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It was raining in the city. Not that annoying, on again o again rain, but a steady, heavy, soul-depressing rain. A New York rain. Low rumbles of thunder could be heard in the distance. The air was heavy with the smell of rain; wet streets, wet bricks, and wet gar- bage, mixing with the smells of freshly baked rolls and steaming pots of homemade soup. As complex as a perfume concocted from elds of daisies and sour piles of dirty laundry. Even with the win- dows closed, the smell lled the speeding taxi as it made its way from LaGuardia Airport to the Upper East Side. On the dashboard, a small placard proudly displayed a picture of the driver and his name, Bhupesh Dasgupta. He had escaped the caste system of his native India but still wore his tightly wrapped silk turban. It was as much a part of him as his dark eyes and neatly trimmed beard. Bhupesh loved to talk, and he was very proud of his English. If you asked him, he would tell you he spoke it perfectly. If you asked most of his passengers, they would say they couldn’t understand half of what he said and weren’t the slightest bit inter- ested in the other half. But tonight, he was silent. These passengers made him so nervous he’d turned up the radio to cover the silence. In the backseat, a thin, gloved hand wiped the fog o the win- dow and let in just a little more of the harshly colored city lights. Bhupesh could barely make out the gaunt form wrapped in a trench coat, staring absentmindedly at the passing signs. This passenger seemed fascinated by the foul-smelling steam pouring from the manhole covers and the promises made by the ashing neon signs. The “World’s Greatest Food,” “Best Prices,” and “Buy One Get One Free” without telling you what the “One” was. He sat there, quietly ignoring the noise of the radio. What Bhupesh didn’t know was that his mysterious passenger had sensed his discomfort. Fortunately for the cabby, he didn’t care what he’d sensed. He just sat “quietly” and let the city ash by. A long black scarf was wrapped around his neck, and a wide- brimmed black hat hid most of his face. Even though it was dark, the man wore mirrored sunglasses. The only things visible were his long, beaked nose, a bushy mustache, and long stringy hair that fell to his shoulders. Bhupesh loved old American movies and he often compared his passengers to characters from them. This guy looked vaguely like Jean-Hugues Anglade had in Killing Zoe. The other passenger was a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties. She was re ned, petite, and extremely uncomfortable. She sat pressed against the door as if she wanted to be as far away from Beak Nose as possible. There was one other passenger in the backseat. It was in a cage. It sat between the man and the woman like a barrier. The driver had no idea what was in it, but even over the stench of the streets, he could smell it. It smelled wild, and it smelled dangerous. The sounds in the cab all seemed to be getting louder. The music, the noise from the street, and even the cabby’s GPS with its annoying British voice. Bhupesh bit down on his lip when he realized he was talking to himself. Not that his passengers cared— they apparently had nothing to say to each other, much less him. As he pulled up to a red light, he took another look into his rear view mirror. The street lights illuminated the woman’s face. She had her head turned away from him, so he took his time looking. She seemed to be watching the rain drops make their way down the window, but her body was very tense. Bhupesh could see she was gripping her purse so tightly her long pale ngers had turned white. She looked like a school teacher in her perfectly tailored, gun- metal gray suit, her perfectly appropriate oval glasses on a perfect little gold chain and a ring with perfectly matched sapphires on her middle nger. She even had school teacher hair, tinted that strange color of blue older women seem to favor, cut short and styled in small tight curls that hugged her scalp. Even though it was rainy, windy, and humid, her hair looked like she had just walked out of the salon. For all of her school teacher look, there was something unsettling about her. An aging Janet Leigh in The Fog, he thought. She has the same cold look. She turned so quickly Bhupesh had no time to look away. Without taking her eyes o him, she quickly opened her purse, pulled out a sour candy, unwrapped it, and popped it in her mouth. She said, “You can go now, the light is quite green.” He’d just started to move through the intersection when a terrifying scream lled the cab. His eyes bulged with shock as he slammed on the brakes and brought the cab to a screeching halt. The scream died o in the sickening sound of someone being stran- gled. He turned in time to hear the last of the horrible sound fade away. It was coming from that cage. He looked at the woman, then at the cage, then back at the woman, and a lifetime of being respect- ful to his elders abandoned him.
“What in the name of Krishna was that?” the cabby shouted.

La pioggia è come la pizza, diversa in ogni parte del mondo. Pioveva a New York City, ma non nella solita noiosa maniera, semmai in modo ancora più importuno e deprimente, come in questa città accade spesso. I muri dei palazzi emanavano quel caratteristico odore di mattoni inumiditi, mentre dalla strada si spandeva un puzzo composito di zuppa, di pane, margherite di campo e biancheria sudicia, un miasma che si avvertiva pure all’interno del taxi, anche con i finestrini abbassati. La vettura attraversava a velocità sostenuta la strada che conduce verso l’Upper West Side. Il taxi driver, come si deduceva dalla targhetta applicata sul cruscotto, era indiano e si chiamava Bhupesh Dasgupta, un quarantenne con una barba ben curata, occhi nerissimi e un turbante di seta così stretto sulla testa che sembrava un prolungamento dei capelli. Avrebbe desiderato conversare un po’ con i suoi passeggeri, ma costoro, per ragioni multiple, lo avevano reso inquieto, cosicché accese l’autoradio per coprire quel silenzio eccessivo. La sua mano manovrò il cursore in cerca di una musica familiare: – Brrrrrpt… brrrrpt… Ghar baar Nahin, Sansaar Nahin… Guardando in alto, si accorse che nuvole nere passavano veloci dinanzi alla luna, sferica come il culo enorme e butterato di un adolescente, che minacciava ingenuamente il mondo. Uno scroscio d’acqua più impetuoso riportò di colpo la sua attenzione al controllo della strada. Sul sedile posteriore una mano guantata di pelle nera pulì il vetro appannato del finestrino e le luci notturne della città rischiararono l’abitacolo. Un signore magrissimo con indosso un impermeabile di tela osservava con lo sguardo fisso le insegne dei vari delicatessen e stores che promettevano il cibo migliore del mondo, i prezzi più convenienti, offerte vantaggiose del tipo “Compra uno, ricevi un altro in omaggio” senza però specificare cosa. Costui pareva affascinato anche dai vapori effusi dai tombini e ascoltava in silenzio quella lagna proveniente dalla radio. Si era accorto che il tassista aveva percepito in lui qualcosa di diverso e di sbagliato, ma non gliene fregava niente, continuando a gustare in silenzio i richiami della città. Portava una sciarpa lunga annodata intorno al collo. Il suo volto era semicoperto da un cappello a falde larghe, occhiali da sole a goccia, un naso importante, i capelli lunghi sul collo e baffi spioventi: ricordava vagamente Jean Hugues Anglade in “Killing Zoe”. – Us Paar Kisise Milne Ka Iqraar Nahin… Mujhse Kisi Ko Pyaar Nahin… – continuava quella canzone di zucchero e ragnatele. C’era un altro passeggero seduto nel taxi, accanto all’uomo: una signora sulla sessantina, piccola, elegante e vistosamente a disagio. Sedeva incollata col corpo pressato allo sportello del l’autovettura, quasi a voler essere distante il più possibile dall’uomo col naso a becco. Sospirò, malcelando il suo evidente fastidio. Tra di loro era sistemata, come una barriera divisoria, una gabbietta per gatti. Il tassista non aveva idea di cosa potesse contenere, perché da questa di tanto in tanto fuoriusciva un tramestio, unito a un fetore selvatico. I suoni e gli odori all’interno del taxi sembravano diventare di minuto in minuto più insostenibili. A un semaforo rosso Bhupesh diede un’occhiata allo specchietto retrovisore e, quindi, voce al navigatore satellitare. Si accorse che la signora mostrava irrequietezza da come reggeva la borsetta serrata tra le dita bianche come la polpa dei funghi, da come fingeva di ignorare il signore allampanato seduto accanto a lei e da come guardava con aria distratta le gocce d’acqua scendere sul finestrino. Sembrava un’insegnante delle scuole superiori con indosso un tailleur grigio ferro, i capelli corti e freschi di parrucchiere, dal colore improbabile, quasi un violetto, con gli occhiali ovali dalla catenina d’oro e un anello con pietra dura azzurra al dito medio. Somigliava molto all’attrice di “Psycho”, Janet Leigh, quand’era già anziana, ai tempi di quel film sulla nebbia di John Carpenter. Evidentemente anche lei, per fare fronte all’insopprimibile gracchiare dei corvi interiori, aveva messo a punto strategie difensive personali, quanto efficaci. Aprì la borsa, scartocciò una caramella al fernet, se la lanciò in gola e poi disse: – Vada, vada, che la luce è verde! D’improvviso il rumore confidenziale della pioggia fu squarciato da un orribile grido strozzato, un urlo raccapricciante, quasi un raglio che terminava con un chioccio gorgoglio. Proveniva dalla gabbietta per gatti. Il taxi driver spalancò gli occhi e, rallentando di colpo, si voltò verso i due passeggeri: – Sri Krishna benedetto! Che c’è là dentro?…

first page of the novel

Chapter 1
It was raining in the city. Not that annoying, on again off again rain, but a steady, heavy, soul-depressing rain. A New York rain. Low rumbles of thunder could be heard in the distance. The air was heavy with the smell of rain; wet streets, wet bricks, and wet garbage, mixing with the smells of freshly baked rolls and steaming pots of homemade soup. As complex as a perfume concocted from fields of daisies and sour piles of dirty laundry. Even with the windows closed, the smell filled the speeding taxi as it made its way from LaGuardia Airport to the Upper East Side.
On the dashboard, a small placard proudly displayed a picture of the driver and his name, Bhupesh Dasgupta. He had escaped the caste system of his native India but still wore his tightly wrapped silk turban. It was as much a part of him as his dark eyes and neatly trimmed beard. Bhupesh loved to talk, and he was very proud of his English. If you asked him, he would tell you he spoke it perfectly. If you asked most of his passengers, they would say they couldn’t understand half of what he said and weren’t the slightest bit interested in the other half. But tonight, he was silent. These passengers made him so nervous he’d turned up the radio to cover the silence.
In the backseat, a thin, gloved hand wiped the fog off the window and let in just a little more of the harshly colored city lights. Bhupesh could barely make out the gaunt form wrapped in a trench coat, staring absentmindedly at the passing signs. This passenger seemed fascinated by the foul-smelling steam pouring from the manhole covers and the promises made by the flashing neon signs. The “World’s Greatest Food,” “Best Prices,” and “Buy One Get One Free” without telling you what the “One” was. He sat there, quietly ignoring the noise of the radio. What Bhupesh didn’t know was that his mysterious passenger had sensed his discomfort. Fortunately for the cabby, he didn’t care what he’d sensed. He just sat “quietly” and let the city flash by.
A long black scarf was wrapped around his neck, and a wide-brimmed black hat hid most of his face. Even though it was dark, the man wore mirrored sunglasses. The only things visible were his long, beaked nose, a bushy mustache, and long stringy hair that fell to his shoulders. Bhupesh loved old American movies and he often compared his passengers to characters from them. This guy looked vaguely like Jean-Hugues Anglade had in Killing Zoe.
The other passenger was a woman who looked to be in her mid-sixties. She was refined, petite, and extremely uncomfortable. She sat pressed against the door as if she wanted to be as far away from Beak Nose as possible. There was one other passenger in the backseat. It was in a cage. It sat between the man and the woman like a barrier. The driver had no idea what was in it, but even over the stench of the streets, he could smell it. It smelled wild, and it smelled dangerous.
The sounds in the cab all seemed to be getting louder. The music, the noise from the street, and even the cabby’s GPS with its annoying British voice. Bhupesh bit down on his lip when he realized he was talking to himself. Not that his passengers cared—they apparently had nothing to say to each other, much less him. As he pulled up to a red light, he took another look into his rear view mirror. The street lights illuminated the woman’s face. She had her head turned away from him, so he took his time looking. She seemed to be watching the rain drops make their way down the window, but her body was very tense. Bhupesh could see she was gripping her purse so tightly her long pale fingers had turned white.
She looked like a school teacher in her perfectly tailored, gunmetal gray suit, her perfectly appropriate oval glasses on a perfect little gold chain and a ring with perfectly matched sapphires on her middle finger. She even had school teacher hair, tinted that strange color of blue older women seem to favor, cut short and styled in small tight curls that hugged her scalp. Even though it was rainy, windy, and humid, her hair looked like she had just walked out of the salon. For all of her school teacher look, there was something unsettling about her. An aging Janet Leigh in The Fog, he thought. She has the same cold look.
She turned so quickly Bhupesh had no time to look away. Without taking her eyes off him, she quickly opened her purse, pulled out a sour candy, unwrapped it, and popped it in her mouth. She said, “You can go now, the light is quite green.”
He’d just started to move through the intersection when a terrifying scream filled the cab. His eyes bulged with shock as he slammed on the brakes and brought the cab to a screeching halt. The scream died off in the sickening sound of someone being strangled. He turned in time to hear the last of the horrible sound fade away. It was coming from that cage. He looked at the woman, then at the cage, then back at the woman, and a lifetime of being respectful to his elders abandoned him.
“What in the name of Krishna was that?” the cabby shouted.

(…)

The Sizzling Nights of the Diabolical Dr. Carelli – Synopsis

“The Sizzling Nights of the Diabolical Dr. Carelli,” is a novel written by Marcello Garofalo. The story is an intriguing and effective blend of horror, drama, action and comedy.

Mr. Garofalo has collaborated with Matthew Temple to create an American adaptation of the novel that retains the depth and feel of the original Italian version.

The dialog is simple, direct and immediate, giving the narrated events a relentless and compelling rhythm.

The imaginary world of Doctor Carelli is carefully woven into the real world to create a seamless flow between the too. Some of the mystery and science behind the Doctor’s existence is revealed as the reader is drawn deeper into the fantasy. It’s not long before they begin to understand that death is no more permeant than life and good and evil are never absolutists.

Target: Lovers of Horror Comedy and Action. Readers who understand that Black and White is never black and white

In Life,
An Ordinary Boy,
In Death,
A Living Skeleton
Destined to Upheave the World

The protagonist of our story, set in New York City is Phillip Carelli. His life was cut short when, at only 19, he is shot down in the street. The police are unable to find a motive for his murder or uncover a single lead to the hooded figure who shot him. When Phillip’s aunt Eleanor, an internationally renowned biologist, and researcher, is notified of his death she moves quickly to have his body shipped to her lab deep in the Amazon Rainforest.

Driven by her love for her nephew and a need to understand the very nature of “Life” she renews a line of experimentation she had sworn an oath as a young scientist to abandon. Though she is keenly aware of both the dangers and the consequences she works tirelessly to perfect the procedure. When she is convinced that the process will work, she sets aside her fears and uses it to resurrect her nephew. But he is no longer the boy she raised. She has changed him into a living skeleton.
As Phillip overcomes the shock of what has happened to him and works to gain control over his new form, he begins to develop a plan to make good use of his powers.
Over his aunt’s objections, he returns to New York and tracks down his first love, Joan-Mary Frazier. He recruits her and her current lover, an older professor named Tony Seppilli, to help him execute his plan. Things become complicated when Alida Sibley, a former research partner of Eleanor Carelli, learns of Phillip’s existence and sets a plan in motion to destroy him and exact revenge on Eleanor.
As the founder of an “alternative” clinic recognized as a leader in the treatment of rare psychological disorders, Alida Sibley has been secretly experimenting on some of her more dangerous patients. Rather then curing them she has used her considerable skill to move them so deep into their classic paranoia that little remains of their humanity.
Christopher Kier doesn’t think he is a Vampire, he is a Vampire. Ready to feast on anyone who dares to cross him.
Little remains of the man his family knew as Gyro Marchione. He is now an animal. A Werewolf, without conscience or compassion.
Dan Carnahan, consumed by an ancient desire to survive beyond the grave, has become the living manifestation of a Mummy. Believing he can extend his own life by ripping it away from others.
“Killing Machines” at the beckon call of their Master: Dr. Alida Sibley.
Through every twist and turn a showdown is coming. And once again, the Observation Deck of the Empire State Building will be the stage of an epic battle.

Read the first page of the novel

Marcello Garofalo – Author

Journalist, cinema critic and essayist. He writes for “CIAK” Magazine, Italy’s premier movie magazine and is on the executive committee of “Segnocinema”. He has published several books, among which are :

Once Upon a Time in America-Photographic Memories (from the film of Sergio Leone, 1988);
The Last Emperor-Story of a Journey toward West (from the film by Bernardo Bertolucci, 1991);
L’immagine-cinema- A book on the Art of the still photographer Angelo Novi (1992);
Beauty and the Beast-Story of a Masterpiece (with Bob Thomas, The Walt Disney Company Italy, 1993);
Aladdin-Story of a Masterpiece (with John Culhane, The Walt Disney Company Italia, 1994);
Bertolucci’s Buddha (1994);
In the Mouth of Madness- A collection of essays on madness in cinema (1995);
Westmoreland Naples – Beat Poses and visions from the Newark Theater al Parthenope (1997);
Tutto il cinema di Sergio Leone-The Films of Sergio Leone (1999);
Bertolucci Images (2001; new updated edition, 2010);
Disney Recipes-From Animation to Inspiration (with Ira Meyer, The Walt Disney Company Italy and USA, 2003);
Disney Agenda Cucina (with Ira Meyer, The Walt Disney Company Italy, 2004);
Disney Piccoli grandi cuochi (with Ira Meyer, The Walt Disney Company Italy, 2006);
La cucina Disney per grandi & piccini (with Ira L. Meyer , The Walt Disney Company Italy, 2008).

He has designed the bookcover and he has realized the illustrations of “Siddhartha’s Book” in “Little Buddha” by Bernardo Bertolucci.

In 1996 he directed (with Pietro Baldoni and Vittorio Guida) the TV movie (42 minutes) “Westmoreland Naples” starring Allen Ginsberg.

In 1997 he is the author of the plot of “Maruzzella”, the episode of the “anthology film” “The Vesuvians” presented at the 54th Venezia Film Festival.

In 1999 he directed the documentary “Confidential Report on Mr. Dennis Duggan a.k.a. the King of Super8” (70 minutes); the film was presented (out of competition) at the 17 ° Turin Film Festival.

His book “Tutto il cinema di Sergio Leone” (“The Films By Sergio Leone”) is winner of the award as “best movie book of the year” (2000) from the syndicate of the film critics.

In 2006 he has written and directed “Tre donne morali” (Three Moral Women) screened at the 1st Rome Film Festival (2006) and at the Los Angeles Film Fest (2008). The movie received unanimous positive reviews.

Curator of many exhibitions, in 2006/2007 he has been the curator of “The Taste in the Art of Walt Disney” (Parma/Rome) and in 2010 of the photo-exhibition “Bertolucci Images” at “The Art Directors Club” of New York to celebrate the film retrospective of Bernardo Bertolucci at the MoMA.