By the middle of his sophomore year, he’d caught up with the top students in the studio—juniors and seniors—and surpassed them all. Soon the rumblings he heard were not about him being the quota student, but that he received preferential treatment because he was Black. In his junior year, when he beat Julie Asher, a curly-haired bubbly girl from Texas, in a seating audition, Julie started a petition to have Dr. Stevens removed as the violin teacher because she was helping Ray more than everyone else. Ray defended Dr. Stevens fiercely, and the petition went nowhere.
In his junior year, Ray and a few students went out for pizza with Professor Harris, who taught music history and piano and who’d listened to them practice that afternoon.
After they ordered, Professor Harris leaned in toward Ray. “Have you ever thought about applying to the Tchaikovsky Competition?”
The restaurant was noisy. Ray thought he hadn’t heard correctly. “Excuse me?”
The man leaned in, repeated what he’d said. The Tchaikovsky Competition. It was one of the most—if not the most—prestigious competitions for young musicians, held every four years in Moscow. The winner and finalists usually walked away with recording deals and invitations to play worldwide with the best orchestras. Hundreds applied, and only a few dozen made it to the First Round.
Ray swallowed a chunk of breadstick, which was suddenly rough in his throat. “When is it again?”
“It took place two years ago,” Professor Harris said. “You should really think about it. I honestly think you have a real shot. You have two years to get ready. You should look over the application materials, see what you need to enter. Talk it over with Professor Stevens.”
“Isn’t that the competition where, like, no Americans have ever won?” Ray said.
“Well, Van Cliburn won the first one on piano, back in the fifties, but you’re right, it’s rare that Americans make it that far. I think you should consider it, though. That sautillé of yours is pretty incredible.”
“Thanks,” Ray said, taking another breadstick and snapping it in half. “I guess I’ll think about it.”
“You have some time,” Professor Harris said.
The conversation moved on, but Harris had lit a flame in Ray: he burned not only to apply to the competition but to be good enough to actually qualify.
The next day in his lesson, after he’d finished the Mendelssohn Concerto, he broached the topic with Dr. Stevens. “Do you know anything about the Tchaikovsky Competition?”
“I’m glad you asked,” she said, nodding slightly. “You’re definitely on a soloist’s track, and that means competitions. That’s the top of the food chain. You’re not quite ready, but you could be.”
“You really think so?”
“I do. One hundred percent. But there’s a lot you have to do before you get there. You’ll have to really increase your repertoire, and you need to dig into basic techniques. Like double-and triple-stops. And you’d need to have a soloist’s violin. But we have time for all that. You just stay focused.”
She kept smiling, looking at him, as if she were delighted he’d brought it up.
From then on, he’d check out the competition’s website, study past winners, follow the controversies over the judging, the various missteps that the classical music world brooded on. Americans were rarely chosen; a Black American probably didn’t even have a shot.
But if he didn’t apply, he wouldn’t give them a reason to say yes.
So, quietly, just to himself, he set a goal: the Tchaikovsky Competition in three years. It would mean he’d have to work even harder, and he loved the challenge.
Senior year had turned into the best year of his life. He’d moved out of the dorms and into an apartment he shared with two other music students, he was concertmaster of the college symphony orchestra, he played in the community orchestra, he played jazz gigs every other weekend with a combo that played close to campus, and he worked part time behind the counter at a local bagel shop.
In the spring he would prepare for major orchestra auditions. Dr. Stevens had pulled strings to find the most promising auditions on the East Coast, and some in the Midwest. So when she said that it was time he had a concert-level instrument, he immediately agreed. Grandma Nora’s beat-up old fiddle wasn’t going to cut it. Luckily, hidden away in Charlotte was Fischer Luthiers, a musical instrument store and repair shop that was one of the best in North Carolina. Ray had been in a couple times with his string-repair class.