The Violin Conspiracy(55)

“Look,” Ray said, “nice try, but you need to get out of my house before I call the cops.”

He felt his pockets for his phone as Andrea Marks pulled out her phone, scrolled a bit. “Oh, the violin is ours and we will be taking it with us. If you call the cops, they’ll tell you the same thing. Not that we need to prove anything to you, but the evidence is all right here.” She looked up at him, then back down at her phone. “This is a letter from Edith Marks, wife of Thomas Marks, to her daughter Adeline. It’s dated December eighth, 1884.”

She cleared her throat. “?‘Your father has been gone for close to twenty years now. I try to continue on in this life as best I can, but there is no joy here. The musicians who played last night could not hold a candle to the’?”—she hesitated, cleared her throat—“?‘to the niggers your father once owned. Do you remember the fiddle player? He must have been bewitched. His playing was one of the few sources of happiness that your father had before his passing. How I wish I could hear him laugh and clap along to the music the niggers played for him before the dark days made their way to Summerland. I wish that fiddle was still here to comfort me.’?”

Ray realized after a moment that he was standing in his living room with his mouth open. He couldn’t figure out if he was in shock because of the letter the woman read, or because of the ease and comfort in which she let the N-word roll off her tongue.

“Oh, sweet pea,” Andrea said gently. “We aren’t here in a legal capacity. We’re trying to appeal to your sense of decency and humanity. You people are always so decent and kind. We knew that as soon as we could talk to you face-to-face, you’d understand. Our niece will be devastated if she doesn’t get to play her great-great-granddaddy’s violin.”

“You forgot a great,” Ray said.

“So here’s what we’re thinking, honey,” Andrea said, fiddling with those pearl buttons. “We know you’re between concerts right now, and we’re prepared to write you a generous check for everything you’ve done.”

“A very generous check,” Dante put in.

“That’s not going to work,” Ray said. “I’m applying to the Tchaikovsky Competition, and I’ll need the violin then. If I win, I’ll be booked internationally for most of the next year.”

“Oh. Well then,” Andrea said, clearly rethinking. “When is it?”

“Next summer,” Ray said. “Mid-June.”

“Mid-June?” Andrea said, incredulous. “That’s nine months from now. That’s plenty of time. You can get yourself a fine instrument by then.”

“You surely want to do the right thing,” Dante said as if it were a foregone conclusion. He, too, leaned forward, his belly hanging between his knees. Ray had to fight not to step back. Dante was saying, “Where is it? Can we see it?”

Ray would not risk a glance toward the back room, as if by doing so the violin would waddle in, waving and bowing. “No, you can’t,” he said. “And the violin really is mine. My grandmother got it from her grandfather. And my grandmother was the most honest person I’ve ever met. There’s no way we stole it from you. Fact is, my grandma told me that her grandpa was half white. So you’re my cousins. How about that? No wonder we both love music so much.”

Now they were both standing, glaring at him. Dante had crossed his arms above his potbelly.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what that old lady said,” Andrea snapped. She had gone very pale, and her hands kept twitching at the buttons on her sweater. “You are not our relative. That violin is ours and we want it back.”

“Lady, get out of my house.” He moved back to the front door, opened it. It hung on its hinges like an open mouth.

She took a step toward him, but not as if to leave. “We will sue you,” she said. “We will sue you and your whole family for every penny you made, and will make, if you don’t give it back to us. Are you seriously prepared to spend thousands, tens of thousands, maybe a million dollars, to try to keep it? Because we will spend whatever it takes.”

Dante said, “Look, Rayquan, there’s no way you’re gonna win this thing. Save yourself a lot of time and heartache and just give it back.” He fumbled in his breast pocket, opened an envelope, leaned forward and showed him a cashier’s check. “Look. This is yours. You can surely buy a nice instrument for that. Let’s not fight, and let’s make it easy on all of us. Now, where’s the violin?”

He turned as if to move deeper into the house, as if the conclusion were foregone, as if he were just picking up the golf clubs he’d mislaid the last time he’d been over at Ray’s place, after they’d come back from playing the back nine at their country club.

Something cold had lodged in Ray’s throat. Did he have his phone on him? Could he call the police? What would the Charlotte police do when a ragged Black man called them over to report two well-dressed white people pleasantly chatting in his living room? They’d tell the police that the violin was theirs, and the police would give it to them.

Suddenly he stood up straight. He threw back his shoulders. He would not stoop to their level. They hated him; they hated what he stood for. They were not ashamed by their past; they reveled in it. But he would not hate them. He would not become them. He would be tall and respectful and he would command them.