Back again to Anderson Cooper, standing in the empty Chicago Symphony auditorium, and then a voice-over as Ray silently played onstage. “And that’s where things stand today,” came Anderson Cooper’s voice. “A priceless violin, a battle over its heritage, and a Black musician who, more than anything else, just wants to play it.”
Ray faded from the screen and the ticking clock returned: 7:55 p.m.
Around him the room erupted in shouts. People—he was barely aware of who they were—trying to hug him, telling him what an amazing piece that was, how great he looked. Calls—Janice, Aunt Rochelle, others—were coming in. He shook everyone off, slid out of the living room and into the small bathroom off the kitchen, shut the door behind him, sat down on the closed toilet-seat lid and took out his phone.
He thumbed through his email, found Kim Wach, associate of Mendel, Panofsky & Levine, 666 Fifth Avenue.
Hi Kim I don’t know if you saw the 60 Minutes piece that just aired about me but it sure doesnt look like the Markses are going away. Can you call me ASAP?
He put his head between his legs, trembling. Sat up. Next to him, in a pile on a shelf, rested several random magazines: People, Cosmopolitan, Men’s Health. He pulled down the Men’s Health, opened it blindly.
A knock on the door. “Ray?” Nicole’s voice. “Hey. You okay?”
He returned to the party, tried to smile and join in the celebration, but his stomach churned with nausea.
* * *
—
Next day, Kim Wach gave him a call. “They’re going to try playing this in the media, clearly. I heard from the lawyer yesterday that they’re getting ready to file the case in federal court. He said that they have more evidence, but he hasn’t sent it over to me yet. The lawyer insinuated that they’ll just keep grinding you down until you give in.”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said.
“And you still weren’t able to track down anything from your family,” Kim said.
“They’re not speaking to me now,” he said. “They’re filing a suit against me, too.”
“What about your cousins?”
He’d reached out to distant cousins; they knew nothing about any envelope with the name Leon Marks written on it and didn’t know anything about the violin.
“Let’s see what the Markses’ evidence is,” she said. “Maybe it’s not that bad.”
They hung up, and he tried to hold on to the hope that things weren’t that bad—that everything would work out.
Maybe the Markses would just slither back under their flat rock.
Or maybe not.
Chapter 22
Boston
4 Months Ago
The 60 Minutes interview, coupled with the Chicago performance, generated invites from orchestras across the United States—his star was definitely on the rise. He was starting to make money and was saving every penny, terrified of the upcoming legal bills from two lawsuits. He should just cut the violin in half and give each of them their own piece, just keep the alligator-skin case for himself.
Nobody except him cared anything about the violin: to them it was a dollar sign, or a sign of prestige. He tried to tell himself that it was just a precision instrument, chunks of wood carved and glued together. And yet sometimes—no, often—as he was playing, it felt like it wasn’t just him playing: it was the instrument itself, singing with joy and, yes, with gratitude—grateful to him, grateful to the world. How could he betray it?
He flew to Boston for a recital in Jordan Hall, on the campus of the New England Conservatory of Music, playing Dvo?ák and Mozart. He was especially happy with his performance of Dvo?ák’s Romance in F Minor. The piece grew on him the more he performed it, reminding him of taking walks in the summertime with Grandma Nora, the Georgia heat thick and soft against his skin. He felt like she would have loved the piece.
After the performance was over, he ducked out the back entrance. He was tired and very hungry. He definitely needed to schedule his recitals earlier in the evening.
The cold night air cut through his shirt and jacket—he put on the large sweatshirt he’d brought. He should have packed a better overcoat, but the sweatshirt was easier to fold and more portable. He pulled up the hood, but it didn’t help. It started snowing. Welcome to Boston.
The wind attacked like a hawk after a mouse. He’d heard Aunt Rochelle say, when he’d visited her in Philly, “Ooh-whee, that hawk is biting” when the wind would drive into their faces. Now he understood: the hawk was certainly biting tonight. He pulled his black baseball cap farther down over his face. Definitely doing Boston recitals in the summertime from now on.