The Violin Conspiracy(90)

Because he’d played on the first day of the competition, he had the next two days off—to practice for the Second Round, if he made it.

Instead he stalked Mikhail Lezenkov. That afternoon, at 2:00 p.m., he watched Mikhail perform. Mikhail was, in a word, brilliant. A crisp, almost machinelike technique, combined with a sound that reminded Ray of a young Isaac Stern, made him a very formidable opponent. Mikhail performed a wild Shostakovich sonata that Ray had never seen anyone perform live. Mikhail played with crazed virtuosity, his fingers flying up and down the fingerboard, every note crystal clear. He made playing Shostakovich look easy. He must have been playing that piece since he was five. It was, Ray admitted, wonderful to listen to him: Mikhail brought such a spark to the music, such an extraordinary energy. They played very differently: Ray was all passion and fire; Mikhail was electricity and light, with a sweetness that was endearing and impressive.

After Mikhail’s performance, he came back into the warm-up room, his coach and friends backslapped him, and Ray edged toward him. But Mikhail’s coach put an arm around his shoulder and, heads bent together, led him away.

Ray followed, finally cornering him in a back corridor behind the practice rooms, without many people about. He lunged forward, extending his hand. “Mikhail. I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

“Hello, American.”

They shook hands.

“Your Shostakovich was insane,” Ray said, meaning it. “I had no idea it could be played like that.”

Abruptly and unexpectedly, Mikhail pulled Ray in and whispered in his thick Eastern European accent, still fake smiling, “You will not win.”

“Probably not,” Ray said easily. “I’m a Black American. The judges will say that I don’t have Russian in my veins the way you do. But that’s cool. It’s pretty awesome just to be here.”

“You do not care that you will lose?” Mikhail seemed unconvinced.

Ray shrugged. “Of course I care. But I made it this far. I think both of us will make it into the next round, and maybe even to the finals. That’s pretty historic for me, and for the US. I’m not going to complain.” Finally he arrived at the point of the conversation he’d been planning for three days: “Especially since I don’t have my violin.” Say it casually, Ray. So casually.

“Ah,” Mikhail said. “I hear of this. Your violin, she was stolen, I am sorry of this.”

As they were speaking, Ray carefully and deftly steered the big blond man over to the back wall, away from the doors leading to the auditorium, where it was quieter. “I’m thinking more about my violin than I am about this competition, to be honest.”

“It seems to me you are thinking very much about this competition.”

“I’d walk out right this second if someone told me he knew where my violin was.”

“You would do this? For a violin? Well, it is a Stradivarius.” Mikhail guffawed. “Probably many people would do this.”

“I would do it in a heartbeat,” Ray said earnestly. “My grandmother gave me the violin. It means everything to me.”

Mikhail laughed again. “I wish I could tell you where your violin is then. I would for sure win gold.”

“You’re from Serbia, right?”

“Yes. Belgrade. Why do you ask?”

“I heard a rumor that the violin was actually in Serbia.”

“Really?” Mikhail seemed genuinely surprised, but he was a performer, after all. “I know nothing of this.”

“Would you know people who might? Your family is really tapped into the music world, right? Would they be able to ask around? I’d pay to get it back. The insurance company would pay.”

Mikhail looked around the crowded hall, the people eyeing them. “This is not the conversation I expect to have with you, American.”

Ray shrugged. “I’ve been trying to find you for the past two days, but you’ve been hard to track down.”

“Let me see what I can find out,” Mikhail said. “My father knows all the important people in Belgrade.”

Ray handed him the business card that he’d been carrying in his pocket for three days. On it he’d written his hotel and the room number; his email address and phone number were already there. “Seriously, man,” he said, “if you hear anything, let me know. I’d be on a plane to Belgrade in seconds. I’d forfeit without even blinking.”

“I do not wish you to forfeit,” Mikhail said.

Ray shrugged.

“But I will ask my family. My parents, they are here tonight, of course. I will have them talk to their friends.”

“Thanks, man.” They shook hands again, and this time they meant it.

He texted Alicia: Any news? Talked to the Serbian guy and hes going to ask around

A few hours later Alicia messaged him: Looks like your source was accurate. Following a lead on a violin in Belgrade. I’m flying there immediately. Ill keep you informed. Stay focused.

The next day he again holed up in the practice room. Nicole came in a couple times but spent most of her time prowling backstage and listening from the wings. “That Mikhail guy is good,” she said. “Really good. You should listen to him.” He didn’t go. Instead he threw himself into the music in a way that he hadn’t before the First Round’s performance. That evening he got takeout from a restaurant between the Conservatory and the hotel and ate it in his room, watched TV and fell asleep, exhausted.