The Mandolin Lesson (16 page)

My task for the November lesson is twofold. The first job is to find a suitable flight. This is easily achieved on this occasion; I purchase a ticket for Bologna after just a few phone calls. The second job is to acquire some new music, the sonatas of Robert Valentine, which proves to be altogether more difficult.

The Maestro reminds me that it is possible to view the published edition of these sonatas, printed in Rome in 1730, at the British Library. There is an Italian publisher who provides a facsimile edition of this work, but it is impossible to order a copy in England. Thus, the obvious solution is to obtain a photocopy from the British Library.

I don't have time to go to the British Library, but I do have a Reader's Ticket and I am familiar with their procedures. Instead I make a phone call to a very helpful lady in the Music Library, who advises me to put my request in writing. This, I do.

I write a courteous letter with all the required information. The full title of the work is
Sonate per il Flauto Traversiero, col Basso che possono servire per Violino, Mandola et Oboe
. It is curious that these flute sonatas, which may also be suitable for the Violin, Mandola (mandolin) and Oboe, were published in Italy over 200 years ago and composed by a man with an English name.

I consult my dictionary of music and find that Robert Valentine was born in Leicester in c1680. He lived in Rome for over twenty years, returning to England in 1731 where presumably he spent his final few years. He was well known in his time as a flautist and a successful composer. The
opera
XII I am seeking is just one set out of fifteen sets of sonatas that were published in Valentine's lifetime. I am intrigued by the thought of a musician making the difficult journey between England and Italy several centuries before me. Equally, I am fascinated by the idea of an English Baroque musician assimilating Italian culture.

I remember to mention in my letter that my understanding is that the sonatas are already held on a microfilm and that it will be possible, therefore, to process my order without undue delay. I explain that I hope to be able to study this work before attending a mandolin course in Italy in three weeks' time. I put it in this way, inferring perhaps that it is a one-off course, because it is simpler and basically still truthful. I can't really go into detail about ongoing mandolin lessons. I think that would diminish my credibility.

Three days later, I receive a reply. The quote for a photocopy of the six sonatas is approximately £50. The cost is quite simply out of the question.

I decide upon a new plan. When I was in Padua the other day, I visited the music shop close to the
Conservatorio
. It is called
Musica Musica
. I had a little chat with the proprietor, explaining that I was studying mandolin with Maestro Orlandi at the
Conservatorio
and that I commute from London, visiting Padua once a month. The proprietor treated me like a celebrity and, although flattered by his respect and interest, I am getting used to the idea that this sort of behaviour is just normal good service in Italy. The proprietor said that he would be happy to supply any mandolin music that I required and I have decided to test out his service.

As I am in London at the moment and I am still a little apprehensive about using the telephone to speak Italian, I begin to put my plan into action by composing a letter that can be faxed. The only fly in the ointment is that I don't have a fax machine. Undeterred, I succeed in finding a friend who does have a fax machine and the plan is implemented.

Unfortunately, following three abortive attempts at sending the fax, my friend returns the letter to me. There is nothing else for it. I just have to muster up my courage and face the telephone.

I prepare carefully for the call. I rehearse my pronunciation out aloud. I underline the principal words and phrases of the letter in thick pencil. I also phonetically write out the letters of certain spellings, since the letters of the alphabet are pronounced differently in Italian. At last, I am ready to make the phone call. It goes much better than I had anticipated. The proprietor of
Musica Musica
isn't too fazed at my calling from London and he thinks it will be possible for the music to arrive in time for my lesson.

*

In Bologna, I have a pleasant surprise when Ette announces that her family are coming for lunch on Sunday. This is not a common occurrence, since they live a long distance away and there is always much work to be done on the farm. I am pleased that their visit coincides with mine.

Saturday is spent in the preparation of food. Ette keeps referring to
polpettine
and finally I discover exactly what they are. After lunch and after the post-lunch sleep, Ette and I sit down at the kitchen table with minced meat and flour. Then, from the combination of veal and pork mince, and with a few other special ingredients, we fashion little balls, which will be cooked tomorrow in a tomato sauce.

I also have a lesson in making
tiramisù
. Its name sounds so exotic and means literally ‘pick me up'. We dip Savoyard biscuits in strong black espresso coffee and line a dish with them. It is possible to add Marsala wine to the coffee, but it isn't essential. Egg yolks are beaten with sugar and then added to
mascarpone
cheese. The whites of the eggs are whisked until stiff and then folded into this mixture. The mixture is placed on top of the biscuits and the whole dessert is refrigerated until required. Just before serving, it is dusted with cocoa powder.

As we work in the kitchen, Ette asks me about the food and traditions of an English Christmas. She is anxious to know if I will be having a
presepio
. I am not entirely clear about what is meant by the word ‘
presepio'
, a new addition to my vocabulary, since my friend has explained the recipe for baking a kind of dough. I am wondering whether it is a cake of some kind. When we emerge from our culinary preparations, Ette finds a photograph to show me the
presepio
she made last year. Perplexed, I find myself staring at an exquisitely beautiful nativity scene. Ette tells me that all the figures and animals are crafted from a kind of bread dough that is baked in the oven. I am astonished and enlightened.

*

It is midday and Ette's family have arrived. Her parents bring with them her aunt and uncle and the farmhand Gino, who is practically one of the family.

Immediately, Pina takes on her role as mother and homemaker. She inspects the preparations for food in the kitchen and then solicits Gino's help in visiting the
cantina
for wood and wine. The
cantina
is really an extra garage in the basement of the flats where Italian people store their wine, preserves and other junk which has no place in the living space. I keep my suitcases and old boxes in my loft, but Italian people keep theirs in a
cantina
or cellar.

In the contemporary square hearth, that I had previously thought to be ornamental, Pina builds a wood fire beginning with a cone of twigs arranged around screwed up newspaper. Then, small logs are arranged and quickly ignited. Soon, a good fire blazes and larger logs are added. The fire settles as the logs burn slowly. Glowing, they send out warmth and comfort which touches a deep eternal place within the human psyche. The clinical efficiency of central heating warms physical bodies, but is unable to nourish the soul in the way a wood fire can. I watch the flames for quite some time. They are at once both dangerous and destructive and yet also life-enhancing through their energy of warmth and light. Saint Francis thought of them with great affection when he spoke of Brother Fire in the
Canticle of the Creatures
.

During the meal around the extended dining table, I find the lively and humorous exchange between the men extremely engaging. Firmino stops, aware of my attention, and asks if I have understood. Embarrassed, I have to admit that I haven't understood. He explains that they were speaking in dialect, which accounts for why I vaguely understood that they were discussing a funny problem with salami but that was about all. Gino kindly translates for me their latest adventure in undertaking the autumn task of making their own salami, with graphic detail. I am relieved that my grasp of the Italian language hasn't mysteriously deteriorated. It is quite a strange feeling, like being a small infant again, to understand emotionally the sense of a conversation but not to understand it intellectually. The conversation had communicated the frustration and humour of their experience, just as other emotions such as fear, anger, sadness and joy can be communicated without being understood.

After dinner, we all go out for the traditional
passeggiata
. The air is cold but the sun is bright and Ette accessorises her winter wardrobe with sunglasses. I am beginning to understand more fully why they are an essential item even in winter and not just a fashion statement. Looking glamorous, like a beautiful model, my friend is really just being practical. The light is far more intense during the winter months in Italy than I have experienced in England. I make a mental note to remember to bring my sunglasses when I next visit.

Our party slowly meanders through the nearby residential streets, passing detached houses, set in their own grounds, behind fences and gates fabricated in metal. We chat in twos and threes, pointing out things of interest as we pass. Sometimes I withdraw, not feeling it entirely necessary to understand or even to notice every single word that is uttered. At these moments, I am aware of the vast expanse of duck egg blue that is the sky. As the light changes and fades imperceptibly, I notice a slight bruising of purple-grey clouds. I love the quality of the light. Pale, creamy yellow light illuminates the grey clouds from behind, giving them a halo effect. Later, in the distance, I notice the naked trees seem to scratch the apricot sky. I love the desolate beauty of November and the weeks leading up first to Advent and then to Christmas.

Gino points out a stunning tree, almost bereft of foliage, but adorned with glinting orange baubles. I wonder, in my innocence, if it is an orange tree, but Gino keeps repeating the word ‘
cachi
'. I don't really understand, but Gino is remarkably patient and doesn't seem upset at my incomprehension.

The road we are following runs out into open fields and countryside. Firmino spies a piece of land planted with grapevines. It is long past the harvest but Firmino walks between the vines inspecting them. He stops, finding a missed bunch of grapes disintegrating and still attached to the plant. He samples the grapes, some of which are naturally evolving into sultanas, and Gino joins him in the sampling. All at once, they are connoisseurs discussing the merits of the grape variety and the soil in which it grows. It is wonderful to see Firmino become so visibly relaxed and at home on the land.

On the way back home, I look, without success, for the lizards I had seen in the summer. I remember their movements, sometimes furtive, sometimes darting. They would flicker and flash with their luminescent lime green backs and their tails and feet of pumice grey.

Back at the flat, I am shown examples of the orange baubles.
Cachi
are in fact persimmons – a fruit that I have tried only once before and I had found to be disappointing, both in taste and texture. In fairness to the persimmon, I have heard that it must be absolutely ripe before eating, otherwise it can taste unpleasant. However, its decorative quality is quite exceptional.

*

In Padua, the Valentine sonatas have not arrived, but they will certainly arrive, I am told, in time for my next visit. In the meantime, I work on the Scarlatti sonatas.

When my spouse inquires about what I would like for my Christmas present, I usually say that I would like an item of clothing. This is because my budget for clothing is practically non-existent. The small income I earn from teaching the mandolin, violin and theory, and supplemented by occasional mandolin concerts, is barely enough to cover the cost of the expenses required to sustain my career and interest in music. Each year, I have a long list of expenses: instrument insurance, instrument maintenance, strings, music, Musician's Union subscription, professional journal subscription and so on. The list is endless and now I have to cover travelling expenses to Italy.

It is with all this in mind that I submit a request for this year's seasonal gift. I ask for a pair of jeans, not any old jeans though, a pair of designer jeans – in fact, a pair of Giorgio Armani jeans.

This seems a puzzling concept to some of my English acquaintances. They have the idea that jeans are both casual and sloppy. I, on the other hand, have been considering the idea for at least six months, if not a little longer, and I have come to an altogether different understanding.

In Italy, I have noticed that many young people, and especially the students at the
Conservatorio
, wear jeans. However, jeans are usually designer jeans and are part of a smart casual dress code. Usually they are worn with a jacket and good leather shoes, not trainers. Jeans are worn to college, for shopping, and for visiting friends and family. They are not worn for doing the housework, gardening, car maintenance and other messy chores.

Some people think that my desire for a pair of jeans is part of a mid-life crisis. It is true that I am approaching forty and that as a teenager I never actually owned a pair of jeans. In the early seventies, I remember cutting out triangles from scraps of cotton material and inserting them into the seams of wine-coloured cords to make them into fashionable flares. However, all this is to miss the point. In reality, a pair of Italian designer jeans, although appearing to be extortionately priced, are in truth an essential item in the capsule wardrobe of a European woman in the nineties. Together with my navy blazer jacket, I have an outfit that can be teamed up with a selection of blouses or other suitable tops to give a varied look that fits in with life in Italy at a minimal cost. I am, as every reader of
Vogue
knows, not being at all extravagant, but following the principle of dressing classically. The jeans are an investment that I hope will give me quite a few years of wear.

Needing no more justification, I persuade my husband to accompany me to choose the jeans. In a Covent Garden shop, during a dark Saturday afternoon in the hours before Evensong, I try on three different pairs of jeans. It is not difficult to understand the reason why Italians favour the designer product. It is not a shallow whim to display a name or a label. On the contrary, it is a question of being pragmatic. The reality is that the jeans are so well cut that they look amazingly elegant and feel extremely comfortable to wear.

*

In Padua, after the mandolin lesson, I visit
Musica Musica
. It is about half past four, which I have taken to thinking of as ‘the
buona sera
hour' on account of this being the time of afternoon when everything returns to life again and the term of address changes from
buon giorno
to
buona sera
. The afternoon seems to be missed out altogether. I have never heard anyone say
buon pomeriggio
.

In the music shop, I am delighted to learn that the Valentine sonatas have indeed arrived. I am so pleased to take possession of my new music book. The peach and plum marble swirls on the cover are so attractive. Inside the facsimile edition, with its quaint eighteenth century writing, I look at the frontispiece with the composer's Italianised name ‘Roberto Valentini' followed by ‘Inglese' to acknowledge his English origin. Unfortunately, I now have to return to Bologna by train and tomorrow I fly home. This means that even with the best intentions, I won't be able to commence work on my new music until the January lesson. I already have music to study for the next visit, so in-depth study might well have to wait yet another month.