“I’m never going to get it,” he snarled.
“Believe it or not, I had the same issues you’re having now.” There on the stairwell she tugged the violin case from his grip, pulled out his violin, and played the four troublesome measures over and over, starting very slowly, and then increasing the tempo.
That’s how to do it. He couldn’t believe how such a simple gesture—just slowing down the phrase, lifting his bow slightly—could fix such a complex problem. He nodded, but she was already going on to the harmonics section, eyes on him. She didn’t say a word, pointed at her left hand with the bow, and slowly placed each finger into position. She arched each finger higher than normal, and he understood how to do it. Yes. He could do that.
Czardas reverberated off the concrete walls and into his chest. Her playing was flawless. She handed him his instrument and bow. “Drop the bow on the string.”
He dropped the bow from above his head. Nothing happened.
“Again.”
Again, nothing.
Finally, six or seven attempts later, a magnificent sautillé rang out.
It would be nice to say that that was the last time discouragement overwhelmed him, but it wasn’t. He often felt like giving up—but the feelings came less frequently. The moment in the stairwell cemented his belief that Dr. Stevens was watching out for him, always there to give him a little added support.
They met frequently on Saturdays and some Sundays to give Ray extra lessons so he’d keep up with his classmates. Over many months he learned her history, which seemed as rarified and impossible as the ruby-throated hummingbirds that sometimes whizzed around the trumpeter vines on the south side of the music building.
She’d studied privately as a child with Dorothy DeLay from Juilliard and was one of a handful of Black kids to go to summer music camps. Eventually she was performing across the country with several prestigious degrees in tow. But it wasn’t easy: she constantly fought the stigma of being a Black woman, of not being the typical violin soloist. She auditioned for the Boston Symphony, was a finalist, but eventually they went with someone whiter, more conventional. She took a job teaching at Indiana University until Markham lured her away.
Her résumé was impressive, but her connections were even more so. She had friends in most major symphonies, had performed with many concertmasters, festival organizers, and others in the industry. But more important than all the name-dropping: she loved teaching and loved music. Ray couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found her.
We’re here for a reason…To throw little torches out to lead people through the dark.
At the end of every one-on-one lesson, she’d compliment him. It always made him uncomfortable, but eventually he didn’t wince when she praised him. “You’re my diamond in the rough. You may not have bionic fingers, but you’re a born musician. Never forget that.” Except for Grandma Nora—who was hours away and often only a disembodied voice on the phone—he’d never had anyone regularly support him, watch out for him daily. It was an odd, slightly uncomfortable feeling—as if he’d eaten too much, his belly secure and tight. He desperately wanted to please her, and that was an odd feeling, too—he’d always performed for himself, and now he was performing for her, too. It made all the difference, knowing he was seen.
At the end of his freshman year, the students played a convocation for the entire school of music. Ten students played each week, and when it was his turn, Ray went fifth. He would play Czardas. He took a deep breath, told himself to put the Kabalevsky debacle behind him, and strode onto the stage. Dr. Stevens’s lessons—the harmonics, the double-stops, the sautillé—felt ground into his fingers. He hurled himself in, giving the piece all of his soul. His body was on autopilot, and he could tell even as he played that this was vastly better than anything he’d ever performed before. The mournful opening notes gave way to sunlight on a park bench, to the glitter of water pouring endlessly from a waterfall on a very hot summer day. When the last note rang out, his listeners leapt to their feet.
They called him back for three curtain calls.
This is what he needed to do with his life.
Over the summer, back home with his mother, his routine continued: up at 6:00 a.m. to practice with his heavy practice mute in his room. All day working at the grocery store. Evenings practicing more, or playing in a couple jazz clubs. Weekend weddings or parties or anywhere else that was looking for a musician. Every couple weeks he caught a bus to have summer lessons with Dr. Stevens. His mother did her best to ignore him, and he did his best to ignore her.