Marley Z and the Bloodstained Violin

by Jim Fusilli

  Teddy looked terribly confused.

  chapter 6

  Dad, I’m going to the Met to see a curator!” Marley shouted, her words smooshing together as she hurried for the vestibule, baby sister jiggling on her hip. “I’ve got Skeeter and we’ll be home for dinner. Bye.”

  Marley was already over on Central Park West, hand in the air to flag a taxicab when her father, struggling over the latest Time Traveler adventure, said, “Bye.” He glanced at his cell phone. Most days, it was his link to his family, except Skeeter who was too young for a real cell phone, but had a little pink plastic one she loved to chew.

  Taking 86th Street across Central Park, the yellow cab rode under green-black leaves, passing chestnut and red horses on the bridle path, and dropped the Zimmerman girls on 84th Street, just a short walk from the Met.

  “Up, Skeets,” Marley said, as she put the change in her jeans pocket.

  Diaper showing beneath her lavender shorts, Skeeter struggled into the portable stroller, which was about the size of an umbrella before it was opened. As she sat, she adjusted her blue Time Traveler bucket hat, the Trylon and Persiphere from the 1939 New York World’s Fair on the front.

  Marley dumped her notebook in the stroller’s little basket.

  “The appointment’s for three o’clock,” she said, as she buckled her sister in tight. “We’ve got to move.”

  She silently thanked Mr. Noonan, who called the museum to set up the meeting, and Miss Otto, who arranged for her to skip her last class.

  Up ahead, the museum’s long, white steps weren’t at all crowded: Most New Yorkers were at work or college or finishing up school for the day or were occupied with one project or another, probably two or three, knowing New Yorkers. The tourists coming down toward Fifth Avenue, guidebooks in their hands, seemed totally contented. With only hundreds of people inside the Met, instead of thousands, they’d had an excellent view of the museum’s vast collection.

  Skeeter cooed happily and continued to chomp on her bare foot.

  Bebe Douglass, who had the very cool title of Director of Chordophones, was, like, twenty-five years old and cheery, and probably knew everything about stringed instruments, including the name of the caveman who put together the first one. She made it clear she knew no legitimate collector who would be willing to buy the stolen Habishaw violin, or a reputable dealer who would be willing to sell it. The NYPD, she said, had a long list of corrupt collectors and dealers, and she was certain they’d already been questioned.

  As Skeeter sat on the floor in her tiny office behind the Musical Instruments gallery, Ms. Douglass said, “As I told Sgt. Sampson, it breaks my heart to think we may never see the Habishaw again.”

  “Really?” Marley said. “Never again?”

  “Whoever stole this violin can’t display it, can he?”

  “I guess not . . . ,” she replied, as she kept her eye on Skeeter, who happily explored the packets of dried soup mix the curator had given her to play with.

  “Even if it ends up on display in a private home, Juilliard would find out, the Fiske would too. We certainly would know,” Ms. Douglass said. “The world is small, and the world of rare stringed instruments is even smaller.”

  “And there’s only one bloodstained violin,” Marley said. “So you think it will just end up in somebody’s home?”

  “If we’re lucky. . . .”

  “Lucky?”

  “What if someone stole it so they could destroy it?”

  Marley hadn’t thought of that. “Why?”

  Ms. Douglass put her arms on her desk. “Why would they destroy it? Or why would they steal it?”

  Marley thought for a moment and then a moment more as she lifted Skeeter on to her lap.

  “No, it’s too valuable to destroy,” she said finally and with plenty of conviction.

  Ms. Douglass nodded. Ira Noonan had told her that Marley’s friend had been accused of the crime—had, in fact, been videotaped removing the instrument from its display case at Juilliard. But, Mr. Noonon had said, Marley believed Marisol was only a pawn being played by the real thief, and he thought so, too.

  The curator could feel the power of Marley’s conviction, even as she held a giggling baby on her lap.

  “Would someone steal it so they could play it?” Marley asked.

  She hesitated. “It would take someone with a troubled mind to steal it just to play it, I’m afraid.”

  The expression “a troubled mind” sparked a thought.

  Marley said, “You have a Stradivarius here from—”

  “The year 1693,” Ms. Douglass replied.

  “Do you let people play it?”

  Ms. Douglass was surprised by the question. “Very few. By special appointment only.”

  “Would you let Tabakovic?” Marley asked.

  “That angry man who plays on the street? No. Itzhak Perlman, for sure. Nadia Salerno-Sonnenberg, yes.”

  Marley understood. Whether Tabakovic was dangerous, as Teddy claimed, or just eccentric, the Met couldn’t trust a rare Stradivarius to him. Nor would Juilliard allow him to play the Habishaw, even if he’d been a student there once.

  Marley shuddered at a vivid impression that crossed her mind: She imagined Tabakovic was playing the Habishaw violin in the park behind the Natural History Museum; suddenly, he raises it and smashes it against a bench or a water fountain, a million shards of beautiful old wood flying everywhere, splinters bouncing onto Columbus Avenue.

  If someone like Tabakovic really, really wanted to play a really, really rare violin, he’d have to steal it.

  After thanking Ms. Douglass, Marley plopped Skeeter in her stroller and decided to put in a few minutes exploring the gallery. But not too many: She knew she had to make up her last class, do her homework and spend some time with Marisol, if not in person, then online.

  But there were 5,000 pieces in the Met’s collection of musical instruments from 300 B.C. to today. Five thousand! According to her research, they included a guitar from about 1640 that came from Italy. Marley wanted to see a guitar that was more than 365 years old. She wondered when her electric guitar was made.

  The Zimmerman girls proceeded through the gallery, the stroller swerving to avoid ankles. A typical New Yorker, Marley went too fast, storming along when it probably would’ve been more enjoyable just to stop and study what’s on display. But there was so much to see, probably too much, and not just stringed instruments, but crystal flutes and ivory recorders, conch shells and bells, and ancient pianos and harpsichords—sometimes with paintings of the people who owned them on the wall behind them. Everything was presented so beautifully.

  Marley and Skeeter headed toward the part of the gallery that held instruments from Africa—an ennanga from Uganda, a kind of xylophone from Mozamb—

  Marley stopped.

  Across the quiet room, standing next to a display case was Mahjoob, the man of “mystical powers” who usually sat behind a card table outside the Met in a robe and glittery turban. Today, as she moved quietly to hide behind a wall outside the room, Marley saw he wore a regular old pale-green polo shirt, brown slacks and brown leather sandals over bare feet.

  Skeeter let out a happy squeal and, for no reason, started to clap her little hands.

  “Shhh,” Marley said gently. “Skeets . . .”

  Mahjoob was taking instructions from a guy in a black suit, and even from a distance Marley could tell he was listening carefully. They were the only two people in the room.

  The guy reached into his pocket.

  With hopeful eyes, Mahjoob watched as he withdrew a plump, letter-sized envelope from the inside of his jacket.

  Bowing his head in gratitude, Mahjoob accepted the packet.

  Without another word, the guy said good-bye and moved toward the exit at the opposite side of the gallery.

  When he reached the opening, he turned to address Mahjoob.

  Marley saw that the guy in the black suit wasn’t a grown adult. He was Bassekou Sissoko
, the ambassador’s son from Mali who was Teddy’s and Wendell’s classmate at Collegiate.

  He said, “American instruments, Mahjoob. Remember, only American instruments.”

  “I understand,” Mahjoob replied. “As you wish, my young friend.”

  Marley spun Skeeter and her stroller.

  They hid in the gallery next door, behind lovely Japanese screens, until Bassekou and Mahjoob were long gone.

  After taxiing from the Met, Marley re-entered the vestibule of her family’s brownstone and draped Skeeter’s stroller across the hooks atop an old mirror. Pushing raincoats and slickers aside, Marley studied herself in the glass. Yep, she thought as she fluffed her hair, I look totally confused.

  She caught up to her baby sister in the kitchen. Skeeter giggled happily, nestled in her father’s arms.

  “Marley,” he said as she entered, “you look totally confused. ”

  “I need advice,” she said.

  “Chop the herbs,” he said, gesturing to the counter where his array of potted thyme, basil, oregano and rosemary rested. “We’ll talk.”

  A faded Felix the Cat smiled from the front of his equally faded, once-black T-shirt, which, like most of Zeke Z’s clothes, was way too huge for his skinny frame.

  She said, “How about I cook and you chop?”

  He looked at his daughter. Something, or maybe someone, had taken the spring from her step. “Absolutely,” he said. “Let me wash up Skeets and get her in the playpen. . . .”

  A few minutes later, as she pulled an eggplant and some baby bella mushrooms from the refrigerator, and selected dried pasta from the cabinet, Marley told her father what had happened in the Musical Instruments gallery.

  On the other side of the counter, Zeke Z listened as he carefully opened tiny red peppers he’d grown in his garden. He’d let Marley use their seeds to add a little heat to tonight’s meal.

  “I guess you can’t tell Teddy because he sees Bassekou every day,” he said.

  “Right. A false accusation would be horrible.”

  “For sure,” he nodded. He used thin Latex gloves when he worked with his peppers. A burn on his fingertips would make drawing, painting and lettering the Time Traveler panels too painful.

  "But he did say ’only American instruments.’ ”

  Zeke Z thought for a moment. "Is Bassekou a thief?”

  “I don’t know,” she said as she put the eggplant on the cutting board.

  “Well, we know Mahjoob is,” he said.

  “What I can’t figure out is how Marisol could have become an unwitting agent for Mahjoob and Bassekou,” Marley said. “I could just ask her.”

  “Right. Why not?”

  Marley put down the knife next to the eggplant. “I’ll see if she’s online now,” she said excitedly.

  “Okay. I’ll take over the cooking.” He began to ease off his gloves.

  “No, no. Never mind,” Marley said quickly. “I’ll IM her after the sauce gets underway and the water boils.”

  “All right . . . ,” he said, returning to his task.

  As she picked up the knife and sliced the eggplant into meaty chunks, she realized she felt better for having spoken to her dad. And she was relieved that they would end the long afternoon sharing a dinner made without hurting his feelings.

  DreadZ: WU?

  Jipijapa: Not much. U?

  DreadZ: RUOK?

  Jipijapa: Headache. Iʼm so worried. . . .

  DreadZ: ☺

  Jipijapa: Thnx. Hwork?

  DreadZ: Mucho. Good diversion. CallUL8R.

  Jipijapa: K. News?

  DreadZ: Some. FWIW, Noonan is GR8.

  Jipijapa: WHA?!?!

  DreadZ: lol. Yeah. BTW, you talk 2 Mahjoob?

  Jipijapa: ??? 5th Ave Mahjoob? No, never.

  DreadZ: K. Mystic Mahjoob. Poo.

  Jipijapa: Y?

  DreadZ: Scoping. DMAF, make a diary of last week.

  Jipijapa: No prob. Did 1 for my Ps. & NYPD.

  DreadZ: Ps. They K?

  Jipijapa: Worried 2.

  DreadZ: Itll be awright soon. Emmis.

  Jipijapa: Gracias, amiga.

  DreadZ: TTYL.

  DreadZ: NOONAN IS GR8!

  Jipijapa: LOL! Needed that!

  chapter 7

  Teddy knew Wendell wasn’t going to come to the coffee shop, not after the way his new friend ran away from him this morning and avoided him all day.

  “He ignored you?” Marisol asked.

  Teddy nodded. “In class, in the halls . . . On Columbus Avenue . . .”

  “At lunch?” Marley looked up from blowing on her soup.

  “I don’t know where he ate,” Teddy replied. “He wasn’t in the cafeteria.” He shrugged. “He doesn’t know anybody else, to be honest.”

  “Bassekou?” Marisol suggested.

  “Bassekou goes out to lunch,” Teddy said. “His father arranges it or something.”

  “Bad Monday, Ted,” Marley said. “Sorry.”

  “But I don’t even know what’s happening.” His voice inched higher. “I don’t blame Wendell for his uncle putting us out. I mean, we stink and all—not you, Marisol—and he’s the doorman in charge. He can do what he wants. It’s not Wendell’s fault.”

  Marisol ran her finger along the side of the tall icy glass. “That’s not it, Teddy,” she said. “He just didn’t want us there.”

  Teddy was persistent. “Why?”

  “Ted . . . ,” Marley warned. She’d thought a lot about this subject over the weekend.

  “I don’t think we are the kind of kids he wants his nephew to be with,” Marisol said.

  “Why?”

  She edged forward. “You see how neat he dresses? And remember he told us how his mother moved him from New Jersey so he could go to Collegiate?”

  “Right . . . ,” Teddy said thoughtfully.

  “Didn’t he tell you his mother told him he was his family’s future? ” Marisol said. “How his father and his uncle had to work in the carnival as little boys because the family was so very poor?”

  "Yes . . .”

  Marley said, “And here we are, all ragtag and a mess and we’re hanging out in the basement with the spiders, saggy on a Friday after a week of school, especially when it’s been ninety degrees every day. . . .”

  “Maybe from the outside,” Marisol said, “it doesn’t look like we are doing so great.”

  Teddy said, “Yes. But we are. We’re all doing great.”

  Marley smiled.

  “We’re excellent students. Very diligent,” he continued, “and I think . . . Where are you going?”

  Marisol was sliding out of the booth, the back of her legs squeaking on vinyl. “I think I will talk to Wendell’s uncle.”

  “Are you sure?” Teddy asked.

  Marisol stood next to Marley and her bowl of lemon egg-drop soup.

  “I introduced Wendell to our group,” she said, glancing at the clock in her cell phone. “It is my responsibility.”

  A few minutes passed with Marley and Teddy in silence, save for the clicking of her spoon on the bottom of the bowl.

  Teddy wondered if he’d done something wrong. He felt as if he had chased Marisol to her task.

  “It’s fine, Ted,” Marley said, almost reading his mind. “She would’ve done it anyway. That’s Marisol.”

  Relieved, he decided to change the conversation.

  “That cell phone, huh?” he said with a forced chuckle. “She really loves it.”

  “Her parents gave it to her for her birthday.”

  “Notice how she’s got it programmed to ring something different for each caller?”

  Marley nodded.

  “Do you know what your song is?” he asked.

  “How could I?” she replied. “I mean, I’m not around when I call her.”

  Teddy paused. “No, I guess not.”

  He fell back into his thoughts.

  Then he said, “Think I should start ironing my hockey jerseys?” />
  When Marley laughed, Teddy did too.

  Marisol arrived on West End Avenue to find Wendell’s uncle entertaining two young children who had just jumped to the curb from the back of a shiny black limousine.

  The excited kids, who had dropped their colorful school back-packs to the sidewalk, giggled as the doorman seemed to make a coin appear out of thin air. Then he made it vanish again. Seconds later, he found it—in the little girl’s ear.

  “Give it to me,” she said, laughing.

  Her brother clapped his hands in delight.

  “Do it again!” the little boy demanded.

  The limousine driver stood at attention at the side of the car.

  A young woman in navy slacks and a sleeveless top was waiting under the awning.

  “That’s enough, Nicholas,” the woman said.

  Wendell’s uncle turned. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, touching the bill of his cap with a long finger. “My apologies, ma’am.”

  The woman unfolded her arms to shoo her two children inside the building.

  “Good-bye, Tommy,” the doorman said, retrieving the back-packs. “Good-bye, Wendy.”

  Moments later, Marisol entered the vast air-conditioned lobby of the beautiful building. She looked around, and saw that halfway to the elevators, several brown-leather sofas faced a huge fireplace that had over it a long, musty painting of an old-time foxhunt.

  Mr. Justice was seated on a high swiveling chair at his small, boxy station just off the vestibule. What looked like one of those old-fashioned switchboards was on the wall to his right. A gooseneck lamp shone a bright light on the Arts section of the New York Times, which was covered in part by a stack of some kind of memo from management. Marisol imagined he had to give one to each of the tenants, or maybe put one in each mailbox.

  “Hello,” she said politely.

  Mr. Justice nodded tiredly toward a sign-in sheet on the station’s ledge.“I’m Marisol Poveda,” she said. “Wendell’s friend.” When her name didn’t register with the doorman, she added, “I play the violin.”

  Mr. Justice stood, his eyes widening. “Oh yes,” he said. “The violin.”

  Marley struggled with her homework. She did her essay and completed the geography assignment easily enough. But algebra was a nightmare. Boring Mr. Noonan’s boring question: Which four consecutive numbers, when added together, total eighteen?