The Violin Conspiracy(50)

She rolled her eyes, sighed, and gave him a look.

He reached out, hugged her. “I love you, Mama.”

She was stiff in his embrace, but eventually her arms wrapped around him for a moment. It was more than usual: it was enough. It would have to be.

Later, he drove back to his little house. Exhausted but still on a high, he showered, lay down, and stared at the flowers his mother had given him.

In what seemed like a few moments later the sun was pouring through the window. He pulled up his banking app. A deposit of $2,000 had been made hours earlier. Money from his first performance.

Online, he found a local report about last night’s concert and footage of him onstage. He quickly clicked away. It felt weird to see himself like that. But then he couldn’t resist, clicked to the end of the video, heard the reporter say, “It looks like he and his Stradivarius have a brilliant career ahead of them.”

Ray lay back in bed, closed his eyes. This was really happening.

He called Aunt Rochelle. “Do you use PayPal or Venmo?”

He had to explain what they were and walked her through setting up a Venmo account. “What’s this for?” she kept asking.

He transferred $1,200 into her account—$300 for her to keep and $900 to be divided among each of his aunts and uncles. “Tell them there’ll be more coming soon.”

She tried to object, but he’d already transferred the funds, with another $300 to his mother.

The next morning, all his aunts and uncles texted him, thanking him. Can’t wait to hear you play, Uncle Thurston wrote. You’re doing us proud! Aunt Joyce said. His mother didn’t write.



* * *



—

Four days later he showed his ID to the security guard at the VIP entrance of the Greensboro Coliseum. The North Carolina Symphony’s warm-up poured from speakers lining the hallway. He’d hoped that Janice would come for this performance as well, but he was on his own.

Just as he was about to go out and introduce himself, the conductor called for a fifteen-minute break. This was the time to go onstage, but he hung back, suddenly shy. What if they didn’t know who he was? Stupid, but he was okay just standing there, savoring this moment, watching these musicians congregating in small groups, others heading off to the restrooms, or for a smoke break outside. The concertmaster—whom Ray recognized because Ray’s college studio had come to a performance when the orchestra had played in Charlotte—was heading his way with a couple of the other violinists.

“Wonder where the wunderkind is,” an older woman—the third chair—was saying.

“Not sure why they’re even letting this guy play.”

He backed into the curtains that cloaked the rear wall.

“I don’t even think he’s played more than one concert with anybody in his life.”

“It’s just a PR stunt,” the concertmaster told them. “The only reason he’s playing is because he has a Strad. You know how people try to get at least one Black person to play with a major group at least a couple times a year? It covers all the bases.”

“At least it’s not Black History Month. There’s no telling what kind of circus music they’d have us playing.” Laughter.

They walked down toward the restrooms. He stood in the curtain, face hot, and waited.

Out onstage the oboe played an A: rehearsal was resuming. The concertmaster and his flunkies headed back to the auditorium and he followed a few minutes behind.

After he was introduced to the orchestra, they prepared to rehearse. He tried to summon up enthusiasm but he was suddenly exhausted. He played mechanically, coldly, not investing in the music, barely paying attention. No fiery runs, no subtle dynamic shifts. No passion. Just notes. At the end of the rehearsal Ray thanked the conductor and walked off, headed back to the hotel.

He knew what he had to do. Play or go home. This wouldn’t be the last time people talked crap about him. It’s how he dealt with them that mattered. He could give back the $5,000 for tonight’s performance, or he could play for Grandma Nora. Always work twice as hard: he would fulfill his promise to her.

Another hour and a half later he was back in his dressing room at the symphony hall. Now roses and carnations leaned in vases on the dressing table and on a couple cabinets, with a huge fruit basket dead center, reflected back in the mirror, so it seemed as if there were two of them glowing on the table.

Ray’s performance of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor—the piece he’d been slated to perform in Charlotte—was the first piece in the second half of the concert. He and Janice had sat down to determine a handful of pieces that would be in his standard repertoire for the next year or so, as he eased into a soloist’s life, building his confidence and prowess with the violin. The Mendelssohn, while widely performed, was also one of his favorites, with lush rich melodies that he could really dive into.

The North Carolina Symphony opened with two measures, and then the first B he played rang through the auditorium. Each note sprang out, the fast passages zoomed by, the violin dancing above the orchestra, them leaping to meet him as he soared on ahead, a wave pouring endlessly up a beach, the foam bubbles kicking in, the stone crabs dancing in the surf, the tide pouring out until he led it, roaring, up the beach again. When he was learning the piece, Janice had told him, “This cadenza tells a story. If you don’t like it, tell your own—use every note.” Yes, he was Black. Yes, he was inexperienced. But more than anything else, he loved to play. He loved this music. He loved this violin. He was bigger than all of them.