The Mandolin Lesson (15 page)

“We began the day with a visit to the historic centre at Vicenza,” I tell her. “The
Teatro Olypico
with its illusion of perspective was incredible and I am really pleased that I had the opportunity to see it. But,” I continue, “I was disappointed that when I returned to the exquisite blouse shop near the
Piazza dei Signori
, I found it shuttered up with a notice that said the shop was closed for its annual holidays.”

I had found this shop, specialising in blouses of exceptional quality, one evening when we made a short stop on the way back from the station. I feel cross with myself for not entering the shop then when it was open. I had seen beautiful blouses ornately decorated with embroidered collars and pockets, or drawn thread work giving the impression of tiny holes along the edges of collars and cuffs. I suppose some examples would be better described as ladies' shirts, with their clean, simple cut and concealed buttons.

“Then,” I resume, “we returned to Marostica and, in the lower castle, I saw the exhibition of the costumes used for the human chess game. They were fantastic! We were too late for lunch and found all the restaurants busy so we grabbed a sandwich. Our day culminated in a final trip to Bassano del Grappa. There I managed to purchase a bottle of
prugna
, but that was all. I was hoping to do some clothes shopping, but we arrived in the afternoon before the shops opened. By that time, my husband was restless to be in the countryside of the mountains or somewhere far away from the shops. My son was fed up with sightseeing and wanted to be at home on the farm. My family day out ended in misunderstandings and failed expectations.”

Strangely, my family now seemed happy, as if nothing had happened, but I was still frustrated at not being able to undertake my shopping expedition.

Pina listens quietly. I mention that on the way back I had even seen some clothes I liked the look of in a shop window in Breganze, but I was unable to stop. Pina tells me that her husband isn't that keen on clothes shopping either. I am surprised because I thought Italian men were more interested in shopping than English men are. Pina gets up from her chair and tells me that she will be back in a couple of minutes. She returns having replaced her apron with a jacket and tells me that we are going shopping.

We drive, in Pina's car, down the hill from the farm into the town. After parking near the church, we walk to the shop window that I had seen. It is a tiny window, skirted by a thin strip of pavement with a steep gradient. It is on account of the road being so steep at this point, and the pathway being so narrow, that we slowly passed by earlier and I was close enough to be able to catch a glimpse of the window's contents. There are only two items visible behind the glass. One of them is the pale blue jumper that had caught my eye previously. It is a simple tunic shape with a jewel collar and side vents.

Inside, Pina talks to the two ladies in the shop. She seems to know them quite well. I try on a number of garments and I find myself feeling calmer. Pina advises me that the cotton pale blue jumper suits me well. I knew it would do. She also suggests I try a pure wool polo neck jumper in light pink. She thinks it is a good classical piece for the wardrobe I am building. I try it on in the fitting room and I listen to the ladies chatting on the other side of the curtain. It is such a good feeling, being looked after. I need no persuasion. I take the blue and pink jumpers. Both of them are in the sale so I have two bargains. It seems extraordinary that I am able to buy clothes that are so stunningly elegant and of the highest quality in such a small country shop. Pina and I go to a bar a few doors away and celebrate my successful shopping and my redeemed day with glasses of peach juice.

*

The hired car is parked in the designated space at Marco Polo airport. As we unpack the luggage from the boot, I am alarmed to see one or two giant ants crawling over one of the bags. In a plastic carrier bag, there are some emergency food supplies: a bottle of mineral water, a half-eaten packet of biscuits and three figs. We pause for a few minutes to replenish ourselves. We each take a swig of water from the plastic bottle and I begin to carefully peel the figs, which Firmino had picked from the tree this morning. Instinctively, I throw the middle one to the ground as I realise that it is alive with giant ants. I shudder in the heat of the midday sun. The remaining two figs, however, are perfect. Their pink flesh is warm, fragrant and sweet. As I enjoy these most succulent of fruits, I look intently out towards the hazy Venetian lagoon and I take stock. The first year is over.

The second year commences with the lower diploma exam. I have arranged to spend a whole week in Bologna, Sunday to Sunday. My plan is to commute between Bologna and Padua. I have to attend rehearsals with the piano for the exam, undertake the exam and in my spare time attend sessions of a mandolin course that is running at the same time. All of this takes place on the first four days of the week. However, when I attend the
Conservatorio
on the first day, the Maestro advises me that it would be prudent to remain in Padua for a couple of nights. On my way back to the station in the evening, I make a reservation at my usual hotel for the following two nights.

Ette is happy with my arrangement to stay in Padua for a couple of nights. She thinks it is sensible. To my delight, I find that Deborah is also sitting an exam and is staying at the same hotel as I am. I am pleased to have her company during these tense few days.

The rehearsal with the pianist goes well. At least it goes well once I remember to count in Italian.

“
Uno, due, tre
,” we count together since I have to begin the Barbella sonata on the fourth beat. It is really difficult to rehearse in a foreign language. I especially find it hard to translate the numbers. It is so instinctive to think in English numbers, but I have to give an indication of speed and communicate this to the accompanist who doesn't speak English. For a split second I am edgy and the thought flickers through my mind that she must think I am stupid. I file the thought away under the heading ‘stupid': that is, ‘stupid thought'. Almost immediately we become settled, communicating in the same language: music.

The pianist is a lady professor at the college. I discover that she has a son about the same age as my own son and this gives us a link. In the same moment I realise that she is about the same age as I am and I am becoming increasingly conscious that I am considerably older than the average student is. At the beginning of my study, I just didn't consider my age. I suppose, in my mind, I just thought that I was young. Now a number of people have asked me about my age and I feel embarrassed to admit that I am in my late thirties. Most people think I am much younger, because I look about ten years younger than I really am. When I was a teenager and I looked plain and studious, I was disgruntled that all my friends looked so mature and beautiful. Now it is quite an advantage to look younger than one's chronological years. It is just that I have the sensation of harbouring a guilty secret: I am approaching my fortieth birthday. In music, it is not only desirable, it is almost obligatory to be brilliant, talented and young, very young. When musicians are mature, they have usually made their mark in their chosen field. Consequently, I love stories about late starters. Edward Elgar, for instance, didn't make his mark on the world until he was the wrong side of forty.

Another hitch occurs in the rehearsal. This time it is with the name of the notes. We use the first seven letters of the alphabet but Italians use
solfeggio
names. The problem is that the
solfeggio
, or Tonic Sol-fa, I had experienced used the system of the moveable
doh
. In other words, whichever key you are in, the first note of the scale is always
doh
, the second
ray
, the third
me
, and so on. In Italy, however, the system used is that of a fixed
doh
, starting with C as
doh
. Therefore, C is always
doh
, D is always
ray
, and E is always
me
, and so on. A further complication is that the Italian spellings are slightly different. Thus C, D, E, F, G, A, B are represented by
do, re, mi, fa, sol, la
and
si
.

So when the pianist casually refers to one of my chords as “
la, mi, la
,” I struggle, thinking at first that it is B, F, B, which makes no sense. I stare blankly, feeling again momentarily stupid. Then I make the connection that it is simply A, E, A, which makes perfect sense. I just don't have the fluency to think of these notes in the Italian language. If I think of their pitch names, I think of their English names.

A wave of panic threatens to engulf me when the Maestro offers me a bit of paper with the notes of the strings for other types of mandolins. The
Milanese
mandolin has six strings, for example, and in the viva voce part of the exam I may have to quote the notes of these strings using their Italian names. I decide upon a mnemonic. The strings are from the lowest to the highest, G B E A D G. Simply, it is the word ‘BEAD' with a G on either side. Also, read backwards, it is the same as the Neapolitan mandolin strings preceded by G B for Giovanni Battista (Gervasio), Baroque mandolinist, or simpler still, Great Britain. There are a number of possibilities. Having remembered the sequence, I would then need to translate them into their Italian equivalents. At one level this is all quite straightforward, but under exam conditions such basic tasks of recall become almost impossible.

I reach a new zenith of pre-exam stress when I am introduced to Fabio Menditto, a former pupil of the Maestro, who has arrived to help adjudicate the exams. Fabio recently became Professor of Mandolin at Aquila, near Rome. He is the soloist on my CD of the Barbella sonata, the same sonata I have prepared for the exam. I worry about how he will view my interpretation. I feel agitated and nervous.

Outside the main entrance of the
Conservatorio,
I come face to face with Fabio. He lights up a cigarette and he asks me about myself. I tell him about my recitals and teaching in London, and about my commuting to Italy to learn about the Italian school of mandolin playing. He is fascinated. He confesses that he doesn't like to travel extensively. We are briefly interrupted by a red scooter, which we have to move out of the way for. Fabio slowly inhales more smoke from his cigarette. For a moment he is thoughtful, then he asks another question: “
É tu, sei al suo agio in Italia
?”

He is asking me if I am at my ease in Italy. I tell him how interested I am in the way of life: the culture, the cuisine and even the way of dressing. The warmth of the bright October sunshine is on my face. The street we are standing in is narrow with a few tables and some chairs belonging to the Bar Pollini behind us. A plant in a square terracotta pot catches my eye. The ambience is one of an outdoor culture, exotic and a world away from the grey skies of London. I glance at the passing Paduan women wearing impeccably tailored suits. My navy blue blazer jacket is a classic piece and blends in well. In an unguarded moment, my conversation seems to be flowing. I feel quite animated and I confide that I do feel at my ease. I do feel comfortable here.

*

Deborah and I arrange to eat together during the evening prior to the day of the exams. Deborah says she knows of a restaurant where we can eat good food cheaply. I'm not entirely sure what to make of this statement, but we meet at seven o'clock and walk from our hotel back towards the
Conservatorio
and the historic centre. The restaurant is only five minutes away from the
Conservatorio
but I had been unaware of its existence.

Nothing could have prepared me for the experience of the Brek Restaurant. To begin with, it is a self-service restaurant and this concept alone conjures up the image of canteen dinners at a college or a workplace. The idea of self-service means mediocre meals, kept warm for long periods of time, and, as a result, long past their best. It means massed produced menus with little attention to detail, quality or choice. It means stodgy dinners, unhealthy cuisine and fast meals. It represents everything that is an anathema to the Italian ideal of cuisine, and it represents everything that the Brek Restaurant is not!

I look around, slightly disorientated at first. I appear to be in a market where each of the stalls has canopies in green. Each market stall is in fact a counter for a different part of the meal. I take a tray and follow Deborah, watching the procedure carefully. We go to the pasta counter, which is set up like a field kitchen, with a number of gas rings and huge frying pans. The menu is changed on a daily basis and is chalked up on a board at the entrance and individually at each counter. We choose a sauce with
zucchini
, courgettes, and
farfalle
, pasta butterflies. The food is partially prepared. The pasta is reheated, perhaps completely cooked, in boiling water. The cook pours some olive oil into the skillet and fries some
pancetta
cubes. When they take on a nice golden colour, and they do quickly because the oil is hot, sliced courgettes are added. Finally, a dash of
passata
is added and the pasta is stirred into the mixture. The cook serves up to about six people at a time. Each plate has a lid to keep it warm. Parmesan cheese is added at the time of serving, but there is more available at the tables. The cook already has some more
pancetta
cooking for the next batch as we are served with our food.

Next we go to the salad counter with huge bowls of leafy salads, containing amongst other things
radicchio
, as well as bowls of single items such as tomatoes, grated carrot and fennel. The salad can be seasoned and dressed at the counter, but if you forget, it doesn't matter because all the tables are well supplied with olive oil and other condiments.

As we move onto the dessert counter, we pass the second course counter and smell steaks and slices of veal being seared and cooked as required. The patisserie counter is like a treasure chest with its beautiful fruit tarts, each studded with exquisite jewels: kiwi pieces as emeralds, strawberries as rubies, dark grapes as garnets and so on. I modestly help myself to a portion of fresh fruit salad.

Before paying, I survey the drinks: bottles and half bottles of wine, red and white, and the cheapest local wines available are on tap, decanted into the appropriate size carafe. Mineral water,
naturale
or
gassata
, still or sparkling, in big and small bottles, is also available. Additionally, there is a limited supply of soft drinks. The emphasis, however, is clearly on wine and water. I opt for the water.

As I wait briefly in the queue for the till, I notice that there is a wonderful selection of fresh bread and rolls, but I decline to choose anything further. I have quite a feast on my tray and I am pacing myself in preparation for tomorrow's exam.

Deborah and I meet up with Fabio and Gianluigi, who is also taking the lower diploma exam. We all sit together, eating and talking. When the meal is over and the conversation is not, we decide to have some coffee. The group consensus is that we should go to another establishment for our coffee, which would entail a
piccola passeggiata
, a little walk, enabling the conversation to continue.

Our
piccola passeggiata
turns into a
gran passeggiata
as we walk through the streets of Padua, talking about music and the world of the mandolin. We walk across the
Piazza
delle Erbe
, around the
Palazzo
della Ragione
and across the
Piazza della Frutta
. We walk under the porticos and past shuttered shops. We wind through tiny streets and sometimes Deborah and I stop to look at a stylish jumper or some other interesting garment that catches our eye in a window that isn't shuttered. We are almost back to our hotel when we stop at a bar for our coffee. Then, having gulped down our sweet espressos, we continue the walk since the conversation has not yet concluded.

The night air is mild and I feel as if we are experiencing the remnants of a departing summer. At last we pause in the
Piazza Cavour
and we sit on some steps. Fabio and I are absorbed in a deep and fervent dialogue about our chosen instrument. I feel heady from the atmosphere: the food, the gentle climate, and the ambience of the surrounding architecture, added to an exchange of views with people who share my passion for the mandolin. My body is pulsating with energy. I feel as if I could stay up all night discussing the intricacies of mandolin music and its performance. I have nearly forgotten the exam. There is just a flicker of it at the edge of my consciousness.

Eventually and reluctantly, we all return to our respective accommodation.

*

I am called into the exam room. As I walk in, I flash a glance at the formidable examining panel behind the long table on my left. I try to pretend to myself that they are not there. I sit on my chair, adjust the music stand and check my tuning. I signal a glance and a nod to the accompanist and we begin.

Everything goes as rehearsed: the Conforto concerto, the Barbella sonata and the unaccompanied prelude and cadenza by Munier. From time to time, I have the strange sensation of hearing beautiful music, but I somehow feel disconnected from it. It is almost as if I am not in my body. I'm not sure where I am or, more precisely, where my mind is. I just feel separated from the physical sensation of making the music happen.

With the execution of the music completed, I am asked to approach the table. The Maestro introduces me to the panel, explaining that I am commuting from England in order to undertake the course. He puts me at my ease and I am grateful. I am asked the tuning of the Milanese mandolin.

“G B E A D G,” I say aloud and then translate, “
sol, si, mi, la, re, sol
.”

They are satisfied and say that I am free to depart.

The Maestro greets me with the news that I have passed the exam and I am profoundly happy. To pass an examination in music in a foreign country fills me with a wonderful sense of achievement. It also means that I can continue with my studies. I am now promoted to the fifth year of the mandolin course.