The Violin Conspiracy(44)

Ray opened the case and launched into Ravel’s Tzigane, one of his favorites. The opening adagio starts out rich and full, slightly mournful, announcing his presence with passion and wistfulness; and then it lightens, begins to dance, bob along in the current of life: excitement and great joy competing, soaring, grateful, and alive. The violin took over: he wasn’t playing notes, he was making music the way Ravel intended, the way Antonio Stradivari intended, the way he always dreamed he could play. He poured out into the air what he was unable to put into words: his gratitude—for this violin, for Janice, for Grandma Nora, for Mischa Rowland’s assessment—a few words transforming his life utterly. Thank you.

He ended the piece with its thunderous final note, opened his eyes. The applause echoed in the showroom; from the stairwell, all of Rowland’s associates had come down and were clapping as well.

With a violin like this, he would be worthy of the Tchaikovsky Competition. There was no way they could keep him out, no matter his skin color.





Chapter 13


    New York City


13 Months Ago

Manhattan’s skyscrapers and streets can seem unreal on an average day. Now, as he carried a Stradivarius violin, the sunlight was almost a melody; the taxis and town cars shuffled in a dance he could almost anticipate and join. He was Dorothy in a world new with Technicolor; he was Alice following a watch-checking white rabbit down a hole; he was Neil Armstrong stepping into a lunar landscape and the future. He owned a Stradivarius violin worth $10 million. Was this even remotely possible?

On the street, Janice said to him, “You know something? The instrument you played today—not the one you’ve been using the past four years—has really brought out the confidence in you that’s always been there. Nice job with the Ravel.”

He ducked his head.

“We’re going to the hotel now—I just got a couple emails that I need to deal with—and then we’re going for a celebratory lunch. And then shopping. We’re buying you a new wardrobe.”

“New wardrobe?”

“I was thinking about it in Rowland’s. It’s not just your violin that’s being introduced to the world—you will be, too. You’re going to need to step everything up to the next level. Your appearance is going to have to match your playing. People can be cruel, and they’re always looking for something to criticize. We won’t give them any ammunition. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

He nodded. Being Black meant being watched—and usually not in a good way. So many times he’d walked into a store and the sales clerks glared at him. He’d been followed up and down aisles in grocery stores. At restaurants, out to dinner with friends, he’d be seated in the back near the kitchen or the restroom. No more. The days of being treated as a second-class citizen would soon be over.

“You need more than your one suit. You’ll need a couple beautifully tailored suits, a couple blazers, and some high-quality shirts and trousers. And a new tux. Plus shoes.”

“I sure hope my bank account can handle all this.”

“I sure hope so, too,” she said. “If not, we can use mine and you can pay me back. You’re going to need something nice for the media interview.”

“Wha—what? Media interview?”

She explained that this discovery would be news—the university would want to profit from it; this would put the music department on the map. It was an extraordinary story, and she expected even the Charlotte Herald would want to run an article. Maybe the local news would, too.

“I’d need to tell my mom,” he said.

“Of course. We’ll time it so you tell your family and then we’ll sit down with a reporter to break the story. But if you tell them now, I’d worry that somebody will leak it all over social media.”

This was all happening far too quickly.

His mind was already off, running down the rabbit hole of telling his mother. He was nauseous with nervousness. The rest of the family—Aunt Rochelle especially—would be thrilled, but he wondered how his mother would handle it. The Stradivarius wasn’t “noise” now, that was for sure.

The hotel was a few blocks away. Skyscrapers sprang up around them, and everywhere people dashed past, looking determined and energetic. Ray, in his faded jeans, with North Carolina all over him and a $10 million violin strapped to his body, had never felt so out of place. “This is all so much at once. You know?”

“I do, and it’s just the beginning.” She had been looking distractedly down at her phone several times. “When we get to the hotel, you check in and I’m going to use their business services for a sec.”

“No problem. Is there anything I can do?”

“Department bureaucracy. It’ll just take a few minutes. You can go up to your room and have a few minutes to yourself. I’ll text you when I’m ready and we can grab lunch. And then go shopping!”

They arrived at the Saint Jacques Hotel. Revolving doors led into a stark white lobby with an artificial fireplace that took up almost the entire length of one wall; on the other wall a concierge desk stretched forever. Janice asked the doorman where the business service center was and disappeared, heels clattering, down the marble corridor.

Ray carried his red duffel and violin case to the enormous front desk, where two clerks stood some distance from each other, both staring down at their computer monitors.