The Violin Conspiracy(6)

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

They’d both showered when someone knocked on the door. “Here’s breakfast,” Nicole said. “I’ll get it. I’ll get the tip, too. Just don’t get used to it.”

Ray managed to smile.

But it wasn’t housekeeping with their eggs: instead Bill Soames and another FBI guy whose name Ray couldn’t remember came in. “You find it?” Ray asked, standing.

“Not yet, but we do have some promising leads,” Soames said. “Several people from the housekeeping staff didn’t show up for work today.”

“What’s promising about a bunch of people skipping work?” Ray said. “Maybe the hotel down the street pays better.”

“Or maybe one of the housekeeping staff knows something about the violin and skipped town,” Soames said evenly.

“You think so?” Nicole said. “What makes you think that? I don’t know if I’d want to show up for work if the place was crawling with cops.”

Soames shrugged. “Maybe they got something to hide. We’re checking their home addresses. We’ll keep you posted.”

Another knock, and breakfast arrived. Soames and the other agent left. Nicole sat down to eat and she forced Ray to have a few forkfuls of egg. He felt better.



* * *



—

Janice met them just inside the door to Rowland’s Fine Instruments on Fifty-Sixth Street. She embraced him and would not let him go. Worn from the flight, her black hair grayer than he remembered, she was nonetheless sturdy and solid. He wept in her arms.

In the showroom, Mischa Rowland clasped both of Ray’s hands in his enormous ones. The pinned-up violins and violas glared down from the walls: what a traitor Ray was. His bones ached to think of playing some other instrument.

“I have treasure for you,” Mischa said. “It will not be what you had, of course not, but it will be special, and it will be worthy of the Tchaikovsky Competition.” How did Mischa even know Ray had entered the competition?

“You know, thanks, guys, but I don’t think I can do this,” Ray said. A wave of nausea had swelled up in him. The scrambled eggs burned at the back of his throat. “Let’s just go.”

Nicole reached for him but he ducked away, heading back the way he’d come. Every other violin in the entire world was in that showroom—every one but his. How could he think—even for an instant—that he could replace his violin with something else? These were only glued pieces of wood, horsehair stretched over pernambuco, varnished and shining.

His violin thrummed in his blood.

His violin was not there.

He was almost out of the shop when Janice said his name—so quietly—but something made him pause, hand on the front door’s worn brass handle. “Ray. This is not your fault,” she said. She didn’t raise her voice—but all the days and years of practicing with her made it impossible for him not to hear her. “They’re going to find your violin. You have to believe that. We all believe it. Finding a loaner instrument isn’t a betrayal. It’s just a tool to get you to the next step.”

“It’s just too soon,” he said. He could barely get the words out.

“It’s just temporary,” Janice said. “Once they find your fiddle, you’ll return this one. You can make Tchaikovsky sound good playing on a cardboard box with rubber bands.”

“That’s what I was playing when I met you,” he said, forcing a laugh. Outside, three gray-suited men with black briefcases filed down Fifty-Sixth Street. He wished he were one of them.

“My point is that of all the obstacles you’ve had to face, you’ve never backed down. You’re not a quitter. You’ve worked too hard to let some selfish asshole destroy your dreams. It’s about the music, remember? It’s about what you bring to the music. I didn’t want to work with you because of your violin. I wanted to work with you because I’d never seen someone love music so much. You can’t lose that. Let’s just choose an instrument to practice on so you don’t lose everything you’ve worked for. Okay?”

The Tchaikovsky Competition was less than a month away. He’d given up the last six months of his life to prepare for it.

He turned back to the room.

Mischa, expressionless, was holding out a 1959 Lehman, and almost despite himself, Ray took it, smooth and cool. It lay in his hands like a wet fish, glinting. And yet there was a part of him that was relieved, as if some bow hair inside his skull tightened, or loosened. This was familiar; this was his world; this was music. He would continue to play. He would continue to connect with his listeners. All this would not be in vain.

Ray tuned the Lehman, lifted into a G scale, then fumbled into Ralph Vaughan Williams’s “Rhosymedre,” the opening notes coming almost unwillingly, haltingly. He hadn’t played the simple melody for so long but somehow it always lay there, just beyond the furthest reaches of his hearing, the song he played so often for Grandma Nora, and he played it for her now, the unpretentious tune pouring down and echoing and repeating. Lovely was the word “Rhosymedre” translated, and he closed his eyes and for a moment just let its sweetness wash him clean.

And then, somehow, the song was over. The Lehman’s full ripe sound hung in the air. It had resonance and depth, and a familiarity that Ray immediately liked. But you never go with the first car you drive, so he handed it back to Mischa.