BAY OF NAPLES The smoke from the boat burning in the Bay of Naples shrouded the rocks along the sea wall, the road behind it and the crowds that had gathered to watch the fireworks at the end of the festivities and the precession that had wound its way down through Chiaia to the sea in the September of that year. The great plumes of smoke and the last illumination of the fireworks were engulfed by dense clouds that hung sullenly over the city so that it was almost lost in the shadow, its lights as though snuffed out and even its constant noise dulled and distant. It appeared for a moment as though the world had opened to another time as all that was familiar was swallowed up. How thin the skin of the present is sometimes, stretched taught and almost transparent. And beneath it the turbulent dark. Subterranean currents moving to another pulse. While above the clamorous astonishment that had greeted each burst of brilliant light, just moments before, as people jostled and pressed together to see new wonders, was muted, to be replaced by an uneasy restless murmur. Some way off to the South, the silent volcano – and to the North-East, beyond the smoke and the villas along the bay, beyond the hillsides where the lemon groves used to be, and now are apartment blocks, there beyond the point, the sea floor rises and falls, small islands appear, and disappear as suddenly as they came, brief moments in light. The newspapers print a familiar paragraph, and topographic charts are rearranged. Gasping in the choking fumes the crowd stirred again to urgent life, showers of sparks fell from one last exploding star and people began to drift away, greeting each other and parting. Nothing had happened. The smoke was clearing. The still burning hulk was a long way off across the bay. (Craigie Horsfield)