“I should really do something...” said Francesco as he stared aimlessly out of his huge window looking onto the communal garden behind his town house in Greenwich Village. Francesco had been hit by a taxi two weeks before, breaking his legs and imprisoning him to the wobbly, infuriatingly squeaky wheelchair. To avoid the squeaking he remained in one spot, smack bang in the middle of the window which sprawled across the entire second floor. He was a successful Italian-American painter, the reason why he could afford such a lovely house in downtown New York. Francesco was trying to use this time to make an abstract picture of the communal garden. However, this was not working; being disabled had sent him into a furious temper. Instead, he spent the time ranting about how awful everything was. He had a bowl of berries on a little collapsible table next to him, but he had no interest whatsoever in consuming any of the sour fruit. He took a glance at the abnormally large fig tree to the right of his house. Sitting there was a plump little pigeon who seemed to be inspecting the room. “Grasso,” Francesco said scornfully. Suddenly, the morbidly obese pigeon took to the air, saw the bowl of berries and dived in like a cannon ball. Francesco watched in vague amusement as the chubby fellow crashed beak first into the windowpane with a confused squawk and bounced off again like a rubber ball. This was the most exciting event that had happened all week.
Later that day, around five o’clock, the doorbell rang. Francesco was in no hurry to answer it; he wobbled over to the packet of cigarettes on the kitchen table, dropped the contents all over the floor, cursed loudly, bent down to get one but instead fell out of the wheelchair and face-planted on the cold kitchen floor. He picked up the cigarette, scrambled back onto the wheelchair and wobbled on his not-so-jolly way to the elevator. When he got to the first floor the doorbell rang again.
“Chiuda su! Chiuda su! I’m coming!” he growled. He reached the door, flung it open with extreme Italian rage and shouted, “What?!” Standing there was a well-postured man in a light linen suit and a tilted down Panama hat. Francesco couldn’t help but stare at his face; it was scarred and totally deformed. In Francesco’s mind his dark humour was being very cruel to the man; he was picturing the man as the Joker, knocking on his door to ask, “Where’s the Bat-man?”
Instead, the man looked from underneath his hat, tried to smile, which obviously hurt him as he winced terribly, offered a business card to him and said croakily, “Miss Lakshmi is moving into the big house.” Unbothered, Francesco took the card, did a pathetically fake smile and slammed the door.
After trundling back to the window, Francesco looked out over the communal garden. Across from him, slightly to the right was the biggest house on the garden, the one which this Miss Lakshmi was moving into. It was a beautiful white house with four pillars facing the garden. It had three large windows in between the pillars. To the left of him was the old general’s house, a big brownstone building with a sizable balcony on the third floor. His name was Frederick Morelli but his nickname was Sergeant Tipsy, as he was known for being an alcoholic. There were a few other houses on the garden but Francesco had deemed them boring and never bothered to find out who lived in them.
Seeing the man in the Panama hat and linen suit made Francesco think, “Perhaps I should start wearing linen too!” So he wheeled over to his bedroom, opened up the closet, and picked out every kind of linen garment he had ever bought.
Francesco chose a green linen suit with an orange linen shirt and, to his amazement, he found a Panama hat as well.
Feeling sophisticated he decided to take a spin round the block and greet this new neighbour. Getting out the house was exactly what he needed; it somehow blew away all the anger from his soul. After having a wobbly journey around the block he came to the beautiful white house. He wheeled up to the huge double doors and ran into a bit of a problem; the doorbell was out of order and the knocker was too high to reach. He tried knocking on the door, even kicking it, but he couldn’t make enough noise. As a last resort he gathered all his strength, rounded up his will power, and jumped up and tried to grab the knocker, he of course failed to reach it and instead whacked his head against the door, making a loud thud. He landed, even more crippled than before, on the concrete path, trying to work out why he did what he just did. However, head butting the door had worked and the lady came to see what all the noise was about. She gasped when she opened the door, but who wouldn’t if they saw a handsome sixty-something man knocked out on their doorstep?
“Are you alright?” she exclaimed.
“Ma'am, I just took a door to the face. I’ve been better,” he replied.
“Would you like to come in?”
“Yes. That would be ideal, thank you,” said the stunned Francesco.
After being wheeled into her house, Francesco collapsed on a black leather couch.
“Can my assistant get you anything? I believe you’ve met already?” Miss Lakshmi asked.
“Nessun grazie, I just came to introduce myself, I live on the other side of the communal garden from you.”
“I see,” she said. “So do you always greet neighbours unconscious on their doorstep?”
“No, that was especially for you. So what brings you to Greenwich Village?”
“Oh, well, my cooking show - you might of heard of it? Top Chef? - has moved to New York and I wanted a nice safe neighborhood to live in.” She laughed politely. “If you don’t mind, I have a lot of unpacking to do, will you excuse me?” Francesco shrugged and started to wheel off when Miss Lakshmi shouted, “Marty! Take this man home will you?” The scarred man came in from the kitchen, nodded at Francesco and then Miss Lakshmi, took hold of the wheelchair’s handles and took Francesco away.
It was a bright summer’s evening as the two men squeaked and wobbled down the street. Francesco, too curious for his own good, asked how Marty had come to have such a deformed face. The man replied coolly, “Bomb disposal, Iraq.”
“Vedo, and what is your relationship with Miss Lakshmi?” Francesco probed.
“She’s my stepmother, but she employs me as her assistant because nowhere else will have me in my... condition...” replied Marty.
“Surely working for your mother puts strain on the relationship?”
“She’s NOT my mother,” Marty snapped. “She’s my stepmother.”
After that they stayed silent until they turned round the corner and Francesco caught sight of ‘Sergeant Tipsy’ who was trying to explain to a bewildered Indian taxi-driver that shotguns are impractical in a war zone. Francesco, noticing his old, intoxicated friend, shouted, “Morelli!” The general swung his head round to face Francesco, his mouth twitching and snarling uncontrollably. He looked as if he was going to rip the Italian to shreds. He then snapped the rest of his body around and switched into the jolly fat old man Francesco knew so well.
“Franky! How are you, young man?” slurred Morelli. Morelli was the only person in the world who called sixty-something Franky ‘young man’ apart from Francesco’s mother; it always made him smile. Morelli was obviously interested in Marty. “Oi! Scarface! How’d you get those marks? Scratched by a Puma? Farted on by a Dragon?” Morelli had clearly amused himself much more than anyone else, as he burst into a fit of laughter.
Unamused, Marty replied, “I was in bomb disposal, Iraq. There was a car bomb at a gas station, and well, let’s just say I didn’t do my job.”
“Oh!” exclaimed the swaying ex-general. “Perhaps you knew my son, Marty Morelli?”
Marty looked as if he had just excreted a ton of concrete. “Yes, er, I, er, know him well.”
“You can’t know him. He died in Iraq,” said the now totally sober general.
“Sir,” said Marty. “Did you lose your son when he was four?”
“My bitch of an ex-wife took him from me, my drinking supposedly meant that I couldn’t look after my own son.”
“Was that woman Miss Vijaya Lakshmi?”
“Yes.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Mr. Morelli, my name’s Marty Morelli.” Marty then tilted his Panama hat and turned heel and power-walked back to his house.
Francesco, feeling extremely awkward and out of place, was fiddling with his wheels, not quite knowing what to do with himself.
The general turned to him and said, “Young man, I do believe that that was my son.”
Francesco, flabbergasted and confused past confusion simply stuttered, “But, er, ah, how? Blah, hun? Wa? Ciao.” He then hurriedly wheeled past Sergeant Tipsy and went home.
When Francesco got home, now fatigued, he headed back to look out the window. He then looked back at the large canvas he’d been painting on, remarked, “pezzo di merda!” and took out his lighter and set the canvas on fire. Realizing that he was going to end up setting his house on fire, Francesco scooted over to the table, picked up the jug of water and hurled the liquid at the canvas. Relieved, he returned to his spot to view the damage. Only a small section of the painting was burnt, it was the big white house. The next 45 minutes were uneventful and Franky fell into a deep sleep.
Later that night Francesco woke with a jump. He heard the general singing at the top of his voice and shooting blanks into the air. Francesco, amused by what he saw, turned his wheelchair to watch the drunken man prancing around his balcony. He saw Morelli totter back into the house and emerge with a sniper rifle which he proceeded to waggle all over the balcony. Franky then saw him take a beer bottle, put it over the nozzle of the gun, aim at the big house across the garden and fire. Francesco, amazingly unfazed by this, went back to sleep.
A few hours later Francesco awoke yet again, this time to a bright glare. He pulled his eyes open and stared at the light. To the drowsy cripple it looked like a huge foglight. This, however, was not a foglight; it was a burning building. The big house was burning. This time Franky did wake up. He brought his chair right up to the window and pushed his nose to the glass. The fire alarmed him; it was huge and furious, lurching up and down, left and right. He was about to reach for the phone and dial 911, but heard the sound of fire engines already. On this reassuring thought he went back to sleep.
In the morning he went over to the house to inspect the damage. Unsurprisingly, there was a huge media presence swarming around the rubble like tourists in Times Square. The entire building had been demolished, apart from the wall facing the garden; it had an eerie feel to it. Wanting to take a closer look, Francesco lied to the policemen keeping away the media junkies, saying that it was his wife’s house. He wheeled through the rubble to the standing wall; he was interested to find where the bullet from the general’s gun had landed. It had struck one of the windows. It appeared that the room, or what was a room, was some sort of small bedroom, most likely where Marty slept. He squeaked round to the outside to the left of the wall where there was a part of the side wall still standing. There was a fuse box on the side. Francesco took a further look; it appeared as if the box had been tampered with. He looked at the fuses; they were set far too high, probably meaning that a wire somewhere in the house had melted and caused the fire.
As Francesco stared at the box a figure loomed behind him. Judging by the shadow he assumed that the man was a large fellow; however, this couldn’t be more wrong. The man was short, borderline anorexic, and a voice like the squeaky wheelchair. Francesco imagined that if his chair could talk, this is who it would be.
“Good day sir,” squeaked the wheelchair. “My name is Officer Peachman. I’d like to ask you what you were doing last night.”
“Well ask then,” replied Franky.
“What were you doing last night?” asked Officer Peachman.
“Watching this house burn from my window.”
“What time?”
“Bedtime.”
“Please try to be helpful, sir.”
“Oh, er, three ish?”
“Thank you. And what of General Morelli?”
“What of him?”
“Neighbours have told the police about his behavior last night.”
“Ah, I see.”
“What do you see?”
“Well, I see rubble, police, media, fire engines, yo-”
“No, no! Mr... Sorry, what’s your name?”
“Francesco Clemente.”
“Well, Mr. Clementine, what did you see Mr. Morelli doing last night?”
“As a matter of fact he took a shot at the house.”
“With what?”
“What do you think?
“A gun?”
“There you go!”
“Which house?”
“Which do you think, testa della merda?”
“Thank you, Mr. Clementine, you’ve been very helpful.”
“Really?”
“Yes. We’re sending men to detain the general now.”
“I really don’t think he has anything to do with it...”
“So an assassin on a rooftop has nothing to do with it?”
“Sergeant Tipsy? An assassin? Pahahahaha!”
“Well... Even if he isn’t the killer, we can still get him for possession of a firearm.”
“Good-day Peachman.”
“That’s Officer Peachman to you, Clementine.”
“It’s Clemente, you wheelchair.”
On that note Francesco wheeled past the peeved Peachman to go and inspect the corpse of Vijaya Lakshmi. Her remains were burnt and shrivelled, but reasonably intact. Francesco told yet another lie to a police officer: “Private Investigator Clemente, stand aside please, grazie.” Francesco looked over the body; he couldn’t see any sort of bullet mark in the woman. Although Franky hardly knew the woman, he pitied her. A tall, dark-skinned woman of Indian origin, she, as Franky recalled, had been rather beautiful. Now, however, she was a shrivelled potato chip. There wasn’t much to look at so Francesco sat up and surveyed the area. He saw Marty, sitting down with a blanket around his shoulders, so he wheeled over to him.
“I’m sorry,” said Franky.
Marty looked up and said, “Worse things have happened to me.”
“Oh, I can see,” replied the cheeky Franky.
Marty laughed. “That dark humour is going to get you into trouble, you know.”
Francesco shrugged. “Eh, I’ve been hit by a taxi. I don’t especially care. Well, if you don’t mind, I’m going home. Ciao.”
“Ciao,” replied Marty.
When Francesco was back at his viewpoint he looked to the general’s house. In the garden beneath his balcony was a smashed bottle. He then looked in one of Tipsy’s windows. There he could see Morelli senior being questioned by the cops. He looked like he was trying to explain that he didn’t want to kill anyone, he was just very intoxicated. The general was shaking his head from side to side and swiping his hands to and fro. Officer Peachman was there pointing at him, trying to dump all the blame on him, probably trying to persuade the poor drunk that he had either shot someone - lies - or his bullet had caused the house fire - also lies. Then two other police officers came in, handcuffed the general, and led him out.
Marty turned his head to the burnt down house. The media and emergency forces were clearing now. After they all left only one person remained: Marty. He paced up and down the rubble, kicking pieces of debris out the way. Francesco pushed himself backwards to grab his binoculars from a drawer. He used these only in emergencies, like when he couldn’t see the beautiful woman’s naked body across the communal garden after she got out of the shower. He now didn’t do that as she once saw him when he forgot to turn off the lights in his house. He tried to justify this by being Italian; but this didn’t seem to convince her.
He now looked at the magnified Marty. Marty was walking over to the fuse box - ah-ha! Through the binoculars Francesco saw that he was once again adjusting the fuses back to normal, as if nothing had happened. Why would he want to change them unless he’d tampered with them in the first place? A crazy idea was forming in Franky’s head; perhaps Marty had burnt down the house? It seemed logical... as far as he knew, no one else had any kind of hatred for Miss Lakshmi, apart from the general, but it couldn’t be him as he’s never sober. His train of thought was cut short when he realised that once again he’d left the light on. He was about to go and hit the lights but it was too late, Marty started to look around to see if anyone was watching him, and saw Francesco at the window. Marty snarled and walked off.
Shitting himself, Francesco punched 911 into his phone, yelled at the tone for Peachman, and started babbling down the line.
“Peachman! I know who the arsonist is!”
“I’m sorry, who is this exactly?” asked Officer Peachman.
“It’s Clemente, listen I-”
“Clementine! How are you this fine evening?”
“I’m SHIT Peachman! I’m SHIT!”
“What appears to be the problem, sir?”
“The problem appears to be that I’ve just seen the killer of Miss Lakshmi and he’s seen me!”
“You can’t have. Morelli is locked up at police HQ.”
“No! He just saw me!”
“No, he didn’t. I can see him and he definitely didn’t just see you.”
“Different bloody Morelli you pagliaccio! The one with the fucked-up face!”
“Clementine, he’s not the killer, the general is.”
“No. He’s. Not. The gunshot went through into Marty’s room and probably hit the bed. It couldn’t have killed Vijaya or started a fire. The fire was started by someone fiddling with the fuse box.”
“Clementine, I’ve had a stroke of genius, Marty’s the killer!”
“Peachman, I’d call you stupid, but that would be offensive to stupid people.”
“Clementine, I’m coming to get you.”
Peachman hung up. At that moment Francesco heard the door being kicked in. Francesco had never been so scared. His stubble suddenly became itchy with nerves and he started to shake all over. Marty appeared at the top of the stairs. Neither of them said anything, they just stared at each other.
Francesco broke the silence: “So you killed her.”
“Yes,” croaked Marty.
“Why?”
“Imagine if a woman took you away from your only parent at age four, took all his
money, didn’t let you see him, signed you up for the army to basically get you killed, you wouldn’t want her to breathe. When I found out about my father my hatred overcame me. Being blown up plays with your mind, Mr. Clemente.”
“Still, you killed someone, Marty.”
“Do I look as if I care?”
“I genuinely don’t know. Your face shows very little expression, what with the scars and all.”
“Har har har,” he coughed. “I did say that humour would get you into trouble, and it will. You know my little secret; I can’t have that.”
“The entire police force now knows your little secret, Marty.”
“Then it won’t matter killing one more.”
Marty started to walk towards Francesco. Although Franky was playing cool to the scarred man, he was terrified on the inside. He grabbed a large blue paint pot which was lying next to him and chucked the contents at Marty. Surprised and covered in blue paint, Marty stopped for a second. This second gave Francesco the chance to throw the bowl of berries too which struck Marty right in the face, making him fall over. Francesco then grabbed the metal tray which the bowl had been on and hurtled past Marty, smacking the arsonist’s head with it just as he sat up. Deeming the elevator far too slow, Francesco decided that the only way down was to fall down the stairs. This he did, resulting in pain. At the bottom he struggled up and wheeled his way out of his house and into the middle of the road. Marty appeared at the door, looking a great shade of purple. Francesco smiled and waved, feeling safe now that he was out in the open. Unluckily for Franky, Marty was not who he should have been looking at. He was knocked ten metres and fell flat on his face; the taxi sped past him. He then saw Marty standing over him, grim and menacing. However, this didn’t last too long as suddenly, Peachman, arriving at speed, rugby-tackled Marty Morelli to the ground. Francesco, feeling relieved, passed out.
The next morning Francesco awoke in a white room. He could not feel his back, nor his legs, nor his arms. He simply exclaimed: “Mama mia!” And fell back to sleep.
L'estremità.