The Violin Conspiracy(58)

But she was smiling at him—really smiling. He could see her back molars. She was seriously into him.

He didn’t even register what she was saying until she touched his arm. “Hey, Ray Ray! You look so good! You look just like your uncle.”

Uncle? Now he was totally confused. “Um, hey. Whattup. How you doing?” It took him a minute to realize that she wasn’t into him, after all—she was into his uncle. Figured.

“Oh, I’m all right. I was visiting my cousin in Newark and I just caught the train over to see you.” She cradled her oversize suede handbag, rocking it back and forth. It was big enough to hold a small rottweiler. “Your uncle said you was playing here tonight. Did I miss it?”

Finally it clicked: this was Uncle Thurston’s girlfriend, LeShawnah. He’d only met her once in person, although she’d been equally resplendent then. “Oh, that’s nice,” he said. “Sorry you missed the show. How’s Uncle Thurston?”

“He’s good,” she said. “You want to grab a drink, catch up?”

He eyed the door. “That would be awesome but I’ve got to get back to the hotel. Early flight tomorrow.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly disappointed. “The thing is, Thurston had told me to come see you since I was so close. I have a little favor to ask.”

Ray waited.

“Thurston said I should ask you for a small loan.”

Ray bit his lip. “Oh, wow. I really don’t have any money to spare. I’m pretty much tapped out. Did he tell you that most of my money goes to him and my other aunts and uncles? And my mom, of course.”

“Yeah, he said you was gonna say something like that. Ray Ray, we know you got money. You know I’m just like your auntie. You gonna hook me up?”

“Look, I’ll talk to Uncle Thurston, okay? That’s the best I can do. I hope you have a safe trip back to Newark. I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.” Before he could change his mind—but how could he change his mind, since he didn’t have the money?—he slipped away and left the club, zipping down into the subway stop on the corner.

Next day, when Uncle Thurston texted him: Got a sec?, Ray didn’t reply. Over the next couple days, Uncle Thurston tried calling and texting, and Ray ignored them all. He was furious that Uncle Thurston would put him in such a position with his girlfriend. He still kept sending his uncle—and the rest of Grandma Nora’s children—money when he could.

Outside the family drama, with the Markses’ bizarre claim seemingly laid to rest, Ray was able to concentrate on music, and began booking performances for early the following year. In February—Black History Month—he was booked solid, back to back every night. He wasn’t good enough to play with certain orchestras during the other eleven months of the year, but would shine in February, where he would play composers like Samuel Coleridge-Taylor and William Grant Still. Still’s Suite for Violin and Piano was always a crowd-pleaser. Ray was honored to bring music composed by people who looked like him to people who knew nothing about him. The most challenging thing about February was finding a pianist who could actually play the parts. It wasn’t regular old Beethoven; it was Beethoven on steroids.

As he continued to schedule, a pattern began to emerge that became clear during a call with the Delaware Valley Philharmonic’s music director. They were going over an upcoming program. “We were hoping you’d be really excited about our Gershwin review,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry, but why would I be excited about a Gershwin review?” Ray asked, genuinely curious. Perhaps they were just enamored with Gershwin, had a unique arrangement or a new adaptation.

“Well, it’s Gershwin.”

“Okay…and?”

“We just thought that you would really like to play Gershwin.”

“And why would you think that?” Ray was trying to remember if he’d ever given an interview or ever said anything to anyone about his secret Gershwinian fixation—nothing came to mind. So he’d asked the question to honestly see if she could jog his memory.

“I just have a hunch that you’d really like to play that kind of music.”

“Oh,” he said, finally understanding. “Right.”

He realized that, in the director’s eyes, he would play Gershwin because he was Black and because Black people were not sophisticated enough to master—nor in many instances even capable of mastering—the “real” European composers like Beethoven, Bach, Corelli, Mozart, Mendelssohn, or Brahms. Only people who look like dead white composers would actually interpret them effectively.

A week after the Gershwin call, Ray was setting up, via video call, a performance for the Big Rock Symphony Orchestra in Big Rock, South Carolina. “We’re quite excited for you to do a performance of some of your music,” said a pudgy spokesperson for the board of directors.

“I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand,” Ray said, fearing that he did, indeed, understand.

“We are trying to promote diversity throughout our organization—we believe that Big Rock leads South Carolina in being inclusive—so that’s why we feel it would be best if we feature someone like you, who plays music he is familiar with.”

“Oh,” Ray said. “I get it.”