“The world is glad you are a part of it. We have all been following your journey, which is so unconventional and so inspiring. No formal instruction until college, I believe? And you play at jazz clubs? How have you managed to balance these aspects and make it this far in the classical music world?”
Ray talked about how music was a strong influence in his life, how he’d made music on a cheap school rental, how people surrounding him had supported him, saw something in him that he hadn’t even known existed. “I learned to accept help and encouragement in every form it comes in,” he said.
The crowd let out a collective “Awwww.”
This was his chance.
“Which is why I’m hoping your viewers can help me. As you know, my violin was stolen a month ago.”
“We’ve heard. So terrible. And it hasn’t been recovered.”
“No, it hasn’t been recovered. Yet. But your viewers can actually help. You may know that there’s a five-million-dollar ransom, due in less than a month. July fifteenth. I don’t have the money but I’m trying to raise it myself. So part of the reason I’m here, part of the reason I’m actually competing, is to make an appeal to your listeners to help me get my violin back.”
“How can we help?”
“I’m doing everything humanly possible to raise the money. I know there are millions of people watching this competition right now. Imagine if five million of you sent me one US dollar. I could pay the ransom and get my violin back. Everyone would have a chance to hear it.”
He looked directly at the camera, imagining that it wasn’t a cold round lens but the face of a little old Black lady in a pink housecoat, her blue-tinted hair in curlers. “Please,” he said, and the emotion was raw in his voice. “Please help me get my violin back. My crowdfunding page is Ray’s Fiddle. Please help me.”
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.