The Mandolin Lesson (11 page)

At Verona airport, Ette stops the car momentarily whilst I get out. I thank her for everything and tell her I will ring her soon with news of my next visit. I will try to get a flight directly to Bologna. We kiss each other on both cheeks. This has certainly been a memorable mandolin lesson.

It is the first week of May and I am returning to Bologna directly. I have managed to purchase a cheap ticket on a chartered flight from Gatwick airport.

The flight is a bit cramped and the service brusque. I find myself sitting near an exit and I am not particularly happy that they have to take my mandolin away to store it under a stranger's seat. The Italian lady next to me is even less happy about them taking away her precious box containing a china tea set.

At Bologna airport, Ette is extremely pleased with my travel arrangements since the airport is only ten minutes away from her home. I am also pleased that, despite the minor discomforts of the flight, I am just minutes from Ette's flat only two hours after leaving English soil. In addition, my ticket has cost me half the price of the train fare.

The mandolin lesson is the source of more confusion this month. I am alarmed to learn that there is no lesson at Padua. At the same time, I am delighted to hear that Ette is taking part in a concert with
I Solisti Veneti
. She and Ugo are to be soloists in the Vivaldi double mandolin concerto, and I am to accompany her to the rehearsal and performance. If my understanding is correct, I am to have my lesson between the rehearsal and the concert.

I have to say that I do feel a little bit anxious about all this. It is quite a big responsibility booking air flights when I can barely afford the cost. Naturally, I check the dates are convenient with everybody in Italy before I confirm a reservation. However, it is disconcerting when the plans change after I have made the reservation. Economy tickets cannot be changed once they are booked. From this point of view, the whole operation of commuting to a foreign country for music lessons is a risky business.

The concert is in a place called Sabbioneta in Lombardy. I had never heard of it. We travel north-west by car, taking the motorway from Bologna towards Milan. At Parma, we turn right and progress northwards towards Mantua. Just after we cross the River Po, we turn left onto a local road, which takes us the short distance to Sabbioneta.

Our arrival in the town of Sabbioneta comes after a hot and tiring journey. It is mid-afternoon and nothing much is open. We find a bar and we each buy a cone of ice cream. The streets are dark and narrow, offering shelter from the desiccating sun. We stand in the shade, greedily eating our melting and messy ice-cream cones.

We walk a short way to find the venue for the rehearsal and concert, the
Teatro Olimpico
. It is locked and there is no one around. We walk around the surrounding streets trying to amuse ourselves. The streets are lined with buildings from the late Renaissance. There is a wealth of history to explore here, but we are preoccupied with the rehearsal and the fact that no one has arrived and the theatre is closed. We are unable to concentrate on the details of our surroundings. We just absorb the atmosphere, ancient and full of shadows.

We meet a couple of people from the orchestra. They say that the theatre is now open, so we collect our belongings from the car and go to investigate. The theatre is refreshingly cool inside. Built in 1588, it has a simple wooden stage and an auditorium constructed of tiered wooden steps in a horseshoe shape. These wooden steps or benches are the seating for the audience. I am taken aback by the age and simplicity of the design. High up at the back of the theatre is a little balcony with classical statues of ancient Olympians. Apparently the building is modelled on Palladio's theatre at Vicenza, which I haven't yet seen.

Eventually Ugo arrives and so do the rest of the orchestra. It transpires that the coach bringing most of the orchestra has been held up in motorway congestion caused by a car accident.

Quickly, the orchestra assembles itself on the stage and starts to rehearse. Up until now, the journey, the waiting and the heat have all conspired to make me feel lethargic with the tedium of the day – but with the first vibrations of sound emanating from the players, and resonating around the
teatro
, I am awakened and energised. Claudio Scimone, the conductor, puts the orchestra through its paces and it is a fascinating process to watch. One of the works in the programme is, most inappropriately for this heat, the
Winter Concerto
from Vivalidi's
Four Seasons
. Scimone's slim body moves lithely, sometimes with vigour to establish the characteristic pulsating rhythms and at other times with softness to coax the most delicate
pianissimo
. At the moment when all the violins play tremolo, to imitate teeth chattering with cold, I see the conductor pretending to shiver with cold. This exuberance may seem over the top to some people, but it gives me great pleasure to see musicians enjoying their music and the sense of drama seems to enhance the performance.

Before the rehearsal is quite complete, I notice with some amusement that two ladies have already begun to wash the tiled floor at the front of the auditorium. How lovely it is that with the simplicity of a mop and water, the dust is banished.

There isn't much time before the concert is due to begin and there isn't much space in the communal changing rooms. Thus, I find myself backstage, in the wings of the
Teatro Olimpico
, Sabbioneta, having my mandolin lesson. We improvise, using a table as a music stand, and there are no chairs so we have to stand up to play.

We study the Barbella sonata for the impending exam.

My teacher is anxious to show me the character of each movement, as well as to clarify technical details. Often, the two are imperceptibly entwined. In the opening
Largo,
he demonstrates how to play various chords. The plectrum must be as light as possible. It must glide gently over the strings in order to allow the strings to vibrate as much as possible. In this way, the instrument is given the optimum chance to make the most beautiful sound. If the plectrum is held with tension and the strings are hit harshly, the sound is strangled because the strings aren't allowed to vibrate freely.

I watch my teacher playing effortlessly, as if the plectrum were a feather stroking silken strings. I find it difficult to relax and feel the same sense of abandon. I try too hard to imitate what I have been shown and I struggle with the plastic plectrum and the metal strings.

Surprisingly, the
Fugato
goes well. The rhythms of this third movement are straightforward and I understand the concept of a fugue with its conversational style. I am able to forget the plectrum and just enjoy the music.

The
Andantino
is marked ‘
alla Francese
', which, according to my teacher, implies inequality of notes. This means that the movement has to be played in the French style – that is, the style favoured in France during the Baroque era. It means that pairs of even notes are executed with the first note of each pair longer and the second note shorter. This tradition of playing notes unequally is well known in less formal traditions such as folk and jazz music. However, I will have to make quite an effort to remember to play the music differently from how it is notated. I also make a mental note to look up the subject of inequality in one of my books on performance practice when I return home.

I mention that I have managed to make some arrangements for the Spanish plectrum course. This news is met with approval. I have booked a villa in Rioja for my family. It is in a quiet hamlet, some distance from Longroño, roughly about three quarters of an hour's drive. It is difficult to be sure because some of the roads are in the depth of untamed countryside.

Our playing and our discussion are interrupted from time to time with people brushing past or asking a question. Now the auditorium is filling up and my teacher takes me to find a place to sit. We walk right through the auditorium and out the back into the foyer, through a small door and up some tiny twisting stairs. I find myself amongst half a dozen special guests sitting on the small balcony, high up at the rear of the auditorium. It gives me a wonderful view and a good sound.

The concert is brilliant: the music is exquisitely beautiful and well-received by the audience. Afterwards, there is a buffet supper backstage, consisting of bread, salami,
prosciutto
, cheese, slices of pizza, wine and water.

On the way home, as we drive along the motorway at midnight, we see flashing lights searching the night sky. Ette says it is a discotheque.

It is the final day of May and I am returning for my June lesson. It seems strange to think that I was in Italy at the beginning of the month and now I am here for the end of the month. As I missed February I am anxious to take the opportunity to fit in another lesson, despite the fact that the course officially closes for the summer holiday at the start of June.

When I meet Ette, she tells me that my lesson has been rearranged for Saturday. She also wonders if I would mind if we visited her parents' farm this weekend. It is the harvest of the cherries that allures her to return home. Naturally, I am delighted by the prospect of revisiting the farm.

*

On Saturday, I take the train from Bologna to Padua and attend the
Conservatorio
for my lesson. Everything is progressing well with my playing and I feel content. When the lesson is finished, I return to the station, as arranged, to meet Marco and Ette who are coming by car from Bologna. Together, we continue on to Breganze.

At the farm, we are told that Ette's parents are in the fields. Ette and I go to look for them. We are met with an extraordinary sight. A white figure resembling a beekeeper is high up in the tree. On closer inspection, it turns out to be Ette's mum dressed in men's overalls. The tree trembles as Pina divests it of its fruit. On the ground, Gino holds a ladder and a basket. Pina descends from the tree and inspects the harvest, which is divided between a number of baskets. We all help to carry the baskets back to the house, tramping between the leafy vines.

In the kitchen, Ette and I sit at the table sorting out the cherries. We spread newspaper on the table and tip the contents of the baskets onto the surface. Then, we begin to divide them into three categories: the best and most perfect cherries, the slightly bruised cherries, and the bad and mouldy cherries. The three different piles of fruit slowly rise up and are then dispersed into cardboard boxes, which Pina has found. Each cherry is dark red, like the colour of wine. The best specimens have skins that gleam as if they have been polished. Ette continually samples cherries as she sorts through them. She encourages me to do the same, but I am reticent. A little pile of stones is growing at the corner edge of the table near her elbow. We are both so happy, laughing and chattering as we sort through the mound of fruit. So many of the cherries are complete with stalks and many of these are joined in pairs or threes. Suddenly we are little girls again, bedecking our ears with the most beautiful jewels that nature has to offer. We giggle as we show off our dangling earrings to each other and then settle again to the meditative work of sorting. It is a simple, soothing pleasure.

The evening is taken up with a special supper put on for the friends of Ette's parents. Apparently, the weather isn't that good. It seems fine to me. The consequence is that it has been decided that eating will take place indoors in the new house. Long tables have been laid out with white tablecloths in the room with the built-in barbecue. Gino is in charge of building the fire and brings twigs and other suitable wood to the hearth. Pina explains that there isn't room for the wives as the meal is inside, so only the men will be attending. Ette's sister is going out for the evening with her friends. Thus there are only three ladies, Ette, her mum and myself, amongst a male-dominated gathering.

There are lots of jobs to be done, so I busy myself with carrying and fetching things. There are big bowls of pasta salad to be eaten before the roast meat and big bowls of salad leaves to follow. There is also a collection of desserts, covered over with clothes to protect them from flies. I help to set the tables with cutlery, glasses and serviettes. I feel really pleased to be included as part of the team. When everything is organised, Ette and I go back to the old house to use the bathroom and to change for dinner.

On our return, the party has already started. In the courtyard, guests are chatting and drinking glasses of wine. Gino is cutting up homemade salami. He carefully removes the outer skins of the sausage slices and places them on pieces of toasted bread, which have been rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil. He offers me one and I accept. It is delicious.

The air is warm and sweetly fragrant with the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat. I notice the progress of the lemons on the little tree by the steps. A bird is singing blissfully and for a few moments I am still, alone with my own thoughts. I feel so tremendously lucky just to be here, overlooking hills draped in vines. I reflect upon the people I would love to share this view with.

Abruptly my introspection is shattered, as I become the centre of attention. Everyone it seems is introduced to me. Some want to practise their English. Others are interested in my reasons for visiting Italy, my music and my thoughts on Italian life and culture. Others still want to know about England and English life. I become involved in lots of different conversations. Each one is fascinating and thoroughly enjoyable. I am so busy talking that I could easily forget to eat. However, I love good food too and somehow I manage to juggle the two activities of which Italians are so passionate: eating and talking.

The roast pigeon is very good and much better than I had expected. I was cautious in accepting the meat because I have only tried pigeon once before and that was in a pie cooked by Giovanna's mother. In the pie, it had been combined with a variety of other ingredients and it is difficult to recall exactly, or to separate in my memory, the flavour. This time, though, the meat is excellent. Simply roasted with olive oil and rosemary over a wood fire, the gamy flavours emerge. It is beautifully moist with a tasty, crunchy texture on the outside.

There is also a choice of roast farm-reared pork, which I had declined, not being a great fan of pork. Ette prefers the pork and brings over a morsel, which she insists I try. My prejudice melts away. It is also excellent.

As the meal drifts towards its conclusion, the dessert is served – a choice between fresh fruit salad and
tiramisù
. Unexpectedly, it is accompanied by music as chatter on the other side of the room dissolves into singing. The singing is high spirited but it certainly isn't drunken singing. Rather it is cultured; operatic arias and traditional songs sung in dialect.

Pina serves coffee and a bottle of
grappa
is passed along the tables for those who like a shot of it in their coffee. Three tenor voices soar above the others in competition with each other. First, they try to outdo each other by singing the loudest and longest note. After this power struggle, they give way to a more refined approach by seeing who can ornament the end of the phrase with the greatest art. They trill and twiddle with notes to their own – and to our – amusement. Then, one of the tenors decides he wants to sing a song especially for me. I have to go and stand by him whilst he performs a love song with exaggerated operatic gestures. I feel a mixture of being slightly embarrassed and, at the same time, being greatly honoured by this serenade.

The singing is quite remarkable. These are ordinary folk doing ordinary jobs and yet they are singing the music of their heritage, the music that underpins western art music and is often thought to be the music of the privileged. The singing is an expression of pure joy and a celebration of life. Tonight it is the men of Breganze who are privileged, to know this joy and to be engaged in this celebration.

At about midnight, I return to the old house accompanied by Ette and Marco, who holds a small torch. I am tired but happy. It is pitch black and we huddle together following the tiny pool of torchlight. As we stumble along the dusty track, we notice lights twinkling in the distance and we comment upon the sound of the men, still singing and laughing, which fades away behind us.

*

After Sunday lunch, I help Ette and her mum with the final bit of clearing up after the previous evening's meal. Ette and I sweep the tiled floor of the room where we had eaten and of the courtyard outside. Pina washes with a mop after we have swept. I look out over the hills and catch myself thinking that
this is fun, even therapeutic
. I don't understand my thought process. I absolutely hate the chores at home.

I follow Ette and her mum to the
orto
, the vegetable garden. We pick green salad leaves. Ette shows me which ones are best. Normally, I don't like doing this kind of job. I worry about the insects and getting dirty. Now I am not thinking about those things, I am just noticing the lacy edge of the leaves. I don't know this plant and I ask what it is called.
Rucola,
I am told. I am none the wiser, it is completely new to me. It is strange but I am like a small child, wanting to know everything about their world. Ette tells me that it is very good as a salad leaf and we are taking a quantity back to Bologna with us, so we will be able to try it. She also promises to show me a very good recipe, which uses
rucola
with pasta.

We pack the car with our overnight bags, the mandolin and the food, cherries,
rucola
, farm-reared steak and homemade salami.

In Bologna, Ette shows me the recipe for
rucola
with pasta. Whilst the pasta is cooking, a tub of
mascarpone
cheese, another new ingredient to me, is heated together with a little butter in a saucepan. When the two ingredients are melted and nicely amalgamated, the
rucola
is added and allowed to wilt just like spinach. This only takes a minute. Finally, the cooked pasta is folded into the mixture and is served with a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. It is a superb dish, simple and nourishing. It would make a good light supper just on its own. I add lots of freshly ground black pepper to my bowl of pasta and I think I would add the cheese to the saucepan at the final stage of preparation, just before serving.

Ette and I discuss plans for the summer. My idea to go to Spain for the plectrum course has come to nothing as a result of a letter I received just before coming to Italy. The letter explained that, unfortunately, no one else had booked our ‘off the tourist trail' villa and the owners had decided to withdraw it from the brochure. We could have a full refund of our deposit or choose another villa, but neither option helps with the course. The brochure doesn't feature other villas near to Longroño.

I discover from a phone conversation with Giovanna that there is to be a mandolin course in Brescia, the week before the Spanish course. This would be far more convenient. Ette suggests that I take up her parents' offer to bring my family to stay on the farm, whilst I attend the mandolin course in Brescia. It seems an excellent plan.