“My, my, my, how you do rant,” Fellini said. “Know this, Mr. Reiniger, or whatever your name may be. Taking me on would be the biggest mistake of your miserable life. You have absolutely no proof of any wrongdoing on my part whatsoever—none.
“You had best think long and hard about the slander and liable laws in our country and in yours. If you do anything to harm my reputation, anything at all, by the time I’m done with you, you will find yourself in prison for extortion and if you survive that and are released, you will find that I will own your balloon business, if a lying Gypsy like you even owns a business.
“Get out of my sight.” Fellini turned away from me and called out to his adjoining office. “Jessica, please see that Mr. Reiniger leaves the building.”
As Jessica took my arm and walked me towards the stairs, Fellini said, “Be grateful that I am not calling the police, Herr Reiniger. Be utterly certain that I shall not hesitate to do so, if I hear from you—or about you—ever again.”
31
It really was impossible to see clearly in the gloom of the tunnel and Yoko wondered how Zoran was managing because the air was dank, literally cloying. Thank the goddess she wasn’t claustrophobic. Gradually her eyes adjusted but she knew Zoran’s eyes would take longer to make that adjustment because the meds for his OCD made his vision system less flexible. She felt sorry for the brilliant detective, it had to be tough, keeping the lid tamped down on his Pandora’s Box of compulsions and obsessions.
“Zoran, you can guide yourself by touching the wall to one side of you every now and then.”
Yoko regretted her words instantly. Touching the tunnel wall was probably the last thing Zoran wanted to do. She could hear him stumbling along behind her, breathing heavily, but he was keeping up, although that wasn’t too hard to do because they weren’t moving very fast.
“So dark, so damp, the floor is uneven. What are we doing here?” Zoran said. “I cannot even see where I am going.”
“Look to the right,” Yoko said. “You’ll see a phosphorescent line on the wall.”
“Shh,” Dan warned. He stood still and Yoko and Zoran came to a stop behind him. All they could hear was occasional drips and now and then a faint rumble, probably street traffic on the surface.
“Are we close to the Con Ed tunnel that has lights?” Dan whispered to Yoko. Behind Yoko, Zoran sighed at the abbreviation of the utility company’s name.
“I think so,” Yoko said, keeping her voice low.
“How far?” Dan asked.
“I’m not sure, maybe another block or two.”
“A street block or an avenue block?”
Leave it to Zoran to ask about the precise distance. Yoko bit back a snippy answer, glad when Dan spoke.
“Wait here, I’ll go on ahead. When I find the tunnel with the lights, I’ll rap on the wall like this.” He tapped on the wall twice and the sounds reverberated softly. Yoko put a hand on Dan’s belt and tugged gently, and he reached back, caressing her hand, then he moved away.
Zoran exhaled loudly, no doubt grateful that movement on his part was not necessary at the moment. Yoko strained to see but couldn’t make out exactly when Dan’s outline melted into the darkness. She and Zoran stood waiting, adrenalin running on high. Later, Yoko explained that it might have been a minute or two, but in the dark isolation of the tunnel, it was hard to know how much time passed. When she heard the muffled sound of cautious footsteps, she wasn’t exactly certain which direction they came from.
“Dan?” she called softly.
A light flashed on and off. In the split second of dazzling illumination, Yoko glimpsed that she was actually standing a yard or so from the Y juncture of two tunnels. The light had come from the tunnel to the left of where she and Zoran stood. The brightness dazzled on again, nearer. From the size of the beam Yoko judged it was a flashlight, a biggish one. It was aimed directly at Zoran and Yoko, which made it impossible to see who was holding the light. The two figures behind the light were dim shapes but Yoko was certain it was Sophia Fellini and Jessica Ware. Anyone else––another Quaker exploring under the city?––would have called out, identified themselves. The lack of friendly voices calling out in greeting sent a message that didn’t need words to be menacing.
What happened next was a blur. Yoko was backed roughly against the wall and heavy twine twisted around her hands. A push sent her stumbling to the ground. From where she lay, Yoko could see Zoran standing motionless, a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Now the two women were close to Yoko. She could just make out their shapes but she was puzzled, what were the shadowy figures doing?
The sibilance of bowstrings being drawn back sounded and instantly Yoko knew what that meant––the two fugitives were preparing to use the bows and arrows from the club.
“They’re aiming at you,” she yelled to Zoran, “Run.”
Desperately, Yoko pulled against the twine. It cut into her hands and loosened a fraction but not enough for her to wriggle free. Frantically, she lashed out with both feet and landed a direct hit on the legs of the woman standing close to her.
“Crap, you ruined my aim.”
The angry cry was followed by scuffling and curses as the person Yoko had kicked was thrown off balance and crashed into the person next to her. Yoko had disrupted the shooting stance of both archers but she hadn’t succeeded in galvanizing Zoran into moving. Twang. Yoko heard the release of an arrow and watched in horror at the sight of one flying straight at Zoran.
The OCD detective stood and watched the arrow’s trajectory as if it was in slow motion. His feet were motionless but his upper body shook and jittered, left an inch, right an inch, left half an inch again. Duck for pity’s sake, Zoran, Yoko thought.
He didn’t.
The arrow flashed towards Zoran and thudded into his chest. He fell back and lay on the floor, the arrow sticking up, still quivering from its flight. Yoko heard throaty sounds of satisfaction from the archer.
A kick landed in Yoko’s side and she cried out at the stabbing pain, struggling for breath.
“Count your blessings, Doctor!” The voice was Jessica Ware’s.
Yoko heard hurried footsteps. She craned round in the direction of the receding noises and saw the beam of a small flashlight bouncing off walls. The light disappeared. They’d left her alive. Why? She pushed the question aside, how the hell could you get into the mind of killers? Yoko twisted her hands frantically, trying to wriggle free of the binding.
She scrambled to her feet awkwardly, still tugging at the binding and it suddenly slipped off her hands. Yoko stood, trying to orient herself. Where was Zoran? She took a tentative step and her foot brushed against something. It was the large flashlight that the fugitives had abandoned. She fumbled with its switch, relieved when the light came on, surprised to find Zoran close by, aghast at what she saw.
“Hold on, Zoran, my God, hold on. Don’t move.” Zoran was slowly beginning to sit up. Even worse, he started to tug on the arrow impaled in his chest.
“No, no! Don’t touch the arrow.”
Zoran ignored Yoko and pulled the arrow out. It didn’t have any blood on it. He reached in his shirt pocket and took out a small package. The gash in its paper wrapping was obvious.
32
My performance at Marco Fellini’s brownstone left me in despair even deeper than Brigitta’s death had, just nine days earlier. Not only was my Brigitta lost to me forever, I had broken my vow to her, my solemn vow on her deathbed. I had failed her completely. I had failed my whole family.
I knew of no way to redeem myself. What could I do?
Fellini was right. I could not prove the crystal ball on his mantel was my family’s crystal ball, even though I knew in my heart that it was. I could notify the media, but without proof they would not listen. The initials, B K 42, on the ball’s copper base, absolute proof to me of Fellini’s guilt, would be insufficient to the press without supporting evidence. They would not risk a resulting suit for defama
tion of Fellini’s character.
Without such convincing evidence, any lawsuit by me would be tossed out of court too, even if I could persuade a lawyer to file such a suit.
In my heart I knew that Fellini was guilty; his actions alone had made that clear. He was too controlled, too confident, too sure of himself, his statements too rehearsed. Yes, rehearsed. He had expected my accusations, perhaps not from me but from someone eventually, and he was ready for them. He just needed to be certain I had no evidence to support my accusations.
I rode my despair in a cab all the way to JFK, and much further. In the line at the SWISS terminal while I changed my reservation to the next available flight. In the concourse while I waited for my flight. Then in the Airbus 330 for eight hours, until finally I succumbed to fatigue and drifted into unconsciousness.
I dreamed of Brigitta, but only briefly. That was all it took. We were in our balloon, soaring high above the others at Château-d’Oex. Brigitta turned to me. “You are strong, Hans. You will find a way.”
My eyes popped open, my tears of self-pity evaporated. Brigitta’s voice trailed off in my mind. “I will always be with you, my beloved.”
The seat-belt light came on and a flight attendant reminded us—in German, French, and English—to return our chairs and tables to their upright positions in preparation for our arrival at Geneva.
Mama and Papa were waiting for me at baggage claim. I told them what we needed to do. We would mount a two-pronged assault on Castle Fellini. My parents would lead the investigation, drawing upon Roma around the globe. I would be the point man, sorting data and using it to thrust and parry and make Marco Fellini’s life miserable. I would pressure him until he cracked.
Mama and Papa are not especially computer-literate, but they are meticulous about their email, and their Gmail address book holds hundreds of names, organized by clan, family and locale. With one email message, they would cast a net that would reach around the globe, a web that would ensnare every detail of Marco Fellini’s past and present and every fact, rumor and innuendo about the life and death of Dr. Josef Mengele in South America and the disposition of Mengele’s “estate” after his death in 1979.
In particular, the focus would be on South American purveyors of illicit art. Fellini had not provided the name of the man from whom he said he purchased the crystal ball last September—the “reputable art dealer in Sao Paulo.” Dozens of Roma in Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay would make it their mission to locate the person who dealt with Fellini, whomever and wherever he or she might be.
My first task would be to talk to the reporter who had written the article in the International Herald Tribune about Fellini’s personal collection. That turned out to be surprisingly simple. The New York Times website gave me Justine Hoffman’s email address, and she was more than willing to meet with me when I told her I was researching a book about noteworthy private art collectors, to explore their impetus to acquire art for art’s sake, rather than for public viewing or for resale at a profit.
We agreed to meet in a week at the Barfly Bar and Grill near Gramercy Park, Fellini’s neighborhood, for a casual dinner at 7:00.
“Tell me about your book, Hans,” Justine said, after we’d placed our orders.
“Not much to divulge at this point. I’m just getting started. You are my first interview, in fact.” I placed a tiny recorder on the table between us. “Is this okay with you? My handwriting is atrocious and my notes are usually worthless without something to back them up.”
“No problem. Now tell me. What kind of information are you looking for with regard to Marco Fellini?”
“I want to focus on the ‘why,’ Justine. What drives people like Fellini to collect things? Is it a love of beauty and need to own it, control it, safeguard it? It’s not to share it, I’m beginning to see, although Fellini did appear delighted and proud to show you some items, knowing your article would include photos.”
“I don’t know that there’s a simple answer to that question, really. With Fellini, he was definitely enthusiastic about the things he showed me, and I got the feeling that, with him, it was the thrill of the chase—finding something others hadn’t been able to acquire. I don’t think it was so much a case of him needing to own those things for their monetary value, although that Blue Period Picasso would fetch a tidy sum if he were to sell it.”
“Millions, I’m sure.”
“Absolutely. Still, his other things seemed to have more of a personal value, rather than monetary. His collection of things like artifacts of Ishi’s archery is easy to understand. Fellini himself is a skilled archer. He even had an archery run built on his roof, so he can practice every day.”
“Was there anything in particular, any item, that struck you as out of place or odd about his collection.”
She laughed. “That big geode, that thunder egg, struck me as funny, and that crystal ball certainly looked out of place. The geode was just something he picked up on a hiking trip, but everyone has things like that. The crystal ball, though, that definitely piqued my interest and I asked him about it. He said he had always been fascinated by Gypsy culture, something to do with his own family history, apparently. I asked him if there was Gypsy blood in his veins, and he laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But my family in Italy had a lot to do with Gypsies.’ He didn’t elaborate. I asked him if his family had lived near a Gypsy encampment or something and he said, ‘Something like that.’”
“That’s fascinating. I’ll have to ask him for more details, if I’m able to see him. He’s a busy man and I don’t have an appointment yet. I’d like to find out where he got that crystal ball, too,” I said.
“He didn’t say anything about that, and I didn’t think to ask.”
We talked for about an hour in all, but nothing more of any particular interest emerged. When I got back to my hotel, I emailed Papa about the Fellini-Gypsy-Italy connection and asked him to have someone see what could be found.
For the next week, our people in North and South America and Europe were busy, but they found nothing earth-shaking. Just confirmation that Fellini’s public reputation as an honest broker of art was top notch, which was no surprise. He was very good at covering his tracks.
I spent that week doing research on my own, visiting gallery after gallery, showroom after showroom, asking about Gypsy art, particularly items dating from World War II. I found little of interest, except a generalized disdain among dealers and frequent referrals to pawnshops and parlors dealing with the occult.
Before I packed up to leave for the airport, I checked my email one last time. Only one email, forwarded from Milan, seemed promising. The email told of a search of Mussolini’s letters, for references to Fellini or Gypsies, including sterilizations, deportations and transfers to Third Reich camps. The searcher, Kelvin Cominskii, had been thorough, uncovering actions taken or contemplated to thwart the Gypsy menace, but he found no mention of the name Fellini in connection with any of those programs. He closed his email with this note to my father: “Too bad we’re not looking for a Bellini, instead of Fellini, because a Marcelo Bellini was the head of Benito Mussolini’s program to expel Gypsies. I found reams of information about Bellini, but no Fellini. Bellini was a real bastard. He was knifed to death on the same day Mussolini was hung. By one of us, I hope.”
I wrote back to Cominskii immediately, and asked him to summarize the information he had found about Marcelo Bellini, especially Bellini’s family and what happened to them during and after the war. I had a hunch, based only on remembering that scene from one of the Godfather movies, where the Corleone family acquired its name because of a clerk’s error: naming the family after their Sicilian village of origin.
I thought, it wouldn’t have to have been a mistake at Ellis Island. It would be child’s play for anyone to change a capital B to a capital F. A couple careful scrapes of a penknife would do the trick.
When I arrived at Geneva International Airport, I signed on to a SWISS wi-fi hot-spot and c
hecked my email again. It looked like my hunch might have paid off. According to Kelvin Cominskii’s summary, one Marcellus Bellini, age five, had accompanied his seventeen-year-old brother, Vasco Bellini, on a flight to see their dying grandmother, who lived in Canada. Their flight had originated in Rome and ended in Montreal, after many intermediate stops, in the spring of 1944. Canadian authorities had found records of the Bellini boys’ arrival, but could provide Cominskii no confirmation of their return to Italy.
Cominskii’s email said he was putting all the material he had gathered in an overnight DHL pouch to my parents. When I opened the pouch at Mama and Papa’s I saw that Cominskii had flagged the pages containing the most pertinent information, including a photograph showing Benito Mussolini with his right-hand man, Marcelo Bellini, on a reviewing stand.
Mama and Papa went to work immediately, sending emails to contacts in Maine, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, Delaware and New Jersey and, for good measure, the Great Lake states of Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin and Minnesota—all likely destinations for illegal Italian immigrants sneaking across the mostly unpatrolled US-Canada border.
During the next two weeks, thousands of calls and visits to state, county and city record centers produced hundreds of possibly relevant marriage certificates for the period of 1944 to 1950, but one in particular stood out. In Minneapolis, Minnesota, on May 15th, 1950, one Vasco M. Fellini, age 24, married Maria Louisa DeLuca, 23. The next year, they had a baby boy they named Marco, whose picture appeared with a birth announcement in the Minneapolis Tribune. The picture showed father, mother, baby Marco and the baby Marco’s older brother Marcellus, age 11.
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