The Violin Conspiracy(37)

In his junior year, Ray and a few students went out for pizza with Professor Harris, who taught music history and piano and who’d listened to them practice that afternoon.

After they ordered, Professor Harris leaned in toward Ray. “Have you ever thought about applying to the Tchaikovsky Competition?”

The restaurant was noisy. Ray thought he hadn’t heard correctly. “Excuse me?”

The man leaned in, repeated what he’d said. The Tchaikovsky Competition. It was one of the most—if not the most—prestigious competitions for young musicians, held every four years in Moscow. The winner and finalists usually walked away with recording deals and invitations to play worldwide with the best orchestras. Hundreds applied, and only a few dozen made it to the First Round.

Ray swallowed a chunk of breadstick, which was suddenly rough in his throat. “When is it again?”

“It took place two years ago,” Professor Harris said. “You should really think about it. I honestly think you have a real shot. You have two years to get ready. You should look over the application materials, see what you need to enter. Talk it over with Professor Stevens.”

“Isn’t that the competition where, like, no Americans have ever won?” Ray said.

“Well, Van Cliburn won the first one on piano, back in the fifties, but you’re right, it’s rare that Americans make it that far. I think you should consider it, though. That sautillé of yours is pretty incredible.”

“Thanks,” Ray said, taking another breadstick and snapping it in half. “I guess I’ll think about it.”

“You have some time,” Professor Harris said.

The conversation moved on, but Harris had lit a flame in Ray: he burned not only to apply to the competition but to be good enough to actually qualify.

The next day in his lesson, after he’d finished the Mendelssohn Concerto, he broached the topic with Dr. Stevens. “Do you know anything about the Tchaikovsky Competition?”

“I’m glad you asked,” she said, nodding slightly. “You’re definitely on a soloist’s track, and that means competitions. That’s the top of the food chain. You’re not quite ready, but you could be.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. One hundred percent. But there’s a lot you have to do before you get there. You’ll have to really increase your repertoire, and you need to dig into basic techniques. Like double-and triple-stops. And you’d need to have a soloist’s violin. But we have time for all that. You just stay focused.”

She kept smiling, looking at him, as if she were delighted he’d brought it up.

From then on, he’d check out the competition’s website, study past winners, follow the controversies over the judging, the various missteps that the classical music world brooded on. Americans were rarely chosen; a Black American probably didn’t even have a shot.

But if he didn’t apply, he wouldn’t give them a reason to say yes.

So, quietly, just to himself, he set a goal: the Tchaikovsky Competition in three years. It would mean he’d have to work even harder, and he loved the challenge.

Senior year had turned into the best year of his life. He’d moved out of the dorms and into an apartment he shared with two other music students, he was concertmaster of the college symphony orchestra, he played in the community orchestra, he played jazz gigs every other weekend with a combo that played close to campus, and he worked part time behind the counter at a local bagel shop.

In the spring he would prepare for major orchestra auditions. Dr. Stevens had pulled strings to find the most promising auditions on the East Coast, and some in the Midwest. So when she said that it was time he had a concert-level instrument, he immediately agreed. Grandma Nora’s beat-up old fiddle wasn’t going to cut it. Luckily, hidden away in Charlotte was Fischer Luthiers, a musical instrument store and repair shop that was one of the best in North Carolina. Ray had been in a couple times with his string-repair class.

Dr. Stevens drove them out one Friday afternoon. They’d made an appointment ahead of time. Jacob Fischer—“Call me Jacob, son, don’t call me Mr. Fischer”—was waiting behind the counter and came out to meet them in the middle of the showroom floor. A grizzled man with a tonsure surrounded by wild, wiry black-and-gray hair, a hooked nose, thin lips, a back hunched from years of bending over a worktable, he’d seemed daunting each time Ray had met him, and today was no exception. He shook both their hands, called Professor Stevens “young lady,” and was deferential to them both. This was a far cry from the music shop in the Georgia mall years before.

Fischer had heard Ray play several times. “Your Brahms A major sonata reminded me of Nigel Kennedy at your age.”

“Wow. Thanks, Mr. Fischer. That’s so nice.” Ray was getting better at accepting compliments.

“Jacob. And I mean it.”

Dr. Stevens explained that Ray would soon be making the audition rounds and needed a violin that was up to the task.

Fischer led them over to the violins that hung like hourglass-shaped jewels on the wall. “Try this one on for size,” he said to Ray, reaching for a tiger-striped, honey-colored beauty with mother-of-pearl inlaid pegs. He lifted it from its rack, extended it to Ray, who grasped it cautiously. Ray slid his bow across the strings, tuned the D string—it was slightly flat—and played an A-major scale all on the G string to get the feel of it. Then he launched into the third movement of the Mendelssohn Concerto, the vast sound reaching up from the ground and growing leaves and blossoms. The tone on the E string seemed to float from his chest, not from the instrument at all. He closed his eyes and let the violin serenade him.