by Jim Fusilli
Now, turning north on Fifth, Marley put her notebook behind her back.
“Okay,” she said aloud, as she nudged through a crowd of German-speaking tourists. “Let’s see if I’ve got it.”
(Like most New Yorkers, Marley wasn’t self-conscious about talking to herself as she walked the streets. It wasn’t unusual to see lots of people doing it. Singing too. Opera. Really loud.)
“The Republic of Mali was formed in 1960,” she recited.
“The capital of Mali is Bamako.
“Bamako is on the Niger River.
“Mali is the size of California and Texas combined.”
Wow, Marley thought. That’s pretty huge.
“The population is ten and a half million, more or less.
“It has lots of natural resources, like gold, uranium, and salt and limestone and—
“Wait. Am I really going to be talking to Bassekou about natural resources in Mali?”
That last line brought a laugh from the passing tourists.
Marley blushed.
But only a little.
Marley,” Bassekou said, “what a surprise. Please, come in.”
He wasn’t wearing a suit and tie, but instead had on something Marley had read about: a long top, very loose with wide sleeves which, in this case, were pale gold, and matching wide ankle-length trousers, both made of a kind of light-weight cotton from Mali.
Marley entered full of wonder. Seeing Bassekou dressed in native garb momentarily confused her. So did the grand piano that took up much of the living room.
She heard the door close behind her.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she managed, as Bassekou rolled her book bag to a closet off the front door.
“No, not at all.” He gestured toward a sleek, European-style sofa across from the piano. “I was practicing, and I would enjoy a break.”
“You play?”
“The piano?” He smiled. “Not very well, I’m afraid.”
“Join the club,” she joked.
Bassekou searched his mind for a way to compliment Marley on the way she played her electric guitar. But nothing came to him. And he would not allow himself to lie to a friend.
She pointed to the sheet music resting on the piano’s stand. “Bach,” Marley said, as she sat, the black leather sofa breathing aloud as she settled in. “Gavotte in G major.”
“The man is spinning in his grave,” Bassekou replied. “But my father insisted. Just as my teacher in Paris insisted.”
Marley looked around the room. She could imagine this furniture had been bought in Paris. It was exactly like the cool stuff in the magazines her mom brought home from her business travels in Europe.
“When did you live in Paris?”
“For much of the past three years,” he said as he sat next to her. “My father was assigned to our consulate on the rue du Cherche Midi.”
“You speak French?”
He nodded. “Many of us in my country do.”
“Because Mali was a French colony. . . .”
“I would say it’s because our fathers speak it,” he replied, “but yes, I suppose that is the answer, ultimately.”
“You can help Marisol with her homework. She’s taking French.”
Bassekou said, “I could. But tell me, how is she?”
“Not great,” Marley replied.
“I have heard a rumor,” he said, “but I don’t believe it.”
A rumor?
“Someone who loves her own instrument, as she does, would not jeopardize another,” he added.
“Who told you?” Marley asked directly.
“Wendell.”
Not Mahjoob.
“Please tell her I am thinking of her.”
Bassekou clapped his hands together as he stood. “May I show you something?”
“Sure,” Marley replied.
He led her across the apartment’s parquet floor toward a narrow corridor that passed a small kitchen where a woman in a long blue African-style dress cleaned vegetables in a colander, fresh water splashing into the sink. She hummed contentedly as she did her work and nodded politely as Bassekou and his friend walked by.
“Mrs. Sanogho,” he explained softly. “My father’s cook.”
At the end of the corridor, there were two bedrooms. On the right, a master bedroom, one that was pretty formal to Marley’s eyes. Bassekou’s room was opposite it.
His single bed rested against a white wall decorated with an array of musical instruments that Marley guessed were from Mali. Leaning against the chair at his desk, which was across from his bed, was a contraption that looked a little bit like a harp growing out of an old, hollowed-out gourd of some kind.
“It’s a kora,” Bassekou said. “Would you like to hear it?”
Marley nodded. She noticed the wall above Bassekou’s orderly desk was blank.
Bassekou sat in the chair and put the kora in his lap with the strings facing him and his fingers wrapped around its thin neck. He began to pick at the taut strings and soon Marley was engulfed by a sound unlike anything she had ever heard— like rainfall and twinkling stars, but maybe also like a banjo she’d heard on some old blues album.
“I don’t want to bore you . . . ,” Bassekou said.
“No, no. It’s great. Really.”
“Frankly, this is my instrument.”
Marley noticed that Mrs. Sanogho had come to the door, a dish towel in her hands.
The magical dancing rainfall continued as Bassekou plucked the strings with his thumbs.
When the music stopped and Mrs. Sanogho departed, Bassekou said, “How will I ever convince my father I wish to live the life of a griot, not an ambassador?”
“A griot?”
He explained. “A griot is a wandering musician, a poet. Someone who speaks of our traditions.” As he eased the kora against his desk, he added, “Perhaps someone like Woody Guthrie might be considered an American version of a griot. Or your blues singers. Taj Mahal is one, I would suggest.”
“And your father says no?”
Bassekou stood. “I haven’t asked. Not directly.”
Marley pointed to the wall covered with African instruments. “That’s a pretty big hint, Bassekou.”
“Indeed.” He nodded toward the blank wall above his desk. “I thought, perhaps, if I showed him our music is compatible with the Western tradition here in America . . .”
Bassekou let the thought wither.
Then he said, “That is why I intend to put on that wall a collection of American instruments. Only American instruments. ”
“Only American instruments,” Marley repeated.
“Yes.”
Just as he said to Mahjoob in the museum’s gallery.
Marley shook her head.
“Not a good idea?” Bassekou asked. “I have my own savings.”
“Your idea? It’s great,” she replied. “As for mine . . .”
chapter 9
Teddy was waiting outside the Sissokos’ apartment building, happy in his ’90s Orlando Magic jersey, black T-shirt and baggy sky-blue shorts.
“Ted . . . ,” Marley complained.
“My afternoon was free,” he shrugged. The jersey and the shorts were way too long: Both covered his dimply knees.
Marley walked on. “And you just happened to be on the opposite side of the park from your home . . . Standing outside Bassekou’s house.”
“In fact, yes.” He stopped. When Marley turned, he said, “Not really. No. I was thinking you would go to see Mahjoob next”—Teddy pointed sort of north, sort of west toward the Met—“and that you would like some company.”
She walked slowly until Teddy skittered next to her, passing her clanking book bag.
“No Mahjoob?”
“Bassekou doesn’t want stolen American instruments,” she explained. “He’s starting a collection to impress his dad.”
“Why would his dad be interest—”
“Because Bassekou doesn’t wan
t to be an ambassador or in the Foreign Service or whatever,” she said, frustration in her voice. “He wants to be a musician. He’s very serious. He knows African music, American music, blues, and Bach, Tchaikovsky. . . .”
Teddy frowned. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said, his words a tender apology.
“Oh, Teddy, I’m not upset with you.” Now Marley stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. New Yorkers hurrying their way home from work parted to pass around them, never missing a stride.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” she said. “I really suspected him and I had no reason to.”
They waited for a wheezing bus to pass and, when the light changed, they crossed Madison Avenue, watching for turning taxis.
“Did you suspect him?” Marley asked.
Though he wanted to comfort her, he said, “No. I never did.”
“Never?”
“Mahjoob, yes. But not Bassekou. Mahjoob steals.”
Marley’s father had said pretty much the same thing. “I warned Bassekou,” Marley said, recalling how she told him she saw them together in the museum.
“Still,” Teddy said, “Mahjoob may try to sell Bassekou instruments that were stolen.”
“If he does, Bassekou will tell me,” she said sharply, “and I’ll tell Sgt. Sampson.”
Teddy was smiling.
“What?” she asked.
“You are exasperated. It’s very funny.”
Marley pretended to pout. She rustled her big mop of black hair. “Yeah. Basically, I know nothing.”
“Except Tabakovic still uses his old instrument, and Bassekou isn’t interested in stolen goods,” Teddy said agreeably.
“And Marisol was an unwitting agent in the theft of the Habishaw violin. Which the police still don’t have.”
They turned west on sunny 59th Street. Up ahead on Fifth Avenue, crowds gathered around the beautiful fountain Joseph Pulitzer had contributed to the city a century ago. As usual, a gazillion pigeons flitted about, sparkly, gray and bold.
A new idea took root in Marley’s head. “Someone made her do it . . . ,” she said thoughtfully.
“Well, isn’t that how somebody becomes an unwitting agent?”
“And who do we know who says he has mystical powers?” Marley asked. “The kind that might trick people.”
Teddy thought for a moment. “Mahjoob.”
Marley nodded. “Mahjoob.”
This time they both stopped and stared at each other.
They entered in a rush, bolting past the mirror, raincoats and slickers and Skeeter’s folded-up stroller.
"Dad, I spoke to Bassekouandhe’sbuying instruments,” she said as she bounded toward the kitchen.
Trailing, Teddy slowed down to sniff the air. Mr. Zimmerman, he noticed, wasn’t cooking.
“We’re thinking maybe Mahjoob somehow—”
Skidding to a stop, Marley all but flew out of her flip-flops.
Sitting with her father at the kitchen island was Miss Otto, the vice principal. And Sgt. Sampson, who seemed as big, sour and impatient as he had two days earlier.
“Everything is fine, Marley,” Miss Otto said, as she stepped down from the stool. “Sgt. Sampson has some information he shared with me, and I thought you two should talk.”
Marley looked at the brawny policeman. His scowl and dark suit were in contrast to Miss Otto’s warm smile, periwinkle blouse and beige slacks.
Marley’s dad said, “Some iced tea while Sgt. Sampson plays the new video.”
New video? Marley thought as she squeezed past the policeman.
Miss Otto tapped the stool.
As she sat, Marley said, “Hey, Skeets.”
Her baby sister looked up from her playpen and lifted one of her see-through alphabet blocks. Marley couldn’t help notice it was the letter Z.
“All right . . . ,” Sgt. Sampson said, as he pressed ➙ for play and then stepped aside to let the other people watch the monitor.
“That’s the loading dock for Avery Fisher Hall,” Marley said as the security video began. “On 65th Street, across from Juilliard. ”
Black-and-white midday traffic headed east in an uneven flow. A taxi passed, then another, followed several seconds later by a little bread delivery truck. Next, a man on a bicycle sped by, a plastic bag full of take-out jiggling in his wire basket.
Then Marisol hurried into view.
“Your friend,” Sgt. Sampson said dryly.
“And she’s still carrying the violin wrong,” Marley replied.
Teddy agreed.
Suddenly, Marisol stopped rushing and stood completely still in the wash of bright sunlight.
“She looks like a zombie,” Marley added.
To her surprise, Sgt. Sampson said, “Yes. Yes, she does.”
Iced-tea pitcher in hand, Zeke Z said to the policeman, "You don’t think she’s responsible, do you?”
Sgt. Sampson replied, “I think your daughter is on to something. ”
On the monitor, Marisol continued to stand perfectly still.
“Not a care in the world,” Miss Otto said. “Would anyone guess she was holding a priceless violin?”
On the video, Marisol looked down, turned slowly and began walking west, the violin pressed string side against her ribs and belt. Soon, she left the frame, going beyond the area covered by the security camera.
“Strange . . . ,” Marley said. “She looked to the right and then started walking left. Usually if somebody calls you, you look at them, not away from them. Then you start walking. ”
Teddy scratched his head. Actually, Marisol looked down to her right side and then started west.
“On Tuesday, did Miss Poveda give any indication anything was wrong when she came to the coffee shop?” Sgt. Sampson asked.
Marley and Teddy answered at the same time. “She didn’t—”
They stopped and looked at each other.
Marley continued, “She didn’t come to the coffee shop. She has violin lessons on Tuesdays after school.”
Sgt. Sampson said, “She didn’t go to her violin lesson on Tuesday.”
“Yes, she did.” The diary she sent last night said so.
“Marley, I’m sorry,” said Sgt. Sampson with surprising sympathy. “Her teacher says no.”
Marley sank.
“Marley . . . ,” her father said softly, filling the silence.
“Does she know she didn’t go to her lesson?” she asked.
“No,” Sgt. Sampson replied. “She believes she went.”
Standing tall again, Marley said, “So that’s when it happened. . . .”
Teddy looked up at his friend.
“That’s when she became an unwitting agent,” she said. “That’s when he tricked her.”
Sgt. Sampson and Zeke Z exchanged a curious glance.
“Who?” the policeman asked.
“Tell Sgt. Sampson what you’ve been up to,” Miss Otto requested.
Marley looked at her father, and then she said, “We have a friend at Collegiate named Bassekou Sissoko and . . .” She ended by telling the policeman of her conversation with Teddy only moments ago as they crossed to the West Side.
“Mahjoob.” Sgt. Sampson sighed. “Mahjoob’s name is Edward Randolph Crum. He was born in Plattsburgh, New York, and as far as we know, he’s never been outside of the United States. Anywhere outside the United States, never mind Iraq or Mesopotamia or wherever he says he’s from.”
Teddy said, “Really?”
“Maybe people think his act is cute, but I see him as a petty thief,” said Zeke Z as he brought down glasses from the cabinet above the sink. “If he introduces Mr. Sissoko to people, it’s likely they’ll be thieves too.”
Showing a little flash of her famous temper, Miss Otto said, “He’ll try to hurt your friend.”
Teddy said, “So maybe he’s involved with the people who stole the Habishaw.”
Miss Otto replied, "I think the key word was ’petty.’ ”
"Oh. Right,” Tedd
y said. "What would he have to do with a priceless violin?”
Marley slumped again, her spirits on a rollercoaster. “Mahjoob doesn’t know how to put a spell on Marisol. . . .”
“No,” said Sgt. Sampson, “he doesn’t.”
Marley turned in the stool to look at Miss Otto and Teddy. “Where are we? We haven’t done anything, and we’ve got to get that violin back.”
“Yes,” said Sgt. Sampson, “and right now, the only person who may know where it is—”
“Marisol,” Marley said.
“—doesn’t remember a thing.”
“So,” Marley said, “you believe her. You believe she didn’t just rush in and steal the Habishaw.”
Sgt. Sampson didn’t reply.
“Yes,” Marley added, a faint touch of pride in her voice. “You believe her.”
As he began to fill glasses with iced tea, Zeke Z said, "Now what?”
“To cover the bases,” Sgt. Sampson said, “I’ll go talk to Mahjoob. Or I should say Eddie Crum.”
Teddy wanted to ask if he could tag along. So did Zeke Z.
“Marley,” the policeman said, “don’t tell Marisol about missing her violin lesson. Our forensic psychiatrist tells us it’s dangerous to interfere with a false memory.”
"She might forget what really happened,” Zeke Z said.
Sgt. Sampson nodded.
“I’ve got an idea,” Marley said. “Miss Otto, do you have some time this evening?”
“At some point, I have to help my father. But, yes, I’m free,” she replied.
“That’s perfect,” Marley said. “Antonio’s would be a good place to do it.” She held up a finger. “Just let me gather my thoughts. Sergeant, I can call you, or e-mail. . . .”
