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.
He realized that up until today—until he was actually playing with his accompanist—he’d just been practicing: with his teachers, alone at home, in the hotel rooms. He’d been learning the notes. The time for practice had ended, and now it was time to perform, really perform—time to connect with the audience and make them feel about this music the way he felt about it. But he wasn’t performing. He was just playing notes, almost randomly.
He wondered if it was too late to back out altogether. He’d thought that when he arrived in Moscow, being around all the other competitors would renew his laser focus, but in reality the opposite was true: he couldn’t concentrate for more than fifteen minutes. He was constantly checking his phone between pieces, watching the numbers climb on the crowdfunding site and hoping Alicia would call with news. His phone’s voice mail continued to fill with media inquiries and questions from possible donors who could fund the $5 million ransom.
Around 2:00 p.m. came a light tapping on the door: Nicole. He let her in. “Did you eat?” she asked.
“Um—well, I thought I should practice.”
“I figured,” she said, and handed him an apple and a granola bar.
“Where the hell did you find a granola bar?” he asked her.
“Never underestimate a girl from Greenwich,” she said. “I’m not giving up my secrets. Sorry, dude.”
He took the granola bar, tore open the wrapper.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Okay. It’s aiight.”
“Really?” She was staring at him as he chewed.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Why?”
“Because you seem really wired. Really tense. You’re usually much more relaxed when you’re practicing.”
“This is the Tchaikovsky Competition, remember?”
“Yeah, I remember,” she said. “All sixteen hours on the plane. Come here.” She gently grabbed the back of his neck, pulled his forehead until his touched hers. He was still chewing the granola bar. But as soon as he felt the light pressure of her skin, he could feel himself relax—as if her serenity, her calm, was flowing into him. Giving him strength. “You can do this,” she said. “You’re doing it.”