He waited. Cars passed.
In the end, this was what Ray saw of an international stolen musical instrument sting: Alicia texted him come and he was out of the car in a moment, rounding the corner. There was no need to try to figure out where he was going: the night was lit blue with flashing police lights.
Alicia—clearly still undercover—was pinned against a grimy brick wall by an enormous Serbian cop. Several other men were in handcuffs. Almost undetectably she motioned with her eyes toward one tall cop who seemed to be in charge.
“Hi,” Ray said, “I think it’s my violin. I’m from America.”
The cop looked at him, totally confused. He said something in Serbian.
“Violin?” Ray pantomimed. “Can I see it?”
The cop yelled something.
A moment later a tall, well-built man in full police gear, with what looked like a shotgun strapped to his chest, approached them, carrying something violin-shaped. In the light and the movement, Ray could not see. And then he could.
The violin was beautiful, its varnish intact, its body shining. It glowed with an almost painful beauty.
It was not his.
Chapter 31
Day 46: Third Round
He flew back just in time for the practice session with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, which took place next to Red Square in the Zaryadye Philharmonic Concert Hall. No gilded plasterwork, no glittering crystal chandeliers: instead, undulating cream balustrades separated the various seating sections; recessed lighting bathed the entire space in sleek, spare elegance. Despite its enormity, however, the seats hovering all around the stage made the immense space feel very intimate.
He was shell-shocked, beyond depressed: the last thing he wanted was to play Mozart and Tchaikovsky to a huge audience, with millions watching online, and his violin still missing.
As soon as he’d returned to the hotel, Nicole and Janice surrounded him, solicitous and frustrated on his behalf. Janice of course had been very much against his crazy trip to Serbia; Nicole had at least supported him. He saw her mirrored sorrow in her eyes, and that somehow gave him strength.
He was here. He was a finalist at the competition. He would focus. He would kick Russian ass.
The Third Round, accompanied by the world-class Russian Philharmonic, would consist of two concertos, each more than an hour long: Mozart’s Concerto no. 5 in A Major and Tchaikovsky’s Concerto, composer’s edition. Only two musicians would perform each day, on three consecutive days, with the final announcement on the fourth day.
The worst position—the one that all musicians dreaded—was going first. It set the tone, set the bar, set expectations low or high. Because that contestant would be first to go, the audience and the judges often remembered the performance more clearly; then again, after three nights of solid performances, the audiences and the judges often remembered that first performance less clearly. Janice, Nicole, and Ray endlessly debated the ideal spot in the lineup: it was probably fifth or sixth. Unless it was the memorable first or second, of course.
Because of the first drawing of lots, and the whittling down of the contestants, Ray now would play first, at 6:00 p.m.; Mikhail was fourth on Day Two, also at 6:00 p.m. They still had their practice room but also had half an hour each with the Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra—not to play both pieces all the way through but to focus instead on the trickier passages of each concerto.
Nicole had rearranged Ray’s schedule so he would practice last, at the very last possible day, with the orchestra. He still only barely made it from the airport—sweating in the back of the cab as the scheduled 2:30 p.m. time grew ever closer. But he made it, with five minutes to spare.
As he got out of the cab, he shook himself. His violin was still gone, but he was still here—a fucking finalist at the Tchaikovsky Competition. He folded his brain around the music—it was all about the music now, nothing else. Nicole and Janice met him outside the Great Hall. He hugged them both, but his mind was elsewhere, deep in the Tchaikovsky Concerto. He was only vaguely conscious of the extraordinary building looming in front of him, the people nodding and gesturing to him, Nicole’s hand in his own.
When he strode onstage to meet the conductor, he was focused, fully present. He was a finalist. He was a world-class musician. The orchestra had to respect him: respect him not for how far he’d come despite the color of his skin, or despite his lost violin, or despite a hundred other reasons why he shouldn’t be there: they had to respect him because of what he could do.
He knew they were scrutinizing his playing, and he scrutinized them right back. If the lead-up to the allegro of the Mozart Concerto wasn’t at the tempo Ray wanted, he stopped and insisted that the conductor immediately correct it. He wasn’t being arrogant, just demanding. He deserved to be there and everyone on the stage playing with him knew it. He used every second of his allotted thirty-minute slot and, when his time had run out, he shook their hands and staggered off the stage, exhausted.