“At least it’s not Black History Month. There’s no telling what kind of circus music they’d have us playing.” Laughter.
They walked down toward the restrooms. He stood in the curtain, face hot, and waited.
Out onstage the oboe played an A: rehearsal was resuming. The concertmaster and his flunkies headed back to the auditorium and he followed a few minutes behind.
After he was introduced to the orchestra, they prepared to rehearse. He tried to summon up enthusiasm but he was suddenly exhausted. He played mechanically, coldly, not investing in the music, barely paying attention. No fiery runs, no subtle dynamic shifts. No passion. Just notes. At the end of the rehearsal Ray thanked the conductor and walked off, headed back to the hotel.
He knew what he had to do. Play or go home. This wouldn’t be the last time people talked crap about him. It’s how he dealt with them that mattered. He could give back the $5,000 for tonight’s performance, or he could play for Grandma Nora. Always work twice as hard: he would fulfill his promise to her.
Another hour and a half later he was back in his dressing room at the symphony hall. Now roses and carnations leaned in vases on the dressing table and on a couple cabinets, with a huge fruit basket dead center, reflected back in the mirror, so it seemed as if there were two of them glowing on the table.
Ray’s performance of Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto in E Minor—the piece he’d been slated to perform in Charlotte—was the first piece in the second half of the concert. He and Janice had sat down to determine a handful of pieces that would be in his standard repertoire for the next year or so, as he eased into a soloist’s life, building his confidence and prowess with the violin. The Mendelssohn, while widely performed, was also one of his favorites, with lush rich melodies that he could really dive into.
The North Carolina Symphony opened with two measures, and then the first B he played rang through the auditorium. Each note sprang out, the fast passages zoomed by, the violin dancing above the orchestra, them leaping to meet him as he soared on ahead, a wave pouring endlessly up a beach, the foam bubbles kicking in, the stone crabs dancing in the surf, the tide pouring out until he led it, roaring, up the beach again. When he was learning the piece, Janice had told him, “This cadenza tells a story. If you don’t like it, tell your own—use every note.” Yes, he was Black. Yes, he was inexperienced. But more than anything else, he loved to play. He loved this music. He loved this violin. He was bigger than all of them.
And then they were into the second movement. Ray’s first five notes were at lightning speed—he was playing this movement exceptionally faster than they’d rehearsed. The flutes struggled to keep up. When they did, the entire orchestra leaned in, hyper focused, making sure they stayed with him. Final page. He decided to increase the tempo even more: the surf crept higher, past the beach, onto the dunes, roaring like a tsunami toward houses sleeping under the moon, unaware of what was pounding toward them. The wave built on itself, gathered like a giant feral cat, about to pounce: and then that final chord. He drew it out as long as possible. The water subsided. The village was safe.
Applause washed over him and again he held up his violin for them. He panted, sweat pouring down his face. The conductor extended his hand, nodded slightly, respect and admiration, and a little surprise, very clear on his face. Ray shook the offered hand.
Then he turned to the concertmaster. Leaning over, he said, “Charity work’s a bitch, huh? How’s that for a PR stunt?”
Chapter 15
Performance
10 Months Ago
The high of Ray’s first major orchestral performance lasted until the following morning, when the hotel phone screeched. The dead mechanical voice on the other line intoned, “Good morning this is your automated wake-up call good morning this is your automated wake-up call good morning this—”
“You know,” he told Janice twenty minutes later, pulling out the chair across from her and dropping into it, “you really should have offered a class on the life of itinerant musicians. How am I going to do laundry? How do I keep fit and trim if I’m eating all this high-sodium wack-ass restaurant food all the time? It’s really quite stressful, you know?”
She peered up at him over the novel she was reading. “Poor you,” she told him. “It’s not too late to cancel. Maybe Popeyes is hiring?”
“Love that chicken,” he said.
“If you’re going to apply, better get going. And cancel Christopher Newport University ASAP because they’ll be waiting for you.” Since it was summer, Janice had taken several weeks to go with him to some of the festivals and master classes that they’d set up together.