Virtuosity

by Jessica Martinez

  A Stradivarius. The Gibson Stradivarius. Yes, I’d heard of it—it was one of the best violins in the world. At auction, the cheapest Strads were going for at least half a million dollars. The Gibson would go for a lot more because of its tone. It was one of the sweetest sounding violins ever crafted. In comparison, the perfectly respectable twelve thousand dollar German instrument I played was a tin box.

  “Of course, we want you to play it.”

  The silence that followed was thick with expectations. Dorothy probably expected a gasp, followed by confessions of my undying gratitude. What she got was the sound of the phone hitting the wooden floor and then bouncing down the stairs, followed by me scrambling after it.

  “What on earth was that?” she said, once I’d picked the phone up again.

  “Sorry,” I said, struggling to catch my breath. “I dropped the phone.”

  “Well, let’s hope you keep a tighter grip on the new violin.”

  After we hung up I screamed. I was laughing, and then crying, and then jumping on the couch in Diana’s office and laughing and crying at the same time. “She called it an investment,” I said after I’d calmed down enough to talk, “like she was talking about buying property on Martha’s Vineyard or shares in Microsoft or something. I wanted to yell, ‘Do you even have any idea what you’re buying?’”

  “Carmen, you don’t have any idea what they’re buying.”

  “What are you talking about? Didn’t you hear me? They’re buying the Gibson Strad!”

  “Wrong.” She pushed her chair away from her desk, took off her glasses, and chucked them onto the pile of receipts in front of her. “They’re buying you.”

  The first time I played it, I knew. It had always been a part of me. I hadn’t realized I was incomplete, but the experience was one of coming home. Or of being whole. My body welcomed its weight and the way it nestled perfectly under my jaw; my ear recognized its voice as my voice. It always had been.

  That had been a year ago, but holding it up under the moonlight, I still couldn’t believe the violin was mine to play. The Glenns ended up paying $1.2 million for it. Or as Diana said, $1.2 million for me. But as much as she disliked the situation, she didn’t suggest I refuse it either. That was never even a possibility. That would be insane.

  I couldn’t hate the Glenns the way Diana did. Not anymore, but not just because of the Strad. It was embarrassing, but even though I hadn’t been worth acknowledging before I was famous, even though I knew their respect and their gift were more about their status than about me, a small part of me was happy. It wasn’t complicated. I wanted them to like me.

  But I couldn’t tell Diana that. In her world, talent was the only currency, and that made the Glenns worthless: They didn’t have it themselves, they hadn’t recognized it in her, and they had to have the entire world point it out in me before they even acknowledged me as their granddaughter.

  I put the violin under my chin.

  Being a violinist had been simpler then. More about music, less about stress. I wanted to play something to take me back. Not the Tchaikovsky Violin Concerto or anything else that had been infected with Guarneri anxiety. Just something beautiful.

  My eyes fell on the tiny American flag pin on the case strap, a gift from Clark before my first European tour. I brought violin to shoulder, bow to string, and the opening notes of Amazing Grace filled the room. I didn’t even have to try. The pressure melted away under the warmth of the melody, and the music spoke. Forget Jeremy King, forget the competition, forget everyone’s expectations. And by the end of the verse, I almost had.

  I put the violin back in its case and tiptoed back across the hall. My bed was suddenly softer, the covers enveloping instead of strangling. Sleep seemed almost attainable.

  I was almost there when Diana’s ringtone sounded. Just once.

  The numbers on the digital face of my bedside clock glowed 3:49. Who would be calling in the middle of the night? I was out of bed and twisting my doorknob as quietly as I could before I thought through the possibilities.

  The pat-pat of Diana’s bare feet on the hardwood floor traveled down the hall and stopped right below me. I fell into a crouch instinctively, just in case she glanced up. She didn’t. She turned to face the wall and sat on the bottom step.

  “Why are you calling?” Her voice was somewhere between hiss and whisper. “I told you not to.”

  Silence.

  The anger was gone when she whispered again. “It’s worse. At least according to Yuri …”

  I leaned forward, but there was nothing to hear. Seconds felt like minutes.

  “You’re right. It’s time … I agree…. No, you work out the details. Isn’t wiring money what you do?”

  The sharp taste of blood filled my mouth and I realized I’d been biting my lip.

  “Let me know when it’s taken care of,” she said.

  She snapped the phone shut, but she didn’t stand. She just sat, her shoulders rising and falling gently in the dark.

  My calves burned from crouching. They’d give out soon. I wanted to stand, but if she turned and saw me now, she’d know I’d heard the whole thing. And clearly, she didn’t want to be heard.

  My mind pulled at the loose threads of her conversation, but everything was too short, too slick to grip. Why did she need money? According to my violin instructor, Yuri—what had she said was according to Yuri? Who was she talking to?

  My legs were on fire. I closed my eyes and concentrated on not falling.

  Finally, she stood. Her usually perfect posture had wilted into something less than elegant. She looked limp as she walked out of my view, back to Clark’s snoring.

  I stood and clutched the door frame as a wave of light-headedness washed over me. My brain ached. Something was very wrong. I closed my eyes and tried to hear Amazing Grace, but the melody was gone.

  Chapter 4

  I woke up the next morning with an overwhelming urge to pray. I wasn’t particularly religious, unless going to mass on Christmas and Easter and when Nonna visited from Milan counted. In fact, I wasn’t even sure if I believed in God. But I didn’t specifically not believe in God, so erring on the side of caution seemed smart.

  Certain dire situations had a way of bringing out the Catholic girl hiding several layers down, and the Guarneri was the definition of dire. The problem was, I couldn’t ask for exactly what I wanted. If there was a God, I highly doubted he gave the less-than-devout exactly what they wanted. It seemed more respectful, more realistic, to skip the praying to win and just pray to injure myself. Please God, break my arm. A nice, clean fracture that would require a few months in a shoulder-to-wrist cast to heal completely. Amen.

  I said the Lord’s Prayer, or what I could remember of it, and crossed myself, just to make the request more official. Would God punish me for not remembering what I’d only sort of been taught when I was just a little girl by an Italian grandmother who could barely speak English? Maybe. I didn’t know.

  I did know the Guarneri Competition was something only God, if He existed, could spare me from. Four years ago I’d sat in the audience for the final gala concert, knowing I was peering into my future. Diana had sweet-talked an old symphony friend into two eighth-row seats, too close for good acoustics but perfect for the view. The violinists’ faces shone with sweat under the stage lights. Sometimes, for concentration, they closed their eyes, but when they were open they held all the intensity of the music. Every emotion—elation, anger, grief, love—was magnified under those lights. I should have been watching their technique, but I couldn’t stop looking at their faces.

  Three finalists performed their concertos with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, then the judges deliberated while the audience waited. And waited. For forty-five minutes Diana circulated and chitchatted with people in the industry, while I mangled my program with sweaty hands and tried to smile at everyone who told me I looked exactly like my mother for the millionth time. How could people socialize right now? Weren’t they
nervous?

  When the results were finally announced I cried. I couldn’t help it. Luckily, the applause was noisy and I caught the sob in my throat before it escaped. It wasn’t because I was happy for the winner, or sad for the other two competitors who were standing on the stage with plastic smiles over broken faces.

  I’d cried because I knew it had to be me next time.

  But back then, I was nobody. A thirteen-year-old wonderkid, but those are a dime a dozen. Every city in the world has a best young violinist, and every five years or so they have to get a new one. Musical prodigies almost always settle into lives as musically stifled professionals. Symphonies are full of them.

  The Guarneri grand prize is one of the best in classical music: fifty thousand dollars, the four-year loan of the 1742 Guarneri del Gesu violin, and performance opportunities with symphonies all over the world. Most violinists would kill for the Guarneri violin and the cash, but it was the performing opportunities that meant the most to me.

  Yuri was right. He always was, despite the thick Ukrainian accent and unnatural syntax. “This is one,” he had said as I was packing up my violin at the end of my last lesson. “Win Guarneri and you are legend. Lose, and who are you?”

  Another time he had told me that people thought Paganini, the nineteenth century Italian violinist, was possessed by the Devil. “Too good,” he said. “People say he is not just man. He has devil.” Here he stopped and pointed an arthritic finger at me. “Pray to God for devil like that. And you should know, Paganini played a Guarneri violin.”

  Yuri could pray for devils. I’d pray for deliverance. Please God, a nice clean ulna fracture, please. Thy will be done, kingdom come, I think. Amen. And Hail Mary.

  I sat up and looked out my window, only to receive a sharp slap from reality, Chicago-style: an April snowstorm. I stood, walked over to the window, and pulled the curtain aside. Flurries floated by the windowpane, settling on a carpet of snow already muddied by boots and tires. That meant I’d be trekking through the slush to Yuri’s apartment for my lesson. It was a four-minute walk to the El station, followed by an eight-minute train ride, and another two minutes on foot—long enough for my feet to get good and wet. I laced up a pair of boots, pulled on a jacket, and slung my violin case onto my back. So much for spring.

  Before I left the room, I checked my email. Nothing from Jeremy. Good. He must have agreed with my assessment of him.

  According to my clock, I had forty-five minutes until my lesson. I opened the wooden pillbox on my bedside table and took out two tiny orange pills. One at a time, I washed them down with water, and then as an afterthought, I took one more. Better safe than sorry.

  It was supposed to take a little while for the Inderal to kick in, but I could feel the difference right away. My palms dried. My breathing slowed. Then that jittery buzz at the base of my skull melted away, and the nausea pressing on my stomach lifted so gradually I couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment it vanished, only that it was gone. I loved that part. And once the nervousness had completely disappeared and the flatness descended, it seemed like the whole world took on a matte finish. No gloss to slip on.

  Inderal was only supposed to be for performances, but today’s lesson was important. I had no problem justifying a couple of pills before the most crucial lesson of the year.

  Our house was a textbook row house, tall and skinny and attached to neighbors on both sides. To get to the street, I had to go from my room on the third floor, down a flight of stairs, past the kitchen and the master bedroom, then down another flight of stairs, and past the living room and Diana’s office.

  Clark’s voice met me before I was halfway down the first flight of stairs. “Fried egg?” he asked. I walked into the kitchen to find him standing at the stove with his back to me, tending an egg with his spatula.

  I took a poppy seed bagel from the bread box. “No time.”

  He shook his head and gently folded the egg over onto itself. “Protein, Carmen. Protein. Those carbs are going to give out halfway through your lesson.”

  “That’s where the Red Bull comes in,” I said, taking a can from the fridge door.

  “That can’t possibly sit well this early in the morning.”

  I shrugged.

  “Are you still planning on going for a run with me tonight?” he asked.

  “If you can make it okay with the powers that be. I’m rehearsing with the CSO tomorrow for Saturday night’s concert.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” he said.

  Clark was the only person in my universe who didn’t know I was violin girl. To him, it was just another piece of information about me, like my favorite TV show, or my hair color. He was an accountant. He could leave work at work.

  I was halfway out of the kitchen when I noticed the basket, wrapped in a flourish of cellophane and curled ribbon. “Where’d this come from?” I asked.

  “Sony Classical. It’s for you. Follow-up from your mom’s meeting with them yesterday, I’m assuming.”

  I pulled open the packaging and rifled through the bags of specialty foods: white chocolate-dipped apricots, wasabi almonds, Scottish shortbread, mocha truffles. I decided on the apricots and waved them at Clark.

  “I’m out.”

  He waved the spatula in the air. “Give Yuri a big, fat hug and tell him it’s from me.”

  I laughed. Yuri had been my teacher for thirteen years. We’d never hugged. To my knowledge, Yuri had never hugged anyone.

  Chapter 5

  The train jounced and swayed as the familiar city shapes sped by. I made this trip twice a week, and knew the exact order and location of every building, sign, and fire hydrant along the route. I closed my eyes, enjoying the feel of the train swinging back and forth on the elevated track. It was soothing, but a little sinister too, like a giant snake rolling from side to side.

  I was on my way to get yelled at. It wasn’t a good feeling, but it wasn’t full-blown dread either. I got chewed out too often to actually be scared. Not that it happened at every lesson, but with two weeks until the competition, it was pretty much a given. How well I played wouldn’t even factor in.

  Two weeks.

  The train jerked left, and the girl across from me giggled. She and her boyfriend were not making out, but wanting to. They wore private school uniforms: plaid skirt and knee socks for her, dress pants and plaid tie for him, matching blazers with a coat of arms crest for both, though hers was slung over her backpack on the ground in front of her. She was practically sitting on his lap, and he was playing with her earring, a dangly silver thing with loops and beads, while she drew circles on his knee with her finger.

  I examined the puddles of melted snow on the toes of my boots so I wouldn’t have to watch. Not that they would have noticed. They were my age, but somehow … not. School. It had to be school that made them so different. Or not going to school that made me so different. Not that I was a weirdo or anything.

  I gave them one last glance. It wasn’t just school. My life bore no resemblance to theirs. They weren’t worried about anything bigger than algebra tests. I lifted my toes and the puddles spilled off my shoes onto the rubber mats.

  The packet. It called. I unzipped the music flap on my case, and fished around for it. Held together by a single staple, the pages were starting to come loose and the corners curled. I’d read it at least twenty times. The papers’ edges were starting to split. I flipped to the list of semifinalists and read through the names again.

  The twenty names could be categorized a million different ways. Thirteen men and seven women. Nine Americans, six Europeans, four Asians, and a lone Australian. Five teenagers and fifteen twenty-somethings. Eighteen hopefuls, two real contenders.

  I turned to the schedule. Each of us had been randomly plugged into a time slot over the two days of semifinals. I had Tuesday two-thirty. Jeremy had Wednesday five o’clock.

  When the packet first arrived and I told Yuri about my early slot, he had shrugged and muttered something angry in U
krainian. And then, in English, “Tuesday sucks.”

  Typical pep talk.

  Yuri Petrov was many things—genius, tyrant, mentor, reality TV addict—but he was not a cheerleader.

  Physically, Yuri resembled a troll. Wiry gray hair sprouted from everywhere except the top of his mole-covered head, bruise-colored bags hung below his eyes, and he had a pronounced hunchback. Actually, pronounced was an understatement. His back rose higher than his head, making him look like a human question mark.

  When I was fourteen he made me drive him across the city in search of his favorite pipe tobacco (Smoker Friendly Vanilla Cavendish instead of “the crap brand sold at corner store”). He didn’t care that I didn’t have a license. He didn’t care that I didn’t know how to drive, either. I gave in when he threatened to get behind the wheel. He’d just had double cataract surgery.

  And then there was the time last year when he’d made me drink vodka until I was drunk, just so I could really understand Shostakovich, and all Russian composers for that matter, as well as the importance of saving celebratory drinking until after performances. I vaguely remembered him saying, “Friends don’t let friends drink and get onstage.” Then I watched Dancing with the Stars sideways, my head on his couch. He drove me home that night and handed me over to Diana with a shrug for an explanation. Diana didn’t bat an eye. With talent came eccentricity and she made allowances for it. She’d put me to bed, placed a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin on my nightstand, and told Clark I had the stomach flu.

  The train lurched and slowed. The couple across from me stood, and I noticed the rings on the girl’s hand as she gripped the pole in front of me. She had two, plus a thumb ring. They looked cool: silver with funky oversize gemstones in different colors. I didn’t wear rings—taking them all off and putting them all back on again several times a day to practice seemed like too much hassle—but if I did, I’d get ones like that.