The rain had stopped, not that it particularly mattered since the water was so high in the streets. A supermoon lit the flooded St. Mark’s Square like a silver lake, and also brought with it the mother of all tides, acqua altissima, historically the highest of high tides Venice had ever seen. Coastal flooding had done very strange things to the currents in the canals. Really shaken things up in the water, like a bored child with a snow globe. Things stirred deep beneath the Hotel Bauman, too.
Nico came loose from his chains. His cold body floated up and out; the current carried it tenderly along.
In St. Mark’s Square, a German tourist—a surfer—had thrown off his shirt and submerged himself in the deep water to do laps. In the lowest part of the square, nearest to the basilica, cafes were flooded halfway to their ceilings. This bearded German put his whole, long- haired head into the dirty water, and twirled his arms about. After a few minutes, he ran into something blubbery. It felt like the skin of a dolphin. He popped his head up and screamed.
Finally, fifteen days after disappearing, Nicolás Ángel Fernández had been found.