“I’m glad you had fun playing that,” Ray said. “Thanks for sharing your talent with us. Now I’m going to show you a few things that will make your playing even better. Do you mind?”
“Yeah, okay.”
They went through the piece together, Ray showing him how his position affected his shifting and tone. He even let Bryce play the Strad. When Ray handed it to him, the audience gasped. Ray was never more than several inches away. By the time Bryce finished, he’d improved noticeably, and the grudging applause seemed genuine.
After the master class ended, Ray spoke to several parents and was taking photos with the students when Sheila Wallace, the festival director, approached him. She was all of five feet three in her taupe heels, with her hair pulled tightly into a bun.
She led him away from the group. “We so enjoyed having you at the festival this year, but there were several complaints about your giving preferential treatment to some of the participants.”
“Who were the complaints from?”
“That’s not important, but I do want to remind you that—”
Ray had been waiting all day for this moment. He leaned close to her and spoke quickly. “I was brought here to teach. These students are supposed to be here to learn. Most of them weren’t receptive to learning anything. They were here to put on a show. The one student who didn’t look or play like everyone else got the most out of my session. That’s why I’m here. I gave that young man what no one else here was willing to: a chance. I really appreciate you having me at your festival, but, in the future, please don’t reach out unless there is a lot more diversity in your clientele. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to speak to that young man’s mother before they leave.”
Bryce’s mother gave him a hug. “Sir, would you mind if I got a picture of you and Bryce?”
“Absolutely, ma’am. I’d be honored.”
Bryce’s mother took the picture. “He’s been reading about you. I can’t tell you how excited he was when he heard you were going to be here today.”
“May I ask you a question?” he asked Bryce, who nodded. “Do you take lessons?”
Bryce shook his head.
“Unfortunately, no,” said his mother. “We just can’t afford to—”
“Summertime’s hard,” Bryce said. “I have to turn in my violin.”
“I can’t really afford to get him his own yet.”
Tears burned behind Ray’s eyes. He fumbled in his blazer pocket, pulled out the business cards that he’d had printed up—just his name, email address, and the word Violinist. “Can you email me next week? No promises, but I may be able to do something. Keep it between us, please?”
They thanked him, and Ray shook Bryce’s hand. “It was my complete honor to meet you. Never stop playing if you love it.”
Two weeks later, he called Jacob Fischer, bought a solid, inexpensive violin, and coordinated having it delivered to Bryce Webster of Goldsboro, North Carolina.
Chapter 16
Family Visit
8 Months Ago
Ray’s summer of festivals slid to a close. Janice returned to teaching, and Ray was on his own—performing recitals and teaching primarily on college campuses: Johns Hopkins, University of Virginia, University of Maryland, University of Tennessee at Knoxville, and several others.
One damp late-September afternoon, Ray was back in Charlotte for a week between gigs. He was four hours into practicing de Falla’s Spanish Dance and Saint-Sa?ns’s Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso, repeating the second section over and over to really get the flow of the arpeggios—when someone knocked on his front door. The tapping had probably been going on for a while without him hearing it: he practiced in the back of the house, in what once had been a bedroom right off the kitchen, setting his music stand in the center and stacking his sheet music—arranged according to composer, program, and specific musical passages—around the perimeter.
When he heard the knocking, he turned off his phone—he often recorded his playing, so he could play it back and critique himself—tucked the violin into its case, and stowed it in the closet. This was habit by now whenever he was home; but of course he slept with the violin next to his bed every night.
“Hold on, coming!” he shouted, shrugging into a pair of jeans.
A middle-aged white couple stood on the front stoop. They seemed harmless enough—maybe selling something? was it some kind of holiday religious crusade?—so he opened the door.