The Violin Conspiracy(17)

“Are you serious? Where are you now?”

“I’m at the front door.”

“Hold on, I’ll come get you.”

11:36. 11:39.

The door opened again.

“Dude! Hurry up.” Aiden led Ray through the empty foyer. Uncle Roger had thankfully disappeared. Ray caught a blurred glimpse of oriental rugs, heavy wooden and gilded furniture, and pictures in heavy gold frames suspended from wires on the walls. They sprinted through a pair of French doors and into the garden, slowed to a walk. Garlands of roses and white lilies looped like snakes along the walkways. Twin fountains sprayed a light mist; the sunlight fell golden and in rainbows. Ray and Aiden tried to tiptoe inconspicuously around the two rows of padded white folding chairs now holding wedding guests. Most people ignored them, but Ray could feel some eyes like flies on him, clinging. The other musicians were sitting on one side under a tent. Four chairs, two empty. Ray sat down. What had just happened?

Aiden grabbed Ray’s folder. “Go quick as you can. I’ll get your music ready. We’re starting with Water Music.” Beth Lamb was playing viola and Christine Long was on cello.

“I’m sorry, man. It wasn’t my fault. I tried to—”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll figure it out later. You guys ready?”

They gave a nod and waited for Aiden’s cue.

It felt as if every eye in the garden was on Ray. He wondered where Uncle Roger was, if he’d march over and drag Ray out. He told himself to calm down. It was no big deal. This was the first of many gigs. He needed to do it right. Two hundred dollars.

The music started. Suddenly his bow arm was gliding across the strings and his fingers were making the notes somersault off the fingerboard. He was doing it. He was actually playing music—and getting paid for it. People were listening to him—to him!—and paying him for the privilege. This was more fun than he’d had, ever: he loved the immediateness. The melodies sluiced off the violin and out into space, where he was setting the mood and filling his audience’s senses.

The quartet played through the five prelude pieces flawlessly—these were all songs they’d played many times in class, and all four of them knew the music from memory.

At the end of the fifth piece, the groom, minister, and four groomsmen took their positions beneath the canopy, in front of a wall of white roses.

The wedding director waved at Aiden to begin music for the next processional—“?‘Rhosymedre,’ Prelude on a Welsh Hymn Tune”—for the family’s entrance. This was one of Ray’s favorites. He liked it so much that he’d researched the piece and the composer, Ralph Vaughan Williams. The title meant “lovely.” It was totally, absolutely true.

The sun was high in the sky. The air was cool but not chilly. Every flower in the garden was in bloom. The guests were no longer looking at him, they’d all turned to watch the mother of the bride, in a sky-blue dress, glide down the white runner that ran between the rows of seats. She walked in perfect sync with the music. The bridesmaids, in darker blue satin gowns with their hair elaborately piled on their heads, followed.

Then Christine played the eight most familiar notes in all of classical music: Pachelbel’s Canon in D. As she played, the house’s elaborately carved French doors opened and the bride appeared.

Standing next to her was Uncle Roger.

Ray’s hands froze. He doubted he’d be able to move the bow, to lift the violin. He would stick there, become part of the chair itself.

Aiden began to play. Ray had only eight beats of rests before he had to enter. Those eight beats stretched on and on. He stared at the music, convinced that Uncle Roger was glaring at him.

No matter what just happened, his first gig was going to be a good one. This was the start of something great. Right on cue, as if his hands belonged to someone else, he began to play. His phrasing was even and sure. His notes were rich and beautiful. Aiden looked over at Ray, nodded in approval. Roger and the bride drew closer, and Ray drew more into himself, focusing on the music. He was sure Uncle Roger was marching down the aisle glowering at him, but when Ray dared to glance up, Roger was focused on the minister and the groom and the bridesmaids.

When the bride took her place, Aiden signaled them to stop playing. They wouldn’t play again until the minister announced the couple was officially married, and then they’d start in on “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” Ray kept his eyes on the music, on the few feet of grass that separated them from the guests, listened to the vows.

Finally Aiden brought his instrument to playing position.

“And now,” suggested the minister, “may I present Mr. and Mrs. James Sinclair.”

Ray was poised, ready. But just before the first note, his eyes locked with Uncle Roger’s, lower lip clamped in his teeth, scowling at him from the front row.

Ray was a professional. He wouldn’t let the old man psych him out. He kept his eyes on Uncle Roger and began playing “Arrival of the Queen of Sheba.” The fast notes didn’t deter him from the staring contest: he’d gone over the piece so many times that he no longer needed the music. Then Beth’s hand slipped from the viola’s fingerboard and she played a series of wrong notes. Uncle Roger stood up to applaud the new husband and wife.

They were almost done with the ceremony and soon he’d never have to see Uncle Roger again. And most important: he’d played beautifully, the beat-up old violin singing like a Stradivarius. The $200 was his.