn. As an only child, and moreover the child of a migrant worker family, he had been accustomed from an early age to always being on his own and having to fight his way through life alone. Of course, there had been situations in his life time and again where he had later realized that it would have been more sensible to accept the advice or help of friends, teachers, or work colleagues. However, he had not really learned from these experiences. That is why, when it came to his pizzeria plans, it had not occurred to him to involve a potential business partner or co-owner in his plans. The understandable and sensible suggestions of his three friends made him feel increasingly cornered, as he gradually ran out of his own convincing arguments.

“If I open my own restaurant, I'll do it alone. Basta,” he said defiantly, put three euros on the table for the wine, got up, and left.

“You are and always will be stubborn,” Pasquale called after him. “You'll see that your stubbornness won't get you very far!”

Marco spent the hours until late afternoon at home. The feast day he had been looking forward to for so long had been rather unpleasant so far, and he wasn't sure who he should be most angry with: Luigi, Pasquale, or himself. He lay on his bed in his room and stared at the ceiling, which, like the white-painted walls, bore traces of many a nighttime battle with pesky mosquitoes. In the end, Marco, armed with a wet towel, a shoe, or finally an insect spray, had always emerged victorious, as the small blood splatters and mosquito remains silently testified. But how the fights he had started today, completely unexpectedly, would end was another matter entirely.

Lost in thought about the troubles of the previous hours, he had fallen asleep and only woke up when his mother knocked on his door at around half past five. It was time to get going. Above the bay, where the Scogli di Sant'Anna rise out of the sea, with the Castello in the background, a festive service was held in the open air in honor of Saint Anne, which, of course, the residents of Ischia Ponte could not miss. After doing penance, they gave thanks for the past year and prayed for another good year. The fishermen hoped to always catch enough fish to secure their livelihood. The hotel and restaurant owners prayed for good weather so that tourists would come in large numbers, stay in the hotels for as long as possible, and enjoy the delicacies of Ischian cuisine. 

After the service, the action shifted to the lagoon between the Castello and the town. With the increase in the number of holidaymakers coming to Ischia, the traditional festival of the Ischitans had increasingly become a tourist attraction, with thirty thousand spectators and more not uncommon. Gradually, the Ponte, the quay walls, and the adjacent streets and squares filled with people, everyone eager to secure a particularly good spot. Many tourists also spent a considerable amount of money renting boats to be as close as possible to the spectacle on the water. The ringing of the church bells of the replica cathedral ensured that the loud babble of voices subsided somewhat and everyone was eager to see what would now happen on the sea. One after the other, the individual rafts were pulled past the spectators, telling the eventful history of Ischia. Not only were the houses of Ischia Ponte recreated on the rafts, several rafts were equipped with huge sails to represent the ships of the Spanish and French conquerors, whose raids and sieges posed the greatest threat to the people of Ischia for many centuries. Later, it was the Castello that offered real protection for life and limb, but it itself often narrowly escaped being burned down. This was commemorated with effective lighting. When it was dark enough, thousands of candles, lamps, and torches were lit on the fortress rock, bathing the entire rock in a red, glowing light. 

Pasquale's parents' house was near the Ponte, from where you had a magnificent view over the entire lagoon. Marco had always met up with his friends there and watched most of the celebrations from the open windows, only going out onto the street for the fireworks, which traditionally marked the end of the festivities. However, because of the argument after the raft building, he didn't feel like spending the evening with the others this time. When the church bells rang at the beginning of the festival, he had long since secured a seat on the stone boundary wall of the Ponte. Marco watched with boredom as one raft after another passed by the crowd. Around him were mainly German tourists who had to comment loudly on every raft and took photos non-stop. Although he was quite a distance away from the house where Pasquale, Roberto, and Emilio usually watched the spectacle, and although he hadn't run into Luigi since they finished building the raft, he had the feeling the whole time that he was being watched, but he couldn't see anyone he knew in his immediate vicinity.

A triple cannon shot announced the start of the fireworks display, and thin trails of fire could be seen rising into the night sky, bursting into bright green, red, silver, and gold lights above the cheering crowd. Marco had gotten up from his seat and tilted his head back slightly so he could see the magnificent fireworks more comfortably.

Then everything happened very quickly. As a triple shower of sparkling silver fountains fell almost directly above him, illuminating the spectators around him, he suddenly looked up in complete surprise to see a familiar face and was caught off guard by a blow to the chest that he lost his balance and fell backwards to the ground. He found himself sitting rather than lying on the warm stone floor of the Ponte. None of the tourists standing around seemed to have noticed the incident, because no one turned to him to see what had happened or to offer him a hand and help him up. Everyone stared spellbound upwards so as not to miss any of the fireworks. Marco was back on his feet relatively quickly and scanned the crowd around him, but saw only the tourists who had been standing or sitting close to him throughout the celebrations. He dusted the dirt off his pants and was about to turn his attention back to the fireworks when he suddenly felt dizzy and his knees went weak.

The spot where he had been sitting all evening was still free, so he took a step forward and sat down again on the parapet of the Ponte. The mainly German babble of voices around him suddenly sounded strangely distorted and seemed to reach his ears from an ever greater distance. In contrast, it seemed to him as if the lights of the fireworks were coming closer and closer; he felt as if he were sitting directly in the shower of sparks. The last thing he noticed was a green, white, and red combination of rockets and the subsequent thunderclap signaling the end of the fireworks display. And just as the last rockets burned out above the cheering crowd, the last spark of life in him was extinguished. 

Marco Spinelli was dead.