Privately, in his soul, Ray agreed. He was way better than all of them. And if he’d been playing on his own violin everyone would have known it.
* * *
—
Two nights later, after the final performance, the crowdfunding was up to $4.6 million. He milled with the expectant crowd for the results ceremony. He was tired of the same questions that came at him, but kept trying to provide a consistent bland answer that would ruffle no feathers. Finally they took their seats.
More speeches. Online results had been tallied. Such a difficult choice with so many very qualified performers. Ray tuned out. Really, there were only two: himself and Mikhail. The Chinese woman was solid, but not great. The French guy had been too nervous. The two Russians were brilliant, but Ray didn’t think they quite matched Mikhail’s style and power.
People were still talking. There went the Russian president, again, with more thoughtful words of praise and inspiration.
More speeches. Online results had been tallied. Such a difficult choice with so many very qualified performers. Ray tuned it out. And now, ladies and gentlemen, the moment that the entire world was awaiting.
The six finalists made their way to the stage. Sixth went to the French guy, fifth to the Chinese, fourth to one of the Russian violinists, and third place went to the Korean.
Two prizes left. The audience was in a frenzy. Several boos had already begun. Maybe they thought it was unnatural for an American to win. He thought about what so many people had said to him so many times before.
You can’t do that.
That’s for white people.
People like you aren’t supposed to like that kind of music.
You’re not good enough.
That violin is the only reason you’re here.
He was light-headed. The lights were warm and his collar felt too tight. His fingers were tingling, or trembled, he couldn’t tell which. All the work, the time, the money he’d spent on preparing for this competition.
The audience fell silent.
“First prize, Mikhail Lezenkov.”
The audience erupted. Ray stood tall. Feeling slightly sick, he shook Mikhail’s hand, smiled, and posed. Silver medalist. Twenty thousand dollars. The first American silver medalist. Ever. He kept replaying the last weeks: he’d come to Russia, competed against the best in the world.
The truth was he’d won the moment he set foot on Russian soil, and now the world knew it. He may have come in second, but he’d gone further than any other American—Black or white. And he hadn’t taken lessons from age three, or attended music festivals at age ten, or been drilled relentlessly by elite private teachers.
And, of course, he’d played with no Stradivarius.
Even against these odds, he’d placed second.
The night went on and on: this was the highest an American violinist had ever placed in the competition—Van Cliburn had won, but that was for piano.
Media interviews. Scheduling appointments. Record deals. Much to keep track of. It was all very glittering and exhausting.
They returned to the hotel at 4:00 a.m. He would meet with the competition administration to plot out the upcoming tour schedule, which would begin later that week after the galas had finally come to an end. He wasn’t enraptured about quite literally playing second fiddle to Mikhail, but then again, he supposed there were worse things that could have happened.
Chapter 32
Day 47: The Violin Case
He had 153 unanswered texts and forty-eight voice mail messages when he woke up the morning after the competition ended: mostly media people who had his cell phone number or industry contacts he’d made over the past few years, all congratulating him on his silver medal. It was monumental. He wondered how he would have done if he hadn’t been so distracted.
He almost skipped over the voice mail from Jacob Fischer, thinking it was just another congratulatory message, but listened: “Hi, Ray, I know you’re probably in the middle of the competition, and it’s not hugely urgent, but can you give me a call when you get a sec? I’ll be up. I know there’s a time difference—are you five or six hours ahead?” Jacob sounded casual, unhurried.
He picked up on the first ring. “Ray?”
“Hi,” Ray said. “You’re up late.”
He expected congratulations from Jacob, but instead Jacob said, “Glad you called. I was hoping you would. I left a message for Janice, too.”
“I don’t think she’s up yet,” Ray said. “What’s going on?”
“I found something. In the case.”
“What do you mean?”