“And my first job as a man is to apologize to you.”
“You have nothing to—”
“Yes I do. I’m sorry. I was trying to figure out how to be a better showman to have a leg up for the Tchaikovsky Competition, and I thought I needed someone like Kristoff to teach me. I think all I learned is that I just have to trust my gut and do what I do, and that means play.”
“For the record,” Janice answered, “I think it was smart of you to want to stretch your wings. I’ll help you find other teachers, people who I think will be a better fit than Kristoff.”
The media story lasted for several days, and interviews continued to pour in as an investigation of the Baton Rouge Police Department followed. Months ago Ray had been a curiosity—a Black kid with a priceless instrument. Now the media was interested in him because he was becoming a seasoned, strong performer who was regularly headlining sold-out shows across the East Coast, whose career was on the verge of taking off. It was no longer just the Strad, either—it was Ray himself who drew them. He was handsome and well spoken; the media loved him. When he performed, the energy thrummed through him, so bright that he thought sometimes he would burn himself out with excitement.
And then the next shoe dropped—this one in another email, labeled “Urgent,” from Aunt Rochelle, who had never asked him for money.
Ray, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this but my crazy brothers and sisters are officially suing you for mama’s violin. They’re worried about the other lawsuit and they think you’ll lose the violin so they want to get it first. When you get an official letter from a law firm that’s what it’s about. I want no part in it. I’m sorry this is happening sugar. Good luck with your performances.
Love, Rochelle
Chapter 20
Nicole
6 Months Ago
The day after Ray and Janice returned from Baton Rouge, she told him, “I’m going to see what kind of favors I can call in.” He’d thought she’d already called in every favor she could, to get him into festivals and master classes, but apparently her connections ran deeper. They didn’t discuss it, but he thought she was shocked by his spending the night in jail—perhaps it reminded her that Black people struggled not only in the music world but in America as a whole.
A few days later, Janice reached out while he was practicing. “Hi, do me a favor and put your violin down.”
“Why? Is something wrong?” His pulse immediately started hammering in his temples.
“Have you put the violin down?”
“Hold on a sec.” He put the violin down. “Yes. It’s down. What’s wrong?”
“Do you have anything booked yet for December third?”
“Jeez, you scared me.” He had a master class at Ohio State University in Columbus.
“You’re going to need to cancel that.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I just got a confirmation that on December thirteenth you’ll be soloing with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Riccardo Muti.”
Ray had clearly misheard. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was, arguably, the top orchestra in the world—it was certainly in the top five. Riccardo Muti held two directorships: one in Chicago and one in Italy. He was perhaps the best-known conductor in America. A multiple Grammy winner, he also promoted diversity in every program he developed.
If this was affirmative action, if Ray was getting ahead only because he was Black, then he’d take it: this was the opportunity of a lifetime. Possibly of several lifetimes. “How the hell did you do that?”
“Charm and wit, my dear. And a whole lot of promises we gotta keep. This is gonna be fun.”
A month before the Chicago Symphony performance, Ray would be playing an afternoon recital at Carnegie Hall. Janice tamped down his expectations: it wasn’t an evening performance, and it was one of the smaller auditoriums, and there probably wouldn’t be a lot of people in the audience. But it was still Carnegie Hall—one of the most famous concert venues in the world.
But two days before Carnegie Hall, Ray had been booked to play with the Erie Philharmonic. Janice charitably called it an “aspirational orchestra.” He took a late flight, and the orchestra’s town car deposited him at the auditorium just in time to catch the run-through of Tchaikovsky’s Marche Slave. The orchestra had clean technique and seemed very well prepared.
He was used to the drill now: he met with the orchestra, ran through the rehearsal, did his solo with the Tchaikovsky Concerto.