Marley Z and the Bloodstained Violin Page 2

  “We’re doing nothing,” Marley had said, shading her eyes. “Join us.”

  It seemed unlikely that the boy would. Of all the people on the Met’s steps and down on the sunny avenue, he was the only person wearing a suit. A black one, perfectly tailored. And a bow tie.

  But he did. With a formality Marley assumed was his habit, he introduced himself as Bassekou Sissoko. From Mali.

  He started to stick out his hand, but seeing Marley’s and Teddy’s fingers were coated with sticky orangey sugar, he nodded instead.

  “Where is the famous chaos of New York City?” he asked.

  “On vacation,” Marley replied, squinting. “Are you going to sit? Looking up at you is burning my retinas.”

  Bassekou came down the steps until his shadow covered Marley.

  “Where do you go to school?” Teddy asked.

  “I will be attending Collegiate.”

  “Teddy too,” Marley said.

  “I didn’t see you at orientation,” Teddy said.

  Bassekou shrugged. “My father insisted I have my own orientation. He’s the ambassador to the United Nations from my country. I don’t think he will agree to permit me to become an ordinary American boy.”

  Earlier, Marley had kicked off her flip-flops. Now she rolled up the bottom of her tatty jeans to expose her tanned legs to the sun’s soothing rays. Teddy’s pudgy legs were already catching the sun: He wore shiny green basketball shorts that draped below his knees.

  “He has sent me here to study the American collection,” Bassekou continued, nodding toward the museum’s entrance.

  “If you want chaos, you’ll find it in there,” Marley said, throwing her thumb over her shoulder. “Not many New Yorkers, though . . . Not this week.”

  “But you are New Yorkers,” Bassekou said. “Weren’t you born here?”

  “You don’t have to be born in New York City to be a native New Yorker,” Marley said. “You just have to be someone who’s been living here for a while.”

  “New York City will take you in. You’ll see,” added Teddy, the only member of his family to be born outside of Taiwan. “It happens all the time.”

  “Your father . . . ?” Bassekou led.

  “Runs an import business in Chinatown. Marley’s dad is 3Z.”

  Bassekou failed to understand.

  “The Time Traveler? The comics, the books . . . ? Mr. Zimmerman writes and draws them. He’s writing the movie too.”

  “Ah,” said Bassekou. Clearly, he’d never heard of her father or the series.

  Marley was relieved. She’d been fending off false friendships from teenage boys for years—all of them, it seemed, wanted to be either 3Z or, worse, Mike Barnett, Time Traveler.

  Though none of the boys who turned up on the steep steps of their brownstone had been from Mali . . .

  “I must learn more about your father,” Bassekou said.

  Marley turned to find Marisol and a lanky boy in a Collegiate T-shirt, well-pressed jeans and new sneakers climbing the Met’s steps.

  She rose to greet her friend. As had become their custom, they kissed each other on both cheeks.

  Teddy grimaced.

  “What have you been doing?” Marisol asked.

  “Talking to Bassekou. You?”

  She said, “I found us a drummer. He’s Wendell. He just moved here from Jersey.”

  “You go to Collegiate too?” Teddy asked.

  The boy’s cheeks flushed red, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Finally, he managed to say, “Next week.”

  “Me too,” Teddy told him. “And Bassekou.”

  “See?” Marisol said to Wendell. “Now you know somebody at your new school.”

  “Two,” Marley added, holding up two fingers.

  Thinking she had flashed him the ’60s peace sign, Wendell Justice held up two fingers too. Then he about died of embarrassment: Even with her shoes off, her frayed jeans rolled up to her knees and her lips a bright orange, Marley was the most fantastic person he’d ever seen. And now he’d come across like a total dweeb.

  “Wendell’s grandfather was a carnival barker,” Marisol said quickly.

  For a moment, that unexpected bit of news seemed to make everything all right.

  Marley hurried back from the film lab and gave the Juilliard security tape to Mr. Lawson, the office secretary. Before returning to her classes—Mr. Noonan’s drone-a-thon was over by now—she peered into Miss Otto’s room. She was behind her desk, talking on her phone and jotting down notes while Sgt. Sampson squawked into his cell.

  Marley rushed away from the tension and toward her locker. Her geography class was already underway. As she hurried along, her dreadlocks flopping, she wondered how she would concentrate on the afternoon’s lessons.

  Four hours later, Marley, her father, baby Skeeter and Teddy watched the copy of the video on the little TV/DVD they kept on the kitchen island. Sharing pigeon peas and rice, and a cucumber-and-lime salad, they stared intently at the screen, Marley seated on a stool next to Skeeter’s high chair, Zeke Z standing across from her, his back to the stove in case anyone wanted seconds.

  Teddy didn’t know whether to sit or stand.

  “Okay, what do you guys see?” Marley said, pointing with her fork.

  “Even though she’s rushing, Marisol looks like a zombie,” her father replied.

  “Exactly,” Marley said. “Does she usually look like that?”

  “No,” Teddy said. “She’s got kind of a happy expression.”

  “Good. That’s one.”

  Skeeter made a funny sour face as she chomped a slice of lime-seasoned cucumber.

  “What else?” Marley asked.

  Zeke Z shook his head and shrugged.

  Marley rewound the video; on screen, Marisol backed toward the empty display, and the smoke seemed to recede. “Look how she grabs the violin.”

  “By the neck,” Teddy said.

  “By the neck. Marisol knows how to handle a violin. You don’t just snatch it up by the neck. Especially one that’s so valuable it’s in a display case with security cameras and stuff.”

  Next, they saw Marisol tuck the instrument against her hip.

  “That looks like a good way to ruin the strings,” said Zeke Z, his mouth full of pigeon peas.

  “Bang! Marisol carries her violin every day. Every day. She knows you can’t go around wrecking the strings by letting them drag against your belt.”

  Teddy said, “At band practice, she carries her violin like Marley carries Skeeter.”

  “Her parents saved for it,” Marley added. “A lot.”

  Deep, soulful jazz floated from Zeke Z’s office upstairs. The Zimmerman brownstone was more than 125 years old. They’d restored it, and it was beautiful, but sound leaked through the walls and wooden floors. Marley heard everything: her dad’s snores, Skeeter’s midnight baby cries and their mother coming in late and leaving early.

  “Speaking of security, Marley,” her father said. “Why wasn’t the display bolted down tight? And what about an alarm?”

  “I thought about that,” she replied. “The fire alarm probably went off at the same time as the alarm on the display case. As for the thing not being bolted down . . . well, don’t you think that proves somebody else is involved?”

  “You’re right,” Teddy said. “Marisol doesn’t have a screwdriver or anything with her. That cube was already loose.”

  “See those faint little tracks on the carpet?” Marley said, pointing at the screen. “They probably move the display case to a storage area at night. I’ll bet that’s when somebody opened it.”

  “Still,” Marley’s father said, “she’s got the violin. That’s pretty persuasive evidence.”

  “But not as persuasive as before Marley became involved,” Teddy replied. He nodded enthusiastically.

  Zeke Z studied his daughter as she stared at the screen for additional clues. Had his friend been arrested for larceny, he would’ve been terribly upset. But Marley h
ad her mother’s resolve. When something was wrong, mother and daughter focused on the problem and set out to make things right. It was a very admirable trait.

  “We’ll have to prove Marisol didn’t do it,” Marley said. “At least not like the police think she did.” As she stood, she added, “First, I’m going to talk to her parents. They should know what we’ve found out.”

  Teddy grabbed his napkin and wiped his lips. “I’m coming.”

  Skeeter let out a gleeful squeal as if she was delighted that dinner was over. A mound of rice and peas had gathered on the floor beneath her seat.

  “Be safe,” Zeke Z muttered as the two teens fled.

  Seconds later, Teddy returned to the Zimmerman’s kitchen.

  “I’m helping you with the dishes,” he said, a bit dejected.

  chapter 3

  The Kingston Cowboys were still on the steps when Bassekou emerged from his tour of the Met.

  Actually, they were back on the steps, having returned from introducing Wendell to the Central Park Zoo and the Carousel— Marley smiled at the memory of Teddy and Marisol bobbing up and down on the 100-year-old hand-carved horses, sweet calliope music surrounding them. They also told him about the coffee shop on 69th and Broadway where they gathered after class. Now that Teddy would be attending a different school than Marley and Marisol, they’d pinkie-pledged to continue to meet there, no matter what.

  “It is more or less equidistant between Collegiate and Beacon, ” Teddy offered thoughtfully.

  Marisol said, “It’s now our official band hangout, Wendell.”

  Marley noticed Wendell looked down and blushed whenever anyone addressed him. Earlier, when they exchanged cell phone numbers, his cheeks turned candy-apple red. She wondered how he got up the nerve to answer the “drummer wanted” ad Marisol placed on the Web’s Gigfinder and Bandmix boards.

  “The Kingston Cowboys,” Bassekou repeated when Marisol told him the group’s new name. “And what kind of music do you play?”

  “It’s a kind of blend of reggae and country,” Teddy said, gesturing with stout hands. “With some pop and rock in there too. Completely unique.”

  “How does it sound?” he asked, wondering if his instrument could fit their mix.

  “Well . . . ,” Teddy hesitated.

  “We haven’t practiced yet,” Marley replied.

  The five teens had begun to walk down the jam-packed steps.

  “So,” Bassekou said, “as of right now, you are the most wonderful group in the world.”

  “Yeah,” Marley said, “exactly.”

  Next to the Met, a long line of vendors and artists stretched south all the way to the 79th Street transverse through Central Park. Under shady trees, paintings, sculptures, photos, jewelry and all sorts of arts and crafts were sold from flimsy card tables and carefully constructed booths that could be taken apart at the end of each day.

  Among the artists and political activists with their posters and petitions was a palm reader and, at the far end, Mahjoob, who sold talismans he claimed had mystical powers.

  Marley knew Mahjoob’s talismans—which he said were magical stones from ancient Mesopotamia that for centuries had granted their owners long life and success—were actually rocks he’d dug up in the park. Most of the tourists figured as much: In his white robe and sparkly turban, Mahjoob was entertaining, and they thought the purchase of a New York City rock was a small price to pay for his show. Marley’s dad wasn’t so sure. “That guy’s what they call a confidence man,” he’d said. “He wins your confidence and takes advantage of your trust. Then he rips you off.”

  “He is fascinating,” Bassekou said thoughtfully.

  Sensing his interest, Mahjoob beckoned the boy from Mali. But, nodding politely, Bassekou continued with Marley along the path.

  Also at the street fair today was a grubby musician in a tattered brown suit, ratty beige vest and a shirt that had turned a soiled gray. The tall, angular man, who really needed a shave, played the violin as if he wanted to shred its strings.

  Marley and Bassekou stopped to hear him, but Marisol kept walking, Teddy scurrying to keep pace with her. Confused, Wendell didn’t know where to go, but he decided to join Marisol, who was his first friend in his new neighborhood.

  At the curb, two policemen on horseback watched as the violinist known as Tabakovic continued his violent performance for a small group that had gathered in the sun.

  He finished with a dramatic flurry of notes. When the crowd began to applaud, he angrily pointed his bow toward his open violin case, which held scattered coins and a few dollar bills.

  “Notice anything?” Marley said, as she and Bassekou resumed their walk.

  “The man hates Tchaikovsky,” Bassekou replied. “I have never heard the finale of the Concerto in D Major played with such aggression.”

  “Did you see his shoes?” Marley asked. “They’re pretty new, and expensive. That whole poor-musician thing? It’s kind of an act.”

  “Is it necessary? I wouldn’t think so. . . .”

  When they caught up to the group, Marley said, “Bassekou wants to know if Tabakovic has to do that.”

  “No,” Marisol snapped. “He’s talented. Very talented. That’s why I refuse to listen. It’s awful what he does.”

  Bassekou said, “I’m sorry, but I do not—”

  Teddy said, “He probably makes more money than a lot of serious musicians. He does that crazy act all over the Upper West Side too.”

  Wendell observed the conversation, his head swiveling as if he were watching a tennis match.

  Marisol said, “Late at night, he is in Damrosch Park—you know, behind Lincoln Center—and he plays beautifully. Very tender and gentle. Saint-Saëns, Massenet . . . My father took me to hear. He wastes his gifts with this very ugly routine.”

  Teddy said, “I heard he went to Juilliard. A long time ago. They kicked him out.”

  Marley decided to change the subject. “If you want to check out more old American art, the Frick Collection is up the block. They’ve got lots of cool stuff by Whistler. . . .”

  Marley felt bad about leaving Teddy behind with her father, Skeeter and the dirty dishes—he was a sensitive boy—but she believed she would find heartache at Marisol’s apartment. She hoped the Povedas would let her in.

  With the sun about to dip behind the Jersey Palisades, a little bit of a chill was in the air. Heading west to Broadway for the trip uptown, Marley regretted she hadn’t put on a hoodie.

  “Hey.”

  She heard a boy’s voice behind her, but she didn’t stop.

  “Marley. Wait.”

  When she reached the bright lights of funky Columbus Avenue, she turned.

  It was Ben Rosenberg.

  Marley groaned. Ben was one of the 3Z scruffs who would hang around her brownstone to catch a glimpse of her father.

  He trotted to catch up. “Hey, Marley.” His T-shirt announced that he watched the Discovery Channel. “Heard you stopped by the film lab today.”

  Ben had a manila envelope in his hand.

  “Look,” she replied, “I’m kind of in a rush—”

  He opened the envelope. Fearing it was a comic Ben wanted her father to autograph, Marley cringed.

  But it was a smaller envelope, a square only slightly bigger than the size of a DVD.

  “Next time, tell them to start at the very beginning,” Ben said.

  Marley realized Ben was right. She’d asked the girls in the lab to copy only the section of the security video Sgt. Sampson had shown.

  As she accepted the envelope and DVD, she said, “Have you watched this?”

  “I heard you said not to. . . .”

  “But . . . ?”

  “We’re with you, Marley,” he said. “Okay?”

  She thanked him. “I owe you, Ben.”

  “Just tell the Time Traveler I said hi.”

  Marley chuckled as she waved good-bye.

  Ten minutes later, she entered a small, third-floor walk-
up filled with sorrow and worry.

  Marisol and her parents had been sitting around the kitchen table. Cristina Poveda has been crying. Marisol too. Her eyes were ringed in red.

  Marley figured Gus Poveda, who was the midnight-to-noon super at a luxury building on West End Avenue, had been pacing while the family held its conference.

  “She didn’t do it,” Marley said, even before Mr. Poveda had closed the door behind her.

  Mrs. Poveda talked quickly to her husband in Spanish—he spoke very little English—and then came around the round table to take Marley’s hand.

  “We believe her,” Mrs. Poveda said. “But the police . . .”

  “They were here,” Marisol told her friend. “They searched the apartment.”

  “They looked where my husband works,” Mrs. Poveda added. “The shop where I work too.”

  “We’re going to lose everything,” Marisol said, a choke in her voice. Marley looked past the old refrigerator. At the end of the narrow corridor, peering through a glass-beaded curtain, Boli and Cristian, Marisol’s two little brothers, seemed frightened.

  “The police searched?” Marley asked as she entered the kitchen. “That’s good.”

  Mrs. Poveda, who was as petite as her daughter, drew up in surprise.

  “The harder they look, the clearer it will be that Marisol was a victim in this crime,” Marley insisted. “They’ll know what we know: that she is not a thief.”

  Short too but thick and muscular, with skin as red as it was brown, Mr. Poveda listened as his wife translated. When she was finished, he bowed his head as if to hide a tear, but then he looked at his wife and spoke in Spanish.

  Marisol translated. “ ‘By then, my daughter will be sent to prison and our family’s reputation will be destroyed.’”

  Marley held up the envelope Ben Rosenberg had given her.

  “Let’s watch this,” she said. “I’ll bet we’ll be able to see something that will help the police understand what really happened.”

  Marisol stood as her parents talked in rapid-fire Spanish.

  Though she understood maybe every third word, Marley felt she got the drift of what the Povedas were saying: