The Violin Conspiracy(51)
And then they were into the second movement. Ray’s first five notes were at lightning speed—he was playing this movement exceptionally faster than they’d rehearsed. The flutes struggled to keep up. When they did, the entire orchestra leaned in, hyper focused, making sure they stayed with him. Final page. He decided to increase the tempo even more: the surf crept higher, past the beach, onto the dunes, roaring like a tsunami toward houses sleeping under the moon, unaware of what was pounding toward them. The wave built on itself, gathered like a giant feral cat, about to pounce: and then that final chord. He drew it out as long as possible. The water subsided. The village was safe.
Applause washed over him and again he held up his violin for them. He panted, sweat pouring down his face. The conductor extended his hand, nodded slightly, respect and admiration, and a little surprise, very clear on his face. Ray shook the offered hand.
Then he turned to the concertmaster. Leaning over, he said, “Charity work’s a bitch, huh? How’s that for a PR stunt?”
Chapter 15
Performance
10 Months Ago
The high of Ray’s first major orchestral performance lasted until the following morning, when the hotel phone screeched. The dead mechanical voice on the other line intoned, “Good morning this is your automated wake-up call good morning this is your automated wake-up call good morning this—”
“You know,” he told Janice twenty minutes later, pulling out the chair across from her and dropping into it, “you really should have offered a class on the life of itinerant musicians. How am I going to do laundry? How do I keep fit and trim if I’m eating all this high-sodium wack-ass restaurant food all the time? It’s really quite stressful, you know?”
She peered up at him over the novel she was reading. “Poor you,” she told him. “It’s not too late to cancel. Maybe Popeyes is hiring?”
“Love that chicken,” he said.
“If you’re going to apply, better get going. And cancel Christopher Newport University ASAP because they’ll be waiting for you.” Since it was summer, Janice had taken several weeks to go with him to some of the festivals and master classes that they’d set up together.
To earn a living as a classical musician meant that either you got a regular paycheck in an orchestra or you traveled around as a soloist or a featured artist, performing with the regular orchestra or at festivals and giving master classes to less-experienced students. Depending on the festival—Interlochen, Bridgehampton, and Aspen were very competitive and highly sought after—he could make bank as a featured artist, and the more fee-based master classes he taught, the better. More to the point, the more he played, the more chances that bigger venues—Powell Hall, Carnegie Hall, or the Chicago Philharmonic—would want him to solo with them.
The obvious way to get your foot in the door was to apply to the festivals, but nobody ever just sent their application in: it was all who you knew. Luckily Janice had been teaching and performing for the past thirty years—many performers she’d worked with now were festival organizers; many of her students went on to set up classes and teaching programs. Over the past months, she and Ray had reached out to her network and set him up for the summer to play, judge competitions, and start networking. Janice was a powerful force, convincing them that Ray was a talent not to miss while they could get him. Plus everyone in the industry had heard about the Strad, so his summer was already packed. Flying everywhere and being picked up by drivers or town cars took some getting used to. Janice convinced him it was worth it. He was actually saving money.
Coaching younger players and getting paid for it would be a new experience for him, and he looked forward to sharing what he could, especially with students who didn’t have the advantages—the nice instruments, the private coaching, the effortless travel to work with a big-name teacher—that wealthy students often possessed.
On one of his rare trips home, he found another white business envelope awaiting him.
Mr. McMillian,
We are getting concerned that we have not heard from you, and that troubles us. Do you require any assistance setting up our violin’s return?
Please continue to take excellent care of our family violin until such time that we or our representatives can retrieve it. I know our great great great grandfather would approve of your playing his violin for a short while longer.
We would prefer not to hire a lawyer, or go to the media, about this. It’s a private matter and we want to work it out among ourselves. Please either call or email us at the numbers below at your earliest opportunity.
Sincerely,
Andrea Marks
He tossed the letter in the drawer with three others from the same woman. Our family violin. And: I know our great great great grandfather: somehow the specificity of the number of greats unnerved him—as if she spent fifteen minutes counting, to make sure she got the number right.
After Christopher Newport University, they were off to four other colleges in the next two weeks, and then up to Michigan’s Interlochen Music festival, where he taught three master classes, played a recital, listened to some of the finest musicians he’d ever heard, and earned $9,000.
Later that night, his mother texted him. She rarely texted these days, unless, as now, she wanted something.
Mom: where u