After his performance came an intermission, and the crowd swarmed him. One man, a very tall Russian, extended his hand. “You played well for your kind. We have not seen this. I did not think this possible.” Ray knew already—how could he not—that there was an obvious Russian bias in the judging: the question was, what was Ray’s “kind”？ Being Black? American? Non-Russian? All of the above? He wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult, and decided to just ignore it.
Another media interview: “I’m not asking for myself, to get my violin back. You’re making an investment not only in me but in your future. I’ll be making music for many years to come, and I want to make sure that everyone can enjoy it. Just a dollar’s donation can make an enormous difference.”
There was a seat for him to watch the rest of the performances, but he obstinately decided instead to head for the hotel and get ready for the opening-night gala. That evening, at 7:00 p.m., the competition was officially inaugurated with a “Grand Opening” in the “Great Hall”： these Russians did nothing by halves.
Press people surrounded him in the lobby. Asked him about his chances as an American to win a prize that no American had won since the first competition in 1958, when a twenty-three-year-old Texan named Van Cliburn won the heart of Moscow and took home the grand prize and international adulation that lasted the rest of his life. Ray answered their questions until the lights flickered and it was time to take their seats. He sat next to a scrawny cellist.
The kid introduced himself: “Annyeonghaseyo, Kwon Jungho-rago hamnida.” Ray must have looked blank because the kid laughed, said, “I’m just fucking with you,” and told Ray to call him Josh. He was Korean and had been playing since he was four. He’d spent a year studying in Japan and then two years in Italy. By eleven, he’d won several prestigious awards in Korea, then spent a year at the Manhattan School of Music, which was why his English was so good.
All this came out in a few minutes. These competitors wouldn’t just introduce themselves, Ray soon realized; they introduced their résumés.
Ray’s résumé: Pretending his bed’s headboard was the violin’s fingerboard. Taking a beat-up old fiddle for repairs in an Atlanta suburban mall, where a racist clerk told him to pull up his pants. Begging for rides to a jazz club just so he could play for an audience. And now he was here, surrounded by the best young musicians in the world, in the grandest music hall in Moscow, with the Russian prime minister slated to appear and say stuff. Not too shabby.
At last it began. Fanfare. Speeches. Music, much of it by Tchaikovsky （this could not be a coincidence, given the enormous portrait of the composer that loomed over the stage）。 Performances by grand prix winners, Grammy Award winners. More speeches. Much self-congratulatory backslapping. Ray wanted to savor each minute, but honestly couldn’t wait for it to be over.
Then there was the gala, with champagne in tall flutes and vodka in shot glasses. There were hors d’oeuvres, mostly unidentifiable pastries with unknown meat-like fillings inside; Ray skipped them and dived into the grapes and cheeses.
Now that he was aware of Mikhail Lezenkov’s existence, he saw him everywhere. They circled each other like hermit crabs, claws extended, holding champagne glasses, hiding behind the crowd like rocks in the sand. Neither made a move to approach.
In the meantime the mob swarmed him, thrusting out programs for autographs, posing for selfies, asking him how the crowdfunding was going. Who would win, the classically trained Eastern European aristocrat from a strings-playing dynasty? Or the Black kid who’d rented his fiddle and had no private instruction, no family support, and had gained and already lost a Stradivarius? Tune in at eleven o’clock.
This audience and this media saw him the way that all the kids saw him in college, the way orchestras saw him when he set foot on the stage: as a PR stunt, as something good for ratings, a nod to diversity. Look at the darkie playing the violin like a human being. They loved him not for his musicianship but for his facade. Because he was cute, and Black, and different. He smiled and smiled and couldn’t wait for tomorrow, when he could show them what he could do in a competition based on musicality, not on backstory.
And in the meantime he’d play on their sympathy—he’d get their donations. He’d get his violin back.
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.