Chi del gitano i giorni abbella, chi? chi i giorni abbella?
Chi del gitano i giorni abbella?
La zingarella! — Waiter singing in the background…
'Let me see if I understand you correctly, Mr. Jones. You wish to commission not one, but two identical copies of Van Gogh's 'Mountains at Saint-Remy'. More to the point, these painting are to be indistinguishable from the original. Do I have that right?'
'Absolutely. And, please, call me Simon.'
The two men were dining at 13 ^th and Dickinson Streets in South Philadelphia.
'Simon, if I may ask, why me?'
'Well, Mr. DeAngelo, you come highly recommended.'
Since 1933, the Victor Cafe has served traditional Italian fare along with performances from live opera singers; the waiters.
Anthony DeAngelo took a sip of his Chianti. 'Simon, first of all, I'm flattered. However, let's take a moment to examine the obstacles which have to be overcome to accomplish… this project.'
'By all means.'
'To start with, acquiring the necessary materials from Van Gogh's time period. Canvases, frames, brushes. Then whatever paint that he used, we almost would have to make that from scratch.'
Simon twirled some pasta onto his fork, lifted his head, looked at his guest, 'So far, no problems.'
'I'm just getting started. I need to see the painting, itself, taken apart. I'll need color photographs, I should take those myself.'
'I believe that can be arranged.'
'And, last but not least, I have a small but very real problem with the FBIs Art Crime Unit.'
Simon pushed his plate aside and ordered Sambuca and coffee for them both. 'Ah, yes, so I've heard. Anthony, I won't lie to you. Of course there is an element of risk. I can do everything possible to minimize the risk, nonetheless it exists. On the other hand, you will be very well compensated.'
'What are we talking about?'
'You name your own price. If I can do it, I will. If I can't, well, I had the opportunity to make a new friend. No haggling. Name your figure and we'll take it from there.'
Anthony DeAngelo sat there thinking about his wife, their growing family and the repercussions about moving forward with this project. He polished off the Sambuca and sipped his coffee. This Simon Jones, whom he had just met only ninety minutes ago also came highly recommended. ‘Someone to be trusted’ his contact had said. And besides, for no concrete reason, Anthony liked him.
Anthony named a figure and added, 'If that's agreeable, then we can move ahead.'
Simon Jones stood and shook his hand. 'We'll be in touch.'
I explain my Uncle to Penny Lane
We had been involved with each other for about a year when Kelly 'Don't call me Penny Lane' said to me, 'There's been something that I've been meaning to talk to you about.'
I'm thinking, 'Here it comes,' and actually say, 'Oh, shit.'
'No, no, nothing like that. I'm just curious, and it makes no real difference to me, really, it doesn't. I'm just wondering, why do you talk to yourself all the time? I mean, is it just an idiosyncrasy, you know, some personal quirky habit? Or, I'm wondering, are you schizophrenic? Is there a history of mental illness in your family? I'm just wondering, you know. Not really concerned.'
At this point she has a shit eating grin on her face. Kind of egging me on.
'Honestly, I don't know if there is any mental illness in my family. I never knew them. My mother died when I was very young and my father was never in the picture. Your guess is as good as mine. What do you think?'
She comes back with, 'No, seriously, why do you always talk to yourself. I mean, most people do, sometimes. But with you, really Pick, it's a lot. No kidding, I've never seen anything like it.'
I take a deep breath. Let it out. I take a moment to consider. I really like this girl. I could see myself spending a long time with her. Even the rest of our lives. Best to just come out and tell her the truth.
'I’m talking to Moses Aronson. My Uncle Moe.'
Moses Aronson was born somewhere around the turn of the century in Ireland.
He was born into a family that belonged to the Jewish community. The history of Jews in Ireland goes back about a thousand years. Their numbers have always been small, as recently as 2006 there were less than two thousand Jews in the Republic of Ireland. The Jewish community there is well established and fairly well accepted.
Kelly looked at me funny, squinted her eyes and said, 'You're kidding, right?'
'No. Not at all. My mother died when I was very young. Maybe four or five years old. My father was a married man that she had a brief affair with. His name was Simon. Anyway, Si was very fond of my mother. And, he was very close to his Uncle Moe.
'What he did was, Si that is, is ask his Uncle Moe to come to the states to kind of look after me and my mother. Well, she becomes ill unexpectedly and asks Moses to look after me when she is gone. She's getting pretty upset at this point and gets him to swear that no matter what, that he, Moses, will do everything he can to look after her baby boy. That's me.'
Moses Aronson spent the better part of twenty years in the service. He had this thing when he was a young man about seeing the world. The military provided him just that opportunity. When he gets out he returns to his first love, antiques. Moe Aronson then devoted his time to traveling the world and hustling antiques.
I continue, 'For some reason that eludes explanation, he was extremely fond of his nephew, Simon. Maybe it was because he himself never married or had any children. Regardless. Si asks him to go to America and look after his illegitimate family. Which is exactly what he does.
'Here's the kicker. Not long after that, when I'm six years old, Uncle Moe goes and dies. Nothing surprising, he's a very old man at this point. What is surprising is his commitment. He made a promise to my mother and it was so strong that he stuck around to keep it. It was Uncle Moe that taught me the antiques trade. No kidding.'
Kelly is looking at me in complete disbelief. If you looked exasperated up in the dictionary at that moment you would find her picture right there.
'Hell, don't look at me like that. You wanted to know and now you do.'
She lets out this huge breath. 'You’re shittin’ me. Honest to God, I've never heard such a pile of…' You know, she went on like that for fifteen minutes without coming up for a breath of air.
'Okay,' I tell her, 'I'll just have to prove it to you.'
'Sure. And just how do you plan to do that?'
I look around the room. Kato's yellow tennis ball is on the floor. 'Simple. Take this ball. I'll step outside. You hide the ball. Anywhere, anywhere in the house that you like.'
You're not going to believe this. This shit goes on for twenty minutes. Kelly, DCMPL, hides the ball, comes to front door to call me in, I go straight to where the ball is hidden. We do this same thing over and over until she has hidden the ball like twenty or thirty times.
And I don't miss once. Not one single time.
'How the hell are you doing that? It's a magic trick, right? I know you do magic, I've seen you with a deck of cards. You're pretty good. You really are…'
Son of bitch, she won't let it go. 'No, sweetheart, it's not a trick. It's my Uncle. You hide the ball, he sees where you put it and he tells me. It's that simple.'
'I know!' She's onto something else. Something she can sink her mind into, a concept that fits into her mental constructs. 'You're telepathic. You come back into the house and read my mind. That's it.'
'You know', I say, 'That is a possible explanation. And, to be perfectly honest, its one that I've considered. Except for one little thing. Uncle Moe knows things that I can't possibly know. He tells me things when there are no other people around for me to read their minds.
