“Wha—” Ray’s mouth had gone completely dry and his head was pounding. “You were going to offer me twenty-five thousand dollars for it and it’s a Strad? That is fucked up!”
“I offered you this before I was certain,” Rowland said—a bit lamely.
“What’s it worth?” Janice asked.
Rowland shrugged. “For sale purposes, I believe it would fetch between 9.7 and 10.8 million dollars. For insurance purposes, I would value it at 10.1 million dollars.”
A sharp intake of breath from Janice.
Ray could only nod—his ribs couldn’t expand for him to take in breath. His body had grown cold.
“He needs to insure it, then,” Janice said casually.
“He does,” Rowland said. Twenty minutes later, a thin older woman, her graying hair streaked with blond, had sold Ray a month’s worth of insurance for $2,000. A year cost $22,000. Ray had no idea how he would pay for something like that. He slumped back in his chair. Between the insurance, Rowland’s appraisal fee, and the travel costs to New York, Ray’s credit card was maxed out.
Outside the office, Rowland was waiting for them. They thanked him again. “I am looking forward to hearing great things from you, young man. Now play.”
“Wha—what?”
“I want to hear you play. I want to hear from the great McMillian Stradivarius before the world knows its greatness.”
“What do you want to hear?”
“Does not matter. You just play.”
Ray opened the case and launched into Ravel’s Tzigane, one of his favorites. The opening adagio starts out rich and full, slightly mournful, announcing his presence with passion and wistfulness; and then it lightens, begins to dance, bob along in the current of life: excitement and great joy competing, soaring, grateful, and alive. The violin took over: he wasn’t playing notes, he was making music the way Ravel intended, the way Antonio Stradivari intended, the way he always dreamed he could play. He poured out into the air what he was unable to put into words: his gratitude—for this violin, for Janice, for Grandma Nora, for Mischa Rowland’s assessment—a few words transforming his life utterly. Thank you.
He ended the piece with its thunderous final note, opened his eyes. The applause echoed in the showroom; from the stairwell, all of Rowland’s associates had come down and were clapping as well.
With a violin like this, he would be worthy of the Tchaikovsky Competition. There was no way they could keep him out, no matter his skin color.
Chapter 13
New York City
13 Months Ago
Manhattan’s skyscrapers and streets can seem unreal on an average day. Now, as he carried a Stradivarius violin, the sunlight was almost a melody; the taxis and town cars shuffled in a dance he could almost anticipate and join. He was Dorothy in a world new with Technicolor; he was Alice following a watch-checking white rabbit down a hole; he was Neil Armstrong stepping into a lunar landscape and the future. He owned a Stradivarius violin worth $10 million. Was this even remotely possible?
On the street, Janice said to him, “You know something? The instrument you played today—not the one you’ve been using the past four years—has really brought out the confidence in you that’s always been there. Nice job with the Ravel.”
He ducked his head.
“We’re going to the hotel now—I just got a couple emails that I need to deal with—and then we’re going for a celebratory lunch. And then shopping. We’re buying you a new wardrobe.”
“New wardrobe?”
“I was thinking about it in Rowland’s. It’s not just your violin that’s being introduced to the world—you will be, too. You’re going to need to step everything up to the next level. Your appearance is going to have to match your playing. People can be cruel, and they’re always looking for something to criticize. We won’t give them any ammunition. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
He nodded. Being Black meant being watched—and usually not in a good way. So many times he’d walked into a store and the sales clerks glared at him. He’d been followed up and down aisles in grocery stores. At restaurants, out to dinner with friends, he’d be seated in the back near the kitchen or the restroom. No more. The days of being treated as a second-class citizen would soon be over.
“You need more than your one suit. You’ll need a couple beautifully tailored suits, a couple blazers, and some high-quality shirts and trousers. And a new tux. Plus shoes.”