The Violin Conspiracy(87)
Silence for a moment, both from the woman across from him and from the audience. Then the woman cleared her throat. “Well then, there you have it. A very heartfelt plea from the American violinist Ray McMillian for help in the return of his violin. Ray, will you join us again in the coming days to update us?”
Ray leaned in and smiled. “Absolutely.”
He spent the afternoon talking to audience members, providing further information about the violin, checking the GoFundMe page: the donations had immediately spiked by another $10,000 and were steadily increasing. He just needed it to go viral.
* * *
—
Next day, after an early workout and a quick practice, Ray, Nicole, and Janice returned for the live prequalifying round, which started at 9:30 a.m. He caught sight of Mikhail Lezenkov, who appeared right before they all went off with their different groups to separate parts of the building for the next five hours.
Ray had chosen a grueling twenty-minute program: Tzigane and Dance of the Goblins, with Tchaikovsky’s obligatory Sérénade mélancolique thrown in. Janice tried to give him last-minute suggestions backstage, but he didn’t really hear her. He was itching to be in front of the orchestra, show them what he could do. He was in a group of fifteen, performing for judges and a packed audience of rabid music lovers who stomped and cheered for each contestant. As he stepped onto the stage, the press in the balcony lifted cameras, the audience clapped and held up phones to record him. The air was electric. The crowd thundered—he couldn’t believe that even in this preselection round there would be an audience of such rabid classical music fans.
Marathon runners train for months, gradually building up endurance and strength—both mental and physical—to withstand hours of running. A few weeks before the race, they taper down to shorter, easier runs, scaling back on their mileage to be fresh for race day.
All Ray knew, at the start of the competition, was that he hadn’t really picked up his violin to play seriously for well over a week. He hadn’t the heart, so he’d focused on the theft and trying to raise money for the ransom; and then there was the travel to Moscow. So now, as he jumped into his beloved Tzigane, which he’d practiced endlessly for the past six months, he was playing it fresh—the Gypsy themes, light and bold, poured from the violin, and he threw himself into its lushness.
The ten minutes of Ravel flew by and then he was on to the Bazzini, and all too soon Tchaikovsky’s wistful, elegant, Sérénade mélancolique. He realized only when he had finished that it was over. He bowed and the crowd again roared approval, palms hammering against armrests and feet stomping. He’d never played for such an enthusiastic audience before—despite the pressure, it really was fun. He gave a thumbs-up to the judges and the crowd collectively “lost their shit,” as he told Janice afterward.
That evening, the judges read out the names of the twenty-five performers who were officially competitors and, the next day, would begin the First Round. Ray was one of them. So was Mikhail Lezenkov.
The competition had begun.
Chapter 28
Day 36: First Round
The next morning he didn’t much feel like eating. Nicole made him choke down some kasha, a kind of Russian oatmeal that really wasn’t so bad after the first few spoonfuls. He worked out hard in the hotel gym—the weights were all marked in Cyrillic, which was disorienting, but the weight machines were familiar enough.
At 9:00 a.m., the twenty-five violinists for the First Round assembled in the Small Hall, its white and gold glowing brighter than ever, to draw lots for the order in which they’d play throughout the competition: Ray drew the number six and would play on Day One. Mikhail Lezenkov drew number thirteen and would play on Day Two. After that, twelve musicians would move on to the Second Round, and a final six to the Third Round.
Ray had two hours to rehearse with his accompanist in a practice room, then, that afternoon, he’d rehearse with her onstage in the recital hall.
After about twenty minutes of warming up alone, a knock came on the practice-room door. A middle-aged horse-faced lady, hair tightly pulled back in a bun, introduced herself: Mariamna Gaevscaya.
She took a seat. Her fingers flexed dangerously above the piano’s keyboard as if intending to inflict harm. The next hour felt deeply unsatisfying as they stopped periodically to adjust phrasing and timing. She was a pro, a Russian playing in Russia—the fault, clearly, was his. Her piano couldn’t be out of tune, could it? No, of course not. Maybe it was his violin? He hadn’t had the Lehman long enough. He was trying to make the Lehman do what his Strad had done—with his own violin, it had been effortless. Now, with this one, he still had to focus on every bow stroke, every position. It was work: he wasn’t playing music, he was working at playing music.
She could tell how miserable he was; she was very disapproving. But maybe that was just her regular expression. They would have a final rehearsal onstage, she reminded him, and it sounded like a threat.
His First Round repertoire: Bach’s Chaconne from Partita no. 2 in D Minor; Paganini’s Caprices nos. 24 and 6; Tchaikovsky’s Valse-Scherzo; and, again, Ravel’s Tzigane.
After Mariamna had stomped out—no doubt in search of better musicians to accompany—he skipped lunch and stayed in his practice room, woodshedding: going over and over the same phrasing until he got it right, trying to recapture the music. No wonder she was so pissed: he sucked.