It was two weeks after the Markses’ visit, and he was back in New York, booked to play a recital of Biber’s Rosary Sonatas at Hunter College. Aunt Rochelle had found him several attorneys to advise him on the Marks situation, and one of them was in New York, so he made an appointment for a consultation.
Now he repeated how Andrea Marks had written him several letters and then how she and her brother, Dante, had appeared on his doorstep. As he spoke he felt almost physically ill. Andrea Marks’s chicken wattles swayed gently in front of him, and the slightly distasteful way Dante held out the $200,000 check refused to leave his mind.
“So let me get this straight,” Kim said when he’d finished. “These two people show up unannounced, read you some letter off their phone, and tell you they’re taking a ten-million-dollar Stradivarius? And you’re worried about this?”
He shrugged. “I’m just telling you what happened. Do you think there’s a case?”
“On the face of it, not much,” Kim said. “Stolen property cases are pretty clear. The Markses will have a lot to prove.” She thought a moment, then ticked off on her fingers, “First, they’re going to have to prove that the violin was actually theirs. It’s easy enough to say that they had a violin, and you have a violin—but they need to prove that their family’s violin is actually yours.”
Ray nodded. “Okay, I can see that.”
“Assuming they can prove that the violin is the same one, they’re going to have to show that it was actually stolen. Did they supply any kind of proof that your ancestor actually stole it?”
Ray shook his head. “My grandma always said that PopPop was given the violin. That the slave owner—who might actually have been PopPop’s father—gave it to him.”
“The claim seems very far-fetched, honestly. I bet that’s why they went to you directly instead of hiring a lawyer. They hoped they could intimidate you.”
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t worry?”
“If it were me, I wouldn’t stay awake worrying about it. They might try filing a claim against you, just so you’ll settle with them instead of going to court, but I don’t think you’re there yet.”
“Settle?” Ray said. “How? They don’t want money. They want the violin.”
Kim shrugged. “We don’t know what they want. Maybe they want you to sell the violin and split the proceeds.”
“Well, that’s not happening.”
“That’s why I told you not to worry. You’re not there yet. At this point, I would ignore them. Don’t answer their letters.”
“And I sure as hell am not inviting them over for a cookout,” Ray said.
She laughed. “Yeah, I doubt they’d bring wine.”
“So you think I’m okay.”
“From what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen, that’s what I think. Plus think of the optics—slaveholder’s family making a claim against their former slave’s family. It doesn’t get more bizarre than that. Especially in today’s world, where reparation claims are being made by the descendants of enslaved people against the slaveholder.
“Go play your violin and stop worrying.” She looked over at the violin. “Can I see it?”
“Of course,” he said, opening the case. She duly admired the violin, and he closed the case again, as if not wanting the violin to hear the uproar it had caused.
With a lighter heart, he left the white office and the stunning view and returned to the grimy New York City streets. A yellow-and-red gyro stand on the corner of Fifty-Third and Sixth smelled amazing, so he ordered falafel and rice with extra white sauce and headed uptown to Hunter College.
He had to admit that he liked being out in the world by himself, playing whatever music he felt like playing. He liked jazz clubs and now sought out more of them to keep playing, even when he didn’t have classical performances scheduled. He loved the showmanship of the French-Italian jazz violinist Stéphane Grappelli—the loose easy elegance of how the Frenchman would throw out a musical sentence and pick it up again, always seeming cool and utterly engaged. Ray wanted to do that: to bring enjoyment to anyone who would listen.
When he’d first tried his hand at jazz, it was a mess. Like most classically trained musicians who relied on strict training, he was most comfortable following the road map that a composer laid out. Ray would pour himself onto the classical route, which had clear signposts and a yellow line down one side. With jazz, there were no signs; the GPS just said, “Go.” Jazz charts provided a simple melody he was just supposed to riff from—he wanted to read every note, lock in on each finger pattern. How would he even begin? He started by listening to the opening melody of a song, then adding a few notes in the same key, then changing the key for a while, then somehow, miraculously, returning to the original key, all while making it seem effortless. This took a lot of practice. When he thought he had it, he had to think again. It was fun, challenging, and exercised new muscles in his playing.