The Violin Conspiracy(79)

“So that’s my offer,” he said, standing and folding the paper with his notes on it. His hands were shaking, but he clenched them into fists. “A million in cash and you’re listed as beneficiaries on the insurance. Think about it and let me know. I’ll be outside in the lobby.”

And he walked out the door.

Fifteen minutes later they texted him to come back: they would take his offer.

Within the next two weeks, the lawyers wrote it all up in nice legalese and the deal was done.

Ray heard later that his family tore their houses apart looking for documents about Leon Marks. They contacted the Georgia Historical Society, the ACLU, and everywhere else they could think of. They knocked on the door of Grandma Nora’s old house, went up to the now-barren attic, pounded on the walls, and searched the insulation.

But Leon Marks’s papers had disappeared—probably thrown out with so much of Grandma Nora’s life.





Chapter 24


    Theft


In the meantime, the Tchaikovsky Competition, slated for mid-June, was bearing down upon him. Practice and lessons dominated Ray’s life. Both Ray and Janice had their own thoughts about his strengths and weaknesses; the trick was to find teachers who not only could build on his strengths and improve his weaknesses but who also had the availability—and the willingness—to teach him. Janice had pulled many strings, and the strings of strings, because that was how the game was played. And she was good at it.

From January to June, Ray would divide his life into three blocks. In the first, he’d focus on Bach and Ravel; in the second, on Mozart, Kreisler, and Paganini; and finally, in the few weeks before the competition began, on Tchaikovsky. Once a week Ray would fly to take a lesson with the instructor, then fly home to practice, practice, practice. Money would be very tight for the next six months. It was a big gamble, and Ray hoped it would pay off.

By early January he’d finalized his schedule—and it was grueling. Block one was with Rachel Vetter in Chicago (he’d already met her briefly, when he played with the Chicago Symphony) and focused on the Bach Chaconne and Ravel’s Tzigane. She was considered one of the foremost Bach experts in the country. Ray had once heard her perform the Tzigane and was completely astounded at how she balanced power and precision. Such a petite person playing so fiendishly well, as though she summoned Gypsy spirits when her bow touched the string.

Rachel drilled him on the Bach and the Tzigane for five hours at a time, and then he flew home and practiced until his brain and fingers gave way. He practiced so much that he began making simple mistakes. Miscounting, playing wrong notes, ignoring accidentals. This was a sure sign that he was beginning to overdo it. His brain was experiencing serious fatigue.

Every week or so, Nicole would fly down to Charlotte—she was a virtuoso with flights and found the cheapest offerings possible, so that meant she was often showing up on Ray’s doorstep at 2:00 a.m. or leaving for the airport at 4:00 a.m.

March and early April were slated for block two with Ben Amundsen in Los Angeles, who focused on Mozart, Kreisler, and Paganini. Amundsen was heralded for his interpretation of Mozart concertos and sonatas—he was also a very good friend of Janice’s, so that was an easy choice to make.

In Charlotte, between lessons, Ray buried himself in the music, with a strict practice routine that didn’t vary. Up at 7:00 a.m. for breakfast and a quick workout; then, at nine thirty, an hour of scales and arpeggios—starting off with every major and minor scale, using several different bowings, focusing on making each scale a work of art—and then on to harmonic, melodic, and natural minor arpeggios, concentrating on the fingerings and the bowings.

At eleven o’clock he’d start in on Mozart, his long fingers effortlessly jumping into the intricacy, like a puzzle he’d manipulate in the air. Since he’d worked on these pieces with Janice when he was in college, he’d sometimes stop and call, ask her about a specific fingering. If she wasn’t teaching they’d sometimes do a video call and she’d watch him, critiquing as he went.

No later than 1:00 p.m., he would turn to the Paganini Caprices nos. 24 and 6. These pieces worried him: they were in the compulsory round of the competition, and he’d have to do something to stand out. Janice suggested that he play them at lightning speed, so he was trying hard to do that.

At 2:00 p.m. he’d drill into the simple, beautiful Valse-Scherzo in C Major by Tchaikovsky—even though he’d be focusing on it during block three, he still wanted to play it every day, since that way even his muscles would follow and anticipate the flow of the competition. Besides, he just liked playing it.

Three p.m. and time for a late lunch. He was always starving. If he and Nicole were in different cities, he’d give her a call and her voice would pour out, warm and honey gold, making a knot loosen in his chest. “How is practice going?”

“Okay. The Scherzo feels better. I think I got a handle on it.”

“I love the way you play that piece. It’s like Tchaikovsky wrote it for you.”

“It felt pretty good at the end.”

“Of course it does. Now get back to it. You have a competition to win.”

After lunch, he drilled into Mozart and Kreisler for the next three hours, playing each piece from beginning to end as if in a concert performance. Before he knew it, 10:00 p.m. had barreled past, and he staggered into the shower, and bed.