And then he lost his place. Couldn’t remember at all what came next. He’d been playing from memory and had not bothered to even bring out his music.
Janice, as usual, had been right: all the recitals and concerts under his belt kept him from panicking now. He felt the conductor’s glare and picked up at the next phrase.
After the curtain call, while the players were mingling, he searched for Nicole but didn’t see her. He looked for her backstage, lingered in the dressing room, thinking she’d find him. The conductor came in, shook his hand, led him to the back door and a town car outside, where two dozen people were waiting for him to autograph their programs. “Glad I got to hear you today,” one elderly man told him. “You’re going somewhere. I’ll be able to say I knew you when.”
Nicole wasn’t outside, though. Where had she gone so quickly? He hadn’t given her his card, and now it was too late to go back inside. He signed every program, waiting for her to appear. He could email Kevin Fiore about her, he supposed, but that seemed too intense. Maybe she was listed on the orchestra’s website and he could track her down through social media? Would that make him look like a creep? Besides, he reminded himself, she lived in Erie, Pennsylvania—who knew when he’d be back. Long-distance relationships never worked. An itinerant musician on his way up the musical ladder didn’t have time for a relationship, anyway. What was he thinking? He had to get ahold of himself. Relationship? He didn’t even know her last name. Why was he thinking about a relationship?
Enough. He would put the eighth note and the auburn hair behind him. Goodbye, Erie, Pennsylvania. Good riddance.
Back in New York, he always stayed at the same hotel—the Saint Jacques—where Janice had booked them when they’d flown in to have the violin authenticated. Despite his first experience there, it was familiar. He’d requested it from Carnegie Hall, and luckily it was on their list.
After checking into his room—which went off without a hitch, queen-size bed and a view of midtown—Ray showered and curled up in bed. He couldn’t fall asleep right away, brooding about the girl back in Erie. Nicole. Why hadn’t he gotten her last name?
He needed to focus. Carnegie Hall. This was his big chance and he couldn’t mess it up. Time to leave Erie, Pennsylvania, behind.
Ray got out of bed, attached the practice mute to the violin, and played for the next hour and a half. He must have practiced the same up-bow staccato run in the de Falla for forty minutes. The constant repetition soothed him and he fell asleep, thinking only passingly of Nicole.
The next day, Ray arrived at Carnegie Hall three hours before showtime. He took a moment to look around at all the splendor that surrounded him: the gilt, the crystal chandeliers, the famous stage. Backstage, his feet walked where the feet of some of the greatest musicians—Jascha Heifetz, Yehudi Menuhin, Gil Shaham, Itzhak Perlman—once walked. He introduced himself to his accompanist, an older woman named Grace who did not seem particularly happy to be there. Normally during a recital, the soloist calls the shots—setting tempos, figuring out timing, and so forth. Grace, however, knew better than Ray. She made it a point to let him know how many big-name performers she had accompanied. Ray thought better of asking her what the soloists were like to work with. Instead, he just smiled and told her, “This movement needs to go faster. I appreciate that you’re holding true to the set tempo, but I’ll be playing it much faster. If that’s going to be an issue, we can see about finding another accompanist for this piece. I’d much rather have you play with me, of course. I can’t wait to add my name to your distinguished list.”
Grace relented, and the rest of the rehearsal went more smoothly.
An hour later, Carnegie Hall began to come to life. Soon the 250-plus-seat auditorium was nearly full; the New York music scene was eager to learn just who this Ray McMillian was. Tickets had sold out shortly after Ray’s performance was announced.
Claude Gilliam, the executive artistic director, introduced him.
The moment came. The crowd rustled expectantly, and Ray walked onto the stage, bowed. Applause. Handed out the pink rose to an elderly woman halfway up the right aisle. More applause.
De Falla’s Spanish Dance was energetic but also languid and sensual, with a deep romantic passion. The music was originally part of an opera in which a Gypsy girl—for an instant, as he visualized the music in his head, the Gypsy girl reminded him of someone: Nicole—fell in love with a man above her social class. Ray had played this piece several times for his grandmother, and she’d loved it. Now it felt like a fitting tribute to her, but also to the violin. His pizzicati were forceful and bold, passionate and rich. His nerves fell away, and the rich acoustics of the room took over, thundering around him. Seemingly moments after he’d raised his violin to begin, he was taking his bow, holding out the violin for its own adoration.