On to the encore: Massenet’s “Méditation” from Tha?s. Perhaps standard encore fare, but Ray loved this piece, a lyrical gem that starts off with nostalgic yearning, plummets to insecure agony, and then triumphs with peace and joy. He poured himself into the song’s desperation, its dark misery, its sunlit final passages. Too soon, the last harmonic rang out and he kept his bow on the string until the final echoes blurred away. The audience was silent. He lowered the violin.
The audience rose to its feet.
He had done it. He shook Grace’s hand.
The crowd came up onstage to meet him, congratulate him. It was one of those moments that he honestly couldn’t believe was happening. Finally, just before 7:00 p.m., he slipped out the rear door onto Seventh Avenue. A huge crowd waited for him, and he signed programs.
“Not bad for your first time, cutie,” said a familiar voice. Nicole, her dark auburn hair loose around her face.
He couldn’t help himself: he grinned. He could feel himself lighting up. “Hey,” he said. At first he tried to sound casual, but he quickly just gave in. “What are you doing here?”
“I figured it would be stupid of me not to witness Ray McMillian’s Carnegie Hall debut. I expect to be telling my grandkids about this. You were incredible, by the way. The way you played de Falla was insanely good. The spiccatos on your arpeggios were really impressive. I don’t think I ever saw your bow leave the string. I honestly don’t know how you did it.”
“I really appreciate that,” he said. Many people had complimented him on his arpeggios, but none of them was gorgeous or made his heart hammer in his rib cage the way she was doing. He liked it. A lot. The moment stretched. What was he doing? Why was he so terrible at talking to this woman? She was violin-shaped, right? So why was this so hard? “Are, um, you staying in town?”
“I got this sick deal,” she said enthusiastically. “Amtrak is so expensive, but I figured out a way from New Rochelle that’s, like, half the price. It doesn’t leave till nine thirty, though. That gives me time for dinner. I’ve already seen the show.”
“Yeah, I saw it, too,” he said. “No, wait, I was there.” Smooth, Ray. “Glad you liked it.” He looked for something to lean against, but it was just him, this woman, and the sidewalk.
“Look,” she said, “you want to grab dinner?”
“Me?” he said. Sometimes he honestly could not believe the stupidity that poured from his mouth. “Um, yeah. I’d love to.”
“Good,” she said, and confidently headed a few blocks over to a tiny Indian place, on the second floor of a building, above a wig shop. It was cheap, and some of the best food Ray had ever had in his life.
They talked about music and orchestras, about her growing up in a middle-class family that didn’t quite understand her love of music but didn’t actively try to thwart it the way Ray’s mother had.
“The worst thing is that it always felt like there was that one kid who always played better than me, you know?” she said. “The one who always got the private lessons and always got the solo at the end-of-year concert?”
“I know exactly what you mean. For me it was this one guy. Mark Jennings. Racist asshole, but he had seriously fast fingers,” Ray said. He hadn’t thought about Mark Jennings for years. Did he still play?
“Kyle Rasmussen. I hated Kyle Rasmussen.” She laughed.
Her experiences mirrored his own. She could understand him. She was a performer, like him. She was a musician. Even without her figure and her great laugh, he would have picked her out of a crowd. How could he make this into something more than just dinner, more than just—maybe—a one-nighter? He toyed with his vegetable tikka masala and wondered if he could move to Erie. It had an airport, right? He didn’t need to be in Charlotte.
But it didn’t seem like she’d be in Erie for long, anyway. Erie was her first gig out of college, but she was ambitious. She’d been doing some substitute viola work in the Cleveland Orchestra, for starters, and that might lead to something more permanent. She really liked Cleveland—it had a vibrant musical scene. “I’ve also been volunteering there,” she confided, as if it were a secret.
“Doing what?”
“There’s a program where we play music in soup kitchens. First you serve the guests, and then you serenade them. It’s pretty awesome. I’m way better with the viola than I am with the mashed potatoes, though.”