It felt like someone had smacked him in the face with a bottle. “I’ve gotten a bunch of letters from people claiming either that they own my violin or that they’d like to buy it. The violin is mine.”
“And we want to thank you for finding it and restoring it.” Dante was a big man, with a very black goatee （was it dyed?） that wrapped around his mouth. His voice was somehow thin and nasal, as well as guttural. He chimed in with, “All my life I’ve heard stories about that violin, how Sherman’s men looted and destroyed Summerland—that’s what we called our family’s home—and how they took everything—all our family jewelry, and the good silver, and, why, they even rolled up the Turkish carpet and carried it away before setting fire to the house. And now to find that your family rescued it, kept it safe all these years—it’s a miracle, a real miracle. We’re so grateful.” He looked properly grateful, but his gentle closed-lipped smile didn’t quite light up his eyes.
“Look,” Ray said, “nice try, but you need to get out of my house before I call the cops.”
He felt his pockets for his phone as Andrea Marks pulled out her phone, scrolled a bit. “Oh, the violin is ours and we will be taking it with us. If you call the cops, they’ll tell you the same thing. Not that we need to prove anything to you, but the evidence is all right here.” She looked up at him, then back down at her phone. “This is a letter from Edith Marks, wife of Thomas Marks, to her daughter Adeline. It’s dated December eighth, 1884.”
She cleared her throat. “？‘Your father has been gone for close to twenty years now. I try to continue on in this life as best I can, but there is no joy here. The musicians who played last night could not hold a candle to the’？”—she hesitated, cleared her throat—“？‘to the niggers your father once owned. Do you remember the fiddle player? He must have been bewitched. His playing was one of the few sources of happiness that your father had before his passing. How I wish I could hear him laugh and clap along to the music the niggers played for him before the dark days made their way to Summerland. I wish that fiddle was still here to comfort me.’？”
Ray realized after a moment that he was standing in his living room with his mouth open. He couldn’t figure out if he was in shock because of the letter the woman read, or because of the ease and comfort in which she let the N-word roll off her tongue.
“Oh, sweet pea,” Andrea said gently. “We aren’t here in a legal capacity. We’re trying to appeal to your sense of decency and humanity. You people are always so decent and kind. We knew that as soon as we could talk to you face-to-face, you’d understand. Our niece will be devastated if she doesn’t get to play her great-great-granddaddy’s violin.”
“You forgot a great,” Ray said.
“So here’s what we’re thinking, honey,” Andrea said, fiddling with those pearl buttons. “We know you’re between concerts right now, and we’re prepared to write you a generous check for everything you’ve done.”
“A very generous check,” Dante put in.
“That’s not going to work,” Ray said. “I’m applying to the Tchaikovsky Competition, and I’ll need the violin then. If I win, I’ll be booked internationally for most of the next year.”
“Oh. Well then,” Andrea said, clearly rethinking. “When is it?”
“Next summer,” Ray said. “Mid-June.”
“Mid-June?” Andrea said, incredulous. “That’s nine months from now. That’s plenty of time. You can get yourself a fine instrument by then.”
“You surely want to do the right thing,” Dante said as if it were a foregone conclusion. He, too, leaned forward, his belly hanging between his knees. Ray had to fight not to step back. Dante was saying, “Where is it? Can we see it?”
Ray would not risk a glance toward the back room, as if by doing so the violin would waddle in, waving and bowing. “No, you can’t,” he said. “And the violin really is mine. My grandmother got it from her grandfather. And my grandmother was the most honest person I’ve ever met. There’s no way we stole it from you. Fact is, my grandma told me that her grandpa was half white. So you’re my cousins. How about that? No wonder we both love music so much.”
Now they were both standing, glaring at him. Dante had crossed his arms above his potbelly.
“I don’t give a flying fuck what that old lady said,” Andrea snapped. She had gone very pale, and her hands kept twitching at the buttons on her sweater. “You are not our relative. That violin is ours and we want it back.”