The Mandolin Lesson (13 page)

I also realise that Marco had used the auxiliary verb ‘to have', just as one does in Italian. He had translated the first part of the phrase literally from the Italian. In English, we use the auxiliary verb ‘to be' with the word hungry. In Italian you
have
hunger and in English you
are
hungry. With these subtleties of language analysed and neatly sorted in my mind, we go in for lunch. The hanky story is repeated quite a few times and causes a fair amount of mirth. I think it is lovely that Marco makes such an effort to communicate, especially with my son, and I am encouraged that I am not the only one struggling with language.

Lunch has migrated from the kitchen to an adjoining room with a long table. There are at least a dozen people, a mixture of family and friends, seated around the table. The centrepiece of the meal is roast pheasant. I am once again suspicious, just as I had been about the pigeon on my last visit. Pheasant isn't something I remember eating before. It has connotations of the English aristocracy. My prejudice has this meat defined as exclusive to the rich and unpleasant because it is traditionally hung in England. The idea of meat that is purposely left to decay in order to increase its flavour seems extremely unpleasant to me.

Pina warns me to be careful of the lead shot. Firmino and his friends, assisted by the dogs, hunted for the birds. I pick at my meat, examining carefully for the lead shot. I place a small piece gingerly in my mouth. It is absolutely delicious. Pina tells me that they don't hang the meat. It is freshly frozen after the birds have been plucked. My prejudice melts away as I greedily clear my plate.

At the end of the meal, I help Pina to make coffee. As she places the coffee beans in a little grinding machine attached to the wall, I learn an important lesson for a busy mother. Pina explains emphatically her philosophy about coffee. There are three rules:

“
Forte, caldo è seduto
.” Strong, hot and seated.

These maxims are repeated several times. Obediently I sit down and drink my strong and hot coffee, savouring its richness and savouring the moment.

*

On Monday morning, my new pattern of commuting begins, travelling from Vicenza to Brescia by train for the mandolin course. I have to rise early, at about six o'clock. Pina prepares me a breakfast of coffee, yoghurt and biscuits. We talk in whispers, just as we had done on my first visit when I was bound for Verona airport, as everyone else in the house is still fast asleep. I have left my son sleeping in our quarters. My husband is also up in order to drive me to the station and Firmino is already out with his helpers in the fields.

Usually, I am allergic to getting up early. I love the cosy comfort of my bed too much. I want to take time over my waking. I like it to be a gentle experience. It is strange that my passion for the mandolin has the power to motivate me to inflict such harsh discipline on myself. I hear the alarm and half-sleeping switch it off, jump out of bed and stumble across the room towards my previously laid out clothes. I clean my teeth, wash my face, put some moisturiser on, comb my hair with my fingers and pick up the mandolin case and music bag as I leave the room. In ten minutes, I am ready. Five more minutes for breakfast and I am ready to drive to the station.

It takes about forty minutes to get to the station and my train journey takes about an hour and ten minutes. I have to buy a ticket with a
supplemento
, because it is a fast train, and I remember to place it in an orange machine so that my ticket is validated with the place, date and time.

I am surprised that there are so many other people up at this time of the morning, considering August is traditionally holiday time in Italy. Many people migrate to the sea or the mountains to take advantage of the comparatively cooler air during the stifling heat of the summer months. I am standing near two elderly nuns, one of whom is saying goodbye to a younger lady – perhaps a relative or friend. It occurs to me that a lot of people are probably visiting friends or family, rather than travelling to work. I begin to notice the overnight bags and other luggage of people near me.

A lady asks me if this is the correct platform for the train to Milan. I say that it is. She asks me what time it arrives and if it is on time. I tell her the answers. They require only simple, basic vocabulary. All the information is, in any case, displayed on the platform. Even so, she is very pleased with my information and I am pleased to be mistaken for a native commuter. I am happy that I didn't have to confess that I too am a visitor.

On the train, I find a seat and place my mandolin and music case in the overhead luggage rack. There are six seats in my compartment, three on each side. One of the nuns is sitting near the window. I open up my book and start to read. Presently, the glass door is slid open and we are disturbed from our private thoughts by the ticket inspector.

“
Buon giorno
,” she says.

She is very young, slim and has long black hair. I can't help being struck by how attractive she is in her uniform, with its well-cut trousers and jacket. I show her my ticket. She clips it and hands it back to me.

She takes the nun's ticket, looks at it closely and then scowls. She tells the nun it has not been validated. The nun looks genuinely puzzled. She tells the nun that the ticket has to be placed in the orange machine before making the journey. The machine prints the place, date and time on the ticket. The nun says she wasn't aware that this was necessary. The inspector says that this is a legal requirement and that the law has been in place for over a year. The nun says that she hasn't been on a train for twenty years. The inspector is unwilling to make a concession. She writes out a ticket and the nun hands her the fine.

Only months earlier, on my way to Bologna, I had seen another similar incident involving a party of four American tourists. On that occasion, the surly inspector gently rebuked the tourists, wrote the place, date and time in biro on their respective tickets, and omitted to take any fines.

*

Smartly and purposefully, I walk down the
Via delle Battaglie
. It is a street that if ever visited by tourists is probably only done so by mistake. Visitors might well pass the end of the street, viewing the
Torre della Pallata
, but it is unlikely that they would have cause to venture down it. Although on the edge of the historic centre, it feels like uncharted territory. I glance up at the windows of the flats, which hide behind the ancient edifices of the street. I look intently for signs of life. An open shutter, a line of suspended washing, a straggling geranium plant. At street level, I notice a butcher slicing veal for a Brescian housewife. Framed by another open door, a lady works at her sewing machine. I strain to overhear snippets of conversation between neighbours. The street is narrow and the pavement is sometimes non-existent. Occasionally it is necessary for me to impress my back against a flaking wall when a motorcyclist – or worse still, a small Fiat car – makes its progress along the road.

I am both magnetised to and made uneasy by this neighbourhood. I hope that my quickness of step and the cursory nature of my glances will enhance my discretion. I wish to observe every detail carefully and yet at the same time I wish to appear casual and remain unnoticed. It is a delicate balance. I wish to be respectful so that I don't give offence by giving anybody or anything too much attention. Also, I don't want to attract unwanted attention to myself. However, I am curious about the people here and their way of life. I don't wish to be or appear to be voyeuristic. On the contrary, my deepest desire is to take part in the life being lived here. Silently, I affirm to myself that I
am
partaking in life here. For a moment I had forgotten and now I remind myself. I am attending the mandolin course at the end of the street. I am a musician attending a summer music school. I have a role, not as a visitor but as a musician, and, more specifically, as a student of the Italian school of mandolin playing.

When I arrive at the mandolin course, it is about half past nine. It has taken about half an hour of brisk walking from the station and I am gently perspiring, as well as feeling a little out of breath. I remember that when I attended my first mandolin course, it was possible to enter the building from
Via delle Battiglie
. Now a wall has been erected to prevent access and it is necessary to approach from a neighbouring road, which runs parallel to it. The walk around the block adds extra time to my journey.

As usual, the morning begins with technique. There is no opportunity for a slow start with crotchets and quavers today: the Maestro means business. We start straightaway with semiquavers on the open G-string. This is to provide the foundation for an even tremolo. However, I feel unsettled and very uneven. The whole room is rumbling with the low noise. Semiquavers are quick notes, which are grouped in fours. Each four is measured by a beat of the pulse. Somehow I feel the pulse is being quickened, or am I slowing down?

We are all playing the semiquavers together but the notes of the Maestro are slick and controlled, and yet also relaxed. He sits in his T-shirt and shorts inspecting each one of our right hands in turn. I notice he is wearing leather deck shoes without socks. I have never seen him wearing such informal attire. Abruptly, I am out of synchronisation with everyone and I have to focus very hard to find my way back. The semiquavers continue.

“Da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da, da-da-da-da…”

The semiquavers are incessant, unrelenting. They seem to go on forever. I wish they would stop. Every now and then my arm shudders with an involuntary spasm. I'd much rather have an idea of when we are going to stop. Twenty bars for instance. Then, I would have an aim. Twenty groups of four beats, each beat consisting of four semiquavers. Instead, I feel insecure with the concept of semiquavers to infinity.

Without warning, we stop. It is not like a ballet lesson or an aerobics class where the teacher might say ‘and stop' to indicate what is required. We have to know instinctively by giving careful attention to the Maestro and perceiving unspoken messages, clues and signals. These skills of observation and communication are essential elements in music-making.

The Maestro makes each one of us undertake the exercise individually so that we can all examine the right-hand technique. Each of us is placed under scrutiny. When it is my turn, I feel as if I am under a microscope being analysed by experts. It is uncomfortable. The attention causes an increase of tension in my body. It seems hard to hold the plectrum in a relaxed manner. I squeeze the wafer-thin plastic hard without realising that I am doing so. The plectrum suffocates the strings and extinguishes the life of their sound.

The Maestro talks at great length about the tremolo. I study carefully his demonstration. His wrist swings backwards and forwards, or rather upwards and downwards, in continuous motion. The evenness and continuity of the movement looks mechanical, as if a hinge that opens and closes attaches his wrist. At the same time the wrist appears loose, enabling the whole hand to move with flexibility and independence from the forearm. I am part of a semicircle of students sitting only a few feet away from the Maestro. I can see everything clearly and yet I sense an invisible veil between the Maestro and myself. I contemplate the phenomenon of the tremolo, waiting for clues and insights. It all seems so transparent and yet I know my perception is clouded because my attempts do not please the Maestro. He is so gifted and it all seems simple to him. I feel that he is exasperated with me.

I am comforted by the fact that my friend Giovanna is sitting next to me. She has returned from the mountains where her family are making their summer retreat to their country house. Her family is staying on in the mountains and she will return to them at the end of the week after the course.

As the tremolo lecture continues, I observe how beautifully and appropriately dressed Giovanna is. She is wearing blue jeans, a sleeveless white blouse and moccasin type leather shoes. In fact, I notice that everyone except the Maestro is wearing jeans, shirts and similar shoes. My shoes are Italian and leather and quite stylish, but different. Mine are flat, fairly pointed and made of a basket weave. I quite like my shoes, although I also very much like this moccasin variety. I am happy that bare feet covered in leather shoes, as opposed to sandals, are obviously the most suitable footwear in this season. My T-shirt is also bearable, although less elegant than I would wish, but my leggings are totally unsuitable. They are just not practical. They are tight and clingy and too hot. I need the air to circulate. Clothes have been at the bottom of my priority list, not because I have little interest in them, but because I have had more urgent needs such as finding sufficient money to cover my travelling costs. In this moment, I feel aware of the group dynamic. I feel different and on the outside. I want to be the same and on the inside. I want to look the same. And I also have a pragmatic yearning to cope with the torrid heat.

My attention returns to the technical discussion but my mind is restless. I try to evaluate what it is exactly that I am doing wrong. The Maestro says that I have a good hand position now, but I do not use the plectrum lightly enough. I inhibit the plectrum from gliding over the strings. The Maestro is answering a question put by one of the young men on the course. The words just wash over me without registering their precise significance. I feel tired, hungry and thirsty. I am greatly relieved when the Maestro glances at his watch and announces a pause. I assume that this must be the coffee break.

We all put our mandolins away in their cases and wander outside into the bright sunlight. We amble as a group through the small garden next to the music centre and out into the narrow streets. We are all chatting in pairs and threes. I am asked the usual questions. Where am I staying? When did I arrive? At which airport? When do I return?

A discussion ensues about the bar we should go to for coffee. Each one we try is closed because the owners are taking their holidays. In fact, everywhere is closed. Ugo remembers a place a few streets away. We arrive and see that it is a temporary sort of affair. The bar is like a caravan, which could be moved from site to site. Chairs and tables flank it, all protected from the sun by umbrellas. Close by, at the front, is a pavement and busy traffic.