The Violin Conspiracy(68)
Enough. He would put the eighth note and the auburn hair behind him. Goodbye, Erie, Pennsylvania. Good riddance.
Back in New York, he always stayed at the same hotel—the Saint Jacques—where Janice had booked them when they’d flown in to have the violin authenticated. Despite his first experience there, it was familiar. He’d requested it from Carnegie Hall, and luckily it was on their list.
After checking into his room—which went off without a hitch, queen-size bed and a view of midtown—Ray showered and curled up in bed. He couldn’t fall asleep right away, brooding about the girl back in Erie. Nicole. Why hadn’t he gotten her last name?
He needed to focus. Carnegie Hall. This was his big chance and he couldn’t mess it up. Time to leave Erie, Pennsylvania, behind.
Ray got out of bed, attached the practice mute to the violin, and played for the next hour and a half. He must have practiced the same up-bow staccato run in the de Falla for forty minutes. The constant repetition soothed him and he fell asleep, thinking only passingly of Nicole.
The next day, Ray arrived at Carnegie Hall three hours before showtime. He took a moment to look around at all the splendor that surrounded him: the gilt, the crystal chandeliers, the famous stage. Backstage, his feet walked where the feet of some of the greatest musicians—Jascha Heifetz, Yehudi Menuhin, Gil Shaham, Itzhak Perlman—once walked. He introduced himself to his accompanist, an older woman named Grace who did not seem particularly happy to be there. Normally during a recital, the soloist calls the shots—setting tempos, figuring out timing, and so forth. Grace, however, knew better than Ray. She made it a point to let him know how many big-name performers she had accompanied. Ray thought better of asking her what the soloists were like to work with. Instead, he just smiled and told her, “This movement needs to go faster. I appreciate that you’re holding true to the set tempo, but I’ll be playing it much faster. If that’s going to be an issue, we can see about finding another accompanist for this piece. I’d much rather have you play with me, of course. I can’t wait to add my name to your distinguished list.”
Grace relented, and the rest of the rehearsal went more smoothly.
An hour later, Carnegie Hall began to come to life. Soon the 250-plus-seat auditorium was nearly full; the New York music scene was eager to learn just who this Ray McMillian was. Tickets had sold out shortly after Ray’s performance was announced.
Claude Gilliam, the executive artistic director, introduced him.
The moment came. The crowd rustled expectantly, and Ray walked onto the stage, bowed. Applause. Handed out the pink rose to an elderly woman halfway up the right aisle. More applause.
De Falla’s Spanish Dance was energetic but also languid and sensual, with a deep romantic passion. The music was originally part of an opera in which a Gypsy girl—for an instant, as he visualized the music in his head, the Gypsy girl reminded him of someone: Nicole—fell in love with a man above her social class. Ray had played this piece several times for his grandmother, and she’d loved it. Now it felt like a fitting tribute to her, but also to the violin. His pizzicati were forceful and bold, passionate and rich. His nerves fell away, and the rich acoustics of the room took over, thundering around him. Seemingly moments after he’d raised his violin to begin, he was taking his bow, holding out the violin for its own adoration.
On to the encore: Massenet’s “Méditation” from Tha?s. Perhaps standard encore fare, but Ray loved this piece, a lyrical gem that starts off with nostalgic yearning, plummets to insecure agony, and then triumphs with peace and joy. He poured himself into the song’s desperation, its dark misery, its sunlit final passages. Too soon, the last harmonic rang out and he kept his bow on the string until the final echoes blurred away. The audience was silent. He lowered the violin.
The audience rose to its feet.
He had done it. He shook Grace’s hand.
The crowd came up onstage to meet him, congratulate him. It was one of those moments that he honestly couldn’t believe was happening. Finally, just before 7:00 p.m., he slipped out the rear door onto Seventh Avenue. A huge crowd waited for him, and he signed programs.
“Not bad for your first time, cutie,” said a familiar voice. Nicole, her dark auburn hair loose around her face.
He couldn’t help himself: he grinned. He could feel himself lighting up. “Hey,” he said. At first he tried to sound casual, but he quickly just gave in. “What are you doing here?”
“I figured it would be stupid of me not to witness Ray McMillian’s Carnegie Hall debut. I expect to be telling my grandkids about this. You were incredible, by the way. The way you played de Falla was insanely good. The spiccatos on your arpeggios were really impressive. I don’t think I ever saw your bow leave the string. I honestly don’t know how you did it.”
“I really appreciate that,” he said. Many people had complimented him on his arpeggios, but none of them was gorgeous or made his heart hammer in his rib cage the way she was doing. He liked it. A lot. The moment stretched. What was he doing? Why was he so terrible at talking to this woman? She was violin-shaped, right? So why was this so hard? “Are, um, you staying in town?”
“I got this sick deal,” she said enthusiastically. “Amtrak is so expensive, but I figured out a way from New Rochelle that’s, like, half the price. It doesn’t leave till nine thirty, though. That gives me time for dinner. I’ve already seen the show.”