At a posh hotel in Italy, photographer Michael Powell gets more than he bargained for when he does a shoot with the tempestuous tenor

In 1997, I was dispatched by the Times to Italy to photograph Luciano Pavarotti with only scant information – a hotel name and a date. It turned out he was staying in a luxurious hotel overlooking the Bay of Naples, so I checked out of my two-star hovel and into his five-star palace. Then, at 3pm, I set about finding him, mindful of everything that could go disastrously wrong. A receptionist connected my call to “someone who can help”, which I took to mean a publicist, PA or agent.

Instead it was the king of the high Cs himself who answered. Taken aback, I spluttered out my plan.

“I am tired,” he replied. “You call back later,” but with no suggestion as to how much later.

I called at 6pm. “Still tired,” came the reply.

At 9pm I called again. “You come to top floor.” I knocked on the door of the Caruso Suite and Pavarotti appeared, no publicist, no PA, no agent. He led me through the hallway which had become a temporary kitchen. Two large fridges buzzed, and plates were stacked with cutlery. We entered a sitting room and he applied face powder from what you would call a compact if it weren’t so huge. I noticed his black hair. An armchair was perched on piles of books to aid his back pain. A novel solution, I thought, but didn’t say.

We chatted while I set up and I mentioned how I’d converted my hotel bathroom into a darkroom to meet my newspaper deadline. He misunderstood and snapped back with: “So let’s get on with it.”

I thought I’d upset him and blown my opportunity, but remembered I had brought a gift. I passed him a tube containing a portrait of his parents that I had taken in Modena the previous year. It was a touching shot showing his mother Adele, affectionately nuzzled against her husband Fernando’s chest. Pavarotti melted. “It’s, it’s… incredible,” he whispered as his eyes welled up.

He insisted I chose an Hermès scarf from a pile for him to wear in the portrait but, “Olé!”, he started flicking me with it, a strange cross between heroic bullfighter and my brother aged 11 in the Scunthorpe baths changing room.

Photographs taken, I developed the films in my bathroom, connected my modem using crocodile clips and “pinged” the shots to London. A more thoughtful picture from the shoot was published, but this remains my favourite.

I photographed Pavarotti once more with the Spice Girls and escaped unflicked.

See more of Michael Powell’s photographs at michaelpowell.com