At the end of the recital, when Ray had apparently signed every program, a short balding man in his midseventies approached them. He wore a stained navy blazer with a red carnation in the lapel.
“Hi,” Ray said automatically. “Thank you for coming. Hope you enjoyed the show.”
“You need much work,” the man told him in a heavy German accent.
“Excuse me?”
“I believe you heard me. You people are good at a lot of things, but not this. I may be able to fix you, but it depends on how well you listen.”
“What did you just say? Who the hell are you?”
“I am Kristoff van Cordan,” said the man.
“But I—I haven’t hired you yet.”
“I know. I live not far from here and wanted to watch you before I agreed to provide you with coaching. You are extremely rough, but I will agree to do this for three months. Then we will see what we will see.”
Kristoff, quite clearly, was a bigoted ass. But Ray had dealt with people like that all his life—Uncle Roger and the wedding-ensemble debacle being one of the most memorable. It was just something you did as a Black person: you learned to overlook the insults in order to get what was more important to you. And right now the Tchaikovsky Competition was more important. Kristoff was a grade A musician, a grade A showman, and a grade F human being. Ray could live with the compromise.
They went to a local coffee shop to hash out the details of Kristoff’s tutelage. Kristoff had very large, very light blue eyes that he would blink slowly at Ray, as if disbelieving or disapproving of everything Ray said. They agreed to try a month and see how the situation developed.
That evening, after Ray left Kristoff and returned to his hotel, Uncle Larry emailed.
Hello Ray. I hope you are well. I’m sorry I missed your performance with the symphony here. I’m sure it was fantastic. I’m writing to thank you again for the money you’ve been sending. Really nice of you. Can you give me a shout? It’s important.
When Ray called, Uncle Larry picked up on the first ring. After they chatted for a few minutes, Larry’s voice got serious. “So the reason I wanted to talk to you is that a really great opportunity—really great—just dropped into my lap. I got a tip on a bunch of high-end restaurant fixtures going dirt cheap. It’s what I’ve been waiting for. It’ll mean I can finally open my own place.”
“That’s great,” Ray said warily.
“So I wondered…with all the money you’re making these days, if I could get a little loan? Just to cover the costs.”
“Oh, wow, Uncle Larry—”
“It’d really help me out.”
“I don’t have any more money,” Ray said. “Every gig I get, I divide and send to all of you. I don’t have anything saved up.”
“Yeah I figured,” Larry said easily. “But you know, you can get a loan on my mama’s fiddle. I checked with the bank. They’ll use it as collateral.”
“I don’t know about—”
“It’s really easy. I already talked to a bank and I can set everything up from here. You just have to go in and sign a couple documents.”
A pause. “How much do you need?”
“Twenty thousand.”
Another pause. Was Ray even hearing him right? “That’s a lot of money.”
“I can pay it back within the year. Easy. This restaurant is a sure thing.”
“Can I think about it?”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course. But the restaurant equipment won’t be around too long. I’d really need to get an answer from you by tomorrow.”
But tomorrow, Kristoff pushed Uncle Larry’s cheap restaurant equipment out of Ray’s mind. Before rehearsing again with the Baltimore Philharmonic—Ray had two more performances left—Kristoff met Ray in his dressing room. It was a tiny cubicle barely large enough to turn around in. A narrow counter with a lighted mirror took up all of one wall, and the other walls were gray corduroy. When Kristoff sat next to him, Ray felt as if four people glared at each other in the tiny space: Ray and Kristoff and their reflections, all sitting side by side by side.
“The first thing you need,” Kristoff told him, “is a signature. Something nice, something small, that will get your audience on your side.”
“Like what?” Ray said, mystified. “I play for them. That’s what they’re here for.”
“I would not expect you to understand. These subtleties are lost on people like you.”