The Mandolin Lesson (23 page)

I stroll through the
Galleria Vittorio Emanuele
, an impressive arcade, just off the
Piazza del Duomo
. It is shaped in the form of a cross with a glass dome over the central octagon. The high vaulted roof and the dome, both constructed of metal and glass, afford light and space. The patterned tile floor and the mosaic pictures in the lunettes of the octagon give a richly furnished feel to this covered stretch of beautiful shops and smart restaurants. The arcade, with its many coffee houses, has a reputation as a meeting place for artists, scholars and politicians. No wonder it has been dubbed the ‘sitting room of Milan'.

I walk on through the
Piazza della Scala
and back the way I came along the
Via Manzoni
. At the
Piazza Cavour,
I stop at a Brek
restaurant that I had noticed earlier on my way to the centre. I have a nourishing lunch of pasta with
zucca
, pumpkin and
prosciutto di speck
– an unusual but excellent combination.

A quick detour though the public gardens on the opposite side of the
piazza
brings me almost to the next
piazza
, the
Piazza della Republica
. From here, after a delicate negotiation of the tramlines, it is just a ten-minute walk in a straight line to the entrance of the Central Station. I shall collect my belongings and wait for the bus to the airport.

Work has begun on my Baroque mandolin.

I suppose, in a sense, work begun on the first day that I met Chris with the idea that it might be possible. After that, we found it difficult to arrange an appointment to return to see the instrument at the Royal College of Music. They were very busy with numerous enquiries and the arrival of computers. Instead, we managed to secure an appointment to view a similar instrument in the Victoria and Albert Museum. We were able to view the instrument in an office away from the public viewing area, and we were allowed to take both measurements and photographs.

In the weeks that followed, Chris phoned me saying that some of the detail of the decoration hadn't come out well enough in the photographs. The V and A Museum were unable to provide a further viewing as they too were installing new computers and now lacked the space. There seemed to be only one course of action open to me. I returned to the museum's public gallery on three successive occasions, the first two with my spouse, in order to take further photographs. With my husband's state-of-the-art photographic equipment, we had a good chance of obtaining photographs without reflection caused by lighting and the glass case surrounding the exhibit. Unfortunately, not one photograph was good enough.

By the third and last visit, I was fed up and struggling with negative thoughts that my idea to have an early mandolin wasn't going to materialise. Alone, I made a hasty visit to the musical instrument collection late one Saturday afternoon in early spring, with my idiot-proof camera in my pocket.

Furtively, I removed the camera from my pocket and quickly, guiltily took the required photographs. I am not really sure if one is supposed to take photographs of exhibits, although tourists do it all the time. Nevertheless, I felt I was only trying to recapture the image that we had had permission to capture previously and had failed to achieve. I tried to focus on the idea that, despite it being unlikely, the photograph would somehow be good enough to be useful to the mandolin-maker.

Outside my kitchen, the fig tree is covered in green buds. I am filled with childlike wonder that what looked like a dead twig last week is now alive and growing. Inside, I feverishly unpack my new photographs from their box and arrange them on the long table in the breakfast room. I stand back and take a deep breath. Somehow, the photographs look as if they might be good enough.

The Alsatian held on a lead by an armed officer ignores my mandolin case and bag. There is nothing to sniff at. I walk unimpeded through the
dogana
, the customs, at Marco Polo airport. The Venetian light is bright and the warm air is humid and body hugging. It is wonderful to be back.

I am thinking carefully about what I have to do. I need to purchase a bus ticket for Treviso and when I have found out the time of my arrival, I must phone Giovanna's parents so that they can meet me. I am visiting Treviso for the first time, so I am a little anxious.

“Frances.”

Someone is calling my name. I look up automatically, but without thinking that it refers to me. I realise that I am looking into the face of Giovanna's father. He smiles and I smile in recognition at the same time; we are both pleased to see each other. I wasn't expecting him to collect me, so it is a lovely surprise and a great relief.

As we walk to the car, he introduces me to a family friend, a young lady in her twenties, who is studying English and has come along for the ride and a bit of English conversation practice. I am more than happy to oblige.

*

I am always being looked after in Italy. The mums are especially concerned with nourishment. On one occasion, Marco's mother pulled a homemade frozen lasagne out of her freezer, at the last moment before my departure, to save me having to cook after a tiring journey when I returned home. Another time Ette's mum pressed a jar of her own
passato
into my hand, so that I could cook my son's supper easily on my return. So many little acts of kindness.

When it is necessary, Italian families are very good at pulling together and rallying round. Once, I had arrived at Brescia station and was unable to make contact with Giovanna by phone. I just kept getting the
segretaria telefonica
, the answering machine. On the third try, I heard her father's voice. He had just popped into her new flat to collect some post. He gave me the phone number of Giovanna's brother and told me to ring it. When I did, immediately afterwards, Giovanna's mother knew of my predicament, as if by telepathy, and told me that she and her son were coming directly to the station to collect me. I found out that Giovanna and I had our wires crossed and I was expected on the following day. The family gave me supper and looked after me until Giovanna was able to pick me up.

*

After lunch and a little rest, I am off to explore the sights of Treviso with Giovanna's parents. We walk past the site of the Fish Market and into the
Piazza dei Signori
, the heart of the city. Here many people are gathering to meet friends, to do a little shopping and to take the customary
passeggiata
. We continue our
passeggiata
viewing the Venetian influence, canals, narrow streets, over hanging houses, some with exterior frescos. Apparently, half the city was lost in bombing during the Second World War. At the beautiful
Porta San Tomaso,
Giovanna's father shows me the heads of the winged lion, the symbol of Venetian dominance. He points out a faint crack at each neck. This, he says, is because the heads were damaged during the occupation in the war. They have since been restored.

At six o'clock, we conclude the sightseeing by attending Mass at the Duomo, a Venetian Romanesque cathedral dating from the twelfth century. I take great pleasure in the tranquillity of this quiet hour of ritual and prayer. The Saturday evening Mass counts as an attendance for the following day and is very popular with those who need or wish to have the whole Sunday free.

*

A blackbird is singing on the horse chestnut tree outside my balcony window. I am busy practising another Sauli partita, this time in G minor. I am glad of the bird's company. I have always loved the sound of birdsong. When I was sick as a small child, I would lay in bed listening intently to the birds and their music. It was an endless source of delight and fascination to me. As I grew older, I used to make my own little manuscript books and I tried to notate the sound that they made. For a while, the blackbird and I make music together.

*

Outside, the vegetation is alive and growing prolifically. The plants are always a few weeks, sometimes as much as a month, ahead of the same plants in England. It feels like summer to me, but it is only April. Yesterday we managed to squeeze in a quick visit to Giovanna's aunt, her mother's sister. She lives in the country just outside of Treviso. It is only ten minutes in the car, but suddenly I found myself walking amongst the lettuce and tomato plants, and observing how advanced everything was in comparison to our allotment at home. A short while before, we had been in the city centre. One of the things I have noticed about Italy is a greater connection between town and country. I remember seeing once, in a Tuscan market town, a lorry completely laden with artichokes for sale. It is quite normal for a farmer to bring for sale just one type of vegetable or fruit – the one that is currently in season. And so many people who have their own piece of garden devote a part to growing vegetables, salad items and herbs, and everyone with enough room has their own vine. All this reinforces the sense of season and the rhythm of nature.

I have also seen that in the most remote hilltop town in Umbria or Tuscany, it is possible to find a small clothes shop selling stylish, if basic and practical, garments. And the food shops sell the best quality produce, together with local specialities that we might consider a gourmet treat if bought in some smart London delicatessen. Even in the country, it is possible to buy specialist goods of high quality. And everywhere, it is easy to find something good to eat, in the most isolated of places, in the most unpromising locations. A sense of the land, a sense of nature, intermingles comfortably with the sophistication of culture and an urban environment. It is reflected everywhere in art and architecture: the bucolic fresco on an exterior wall, the mouth-watering bunch of grapes dangling in the decoration of a building and carved from stone.

*

In Padua, the Maestro is very keen that I should take part in the
saggio
next month – the end-of-year recital given by the students of the
Conservatorio
. He hands me a copy of the music we are going to play, ‘
Tramonto
' by Raffaele Calace. I am really flattered to see that my part is for the first mandolins. ‘
Tramonto
' translates as ‘Sunset' and is a descriptive piece for a plectrum quintet with the addition of flute, oboe and piano. The quintet comprises first and second mandolins, mandola, mandolincello (or
liuto
), which is the mandolin equivalent of the cello, and the mandolone (or
arciliuto
), the mandolin equivalent of the double bass.

We spend some time rehearsing the piece and I feel so happy that I am able to make the notes sing and breathe with an even tremolo. Today, I know that I am among equals. I know that my tremolo is good enough and I play with a wonderful confidence. The notes soar up high, and higher still. Sometimes they are full of emotional intensity and other times they are pure and ethereal. It is soul-nourishing food.

*

In London, I have some engagements playing the mandolin again in
Otello
at the Royal Opera House. It is strange being a professional player in one country one moment and a music student in another country the next. But I am grateful for a new sense of ease in my playing. I don't wonder nervously whether the tremolo will be wobbly and unsteady. I just do it. It is just there.

I always find it hard to switch off after I have been playing professionally. It is difficult to go home on the tube after the opera and just go to sleep. Adrenalin pulsates around my body and I feel energised. To relax, I have been reading a facsimile edition of the journal of Dr Charles Burney's tour through Italy. It makes excellent bedtime reading. He meets so many interesting characters in his travels and describes both the encounters and the music with such attention to detail that it is easy to imagine actually being there. The language is so graceful and harmonious that it is a joy to read, both for its sound as well as its content.

I find several references to the mandolin and one in particular that astonishes me. Burney describes an impromptu concert for a famous castrato, Luini Bonetto, staying at the same inn as him in Brescia. He says:

‘He is a native of Brescia; was welcomed home by a band of music, at the inn, the night of his arrival, and by another the night before his and my departure, consisting of two violins, a mandoline, french horn, trumpet, and violincello; and, though in the dark, they played long concertos, with solo parts for the mandoline. I was surprised at the memory of these performers; in short, it was excellent street music, and such as we are not accustomed to; but ours is not a climate for serenades
. (Thursday, July 26
^th
1770)'
¹

So the tradition of mandolin music in Brescia goes back two centuries before my visits there and a century before Samuel Adelstein's voyage to Italy. And we have evidence, an eyewitness account, that it was of the highest quality. Mandolin concertos played from memory. I wonder which ones they were or if they were concertos that have now been completely lost. I also wonder about the variety of instruments in the ensemble. The idea of two brass instruments consorting with a mandolin seems preposterous. Then, I remember the Renaissance concert I attended in Brescia last year – the programme being a mixture of pieces for brass instruments and pieces for mandolin. Perhaps they can exist alongside each other.

It seems extraordinary to me that an Englishman should travel so far, so long ago, when travel was an even more arduous exercise than it is now, to learn about music in Italy. And that he should visit a city that I have become so familiar with and find there an exceptional performance by a mandolinist is even more remarkable. History repeats itself time and time again: Burney, Adelstein, myself. It is as if I am standing with two mirrors either side of me and, as I look into one, I see my image repeating itself into infinity. Who was there before Burney?

On the motorway heading in the direction of
La Serenissima,
the strains of ‘
A Night in Tunisia
' and other familiar jazzy numbers come from the car speakers. I remember the rehearsal in which we practised these pieces three months ago. Ugo takes his right hand from the wheel and gives me the cover of the new CD. It is entitled ‘
Musica
per un
Momento
', ‘Music for a Moment', and is dedicated to the memory of Lorenzo Bianchi who tragically died prematurely last year. An active member of the Brescia Mandolin and Guitar Orchestra, he was distinguished by being the first student ever at the mandolin course in Padua when it was initiated in the mid-seventies with Giuseppe Anedda as the Maestro.

I think of a photograph I have at home – my own memory of Lorenzo. He was playing the mandola after the rehearsal of the orchestra had finished. He had been interested in the nature and details of my visit. He didn't seem to think that it was so crazy to be travelling such a long distance to find out about mandolin playing. I asked him and some others if they would mind if I took some casual pictures. It was one of my early trips before my formal study at Padua. I nurse my memory for a while, before being jogged back to the moment by the start of ‘
Tramonto
'.

‘
Tramonto
' is the final track and we listen intently in preparation for our performance today at the
saggio
. We listen repeatedly to the same track, mentally rehearsing our playing. It is only mid-morning but I am troubled by the sun. Despite air conditioning in the car and my
occhiali da sole,
I find little protection from the heat. The bleaching light of the sun, unremitting and relentless, scorches my forearm through the window. I place my cotton cardigan over my raw skin to prevent further injury.

I look at the final pages of the CD booklet. It lists members of Lorenzo's family, friends and musical colleagues. I find the names of my mandolin friends. All my friends and acquaintances are here. They have contributed by playing in the recording. I am moved by this expression of love, this fitting way to honour the life of Lorenzo B.

*

‘Click'.

Deborah has taken a picture with my camera of me standing in the corridor behind the auditorium of the
Conservatorio
. The moment is captured: the black understated jacket and trousers, me playing a few notes, in a relaxed posture. We are well rehearsed and now we are looking forward to our turn in the concert. I want some more tangible evidence of my playing in Italy, to nudge my memory in years to come. My enthusiasm takes me outside into the courtyard, where the Maestro is smoking and talking to three of the male students. I want to take a group picture but Deborah is reluctant. With some difficulty, I persuade her to overcome her shyness and join the others.

‘Click'.

Hopefully, I have distilled the essence of another moment.

We hover near our open mandolin cases, cherishing and comparing our instruments as parents do their children. Emanuele, the youngest pupil, is playing a solo with piano accompaniment in the concert. He is quite chatty and wants to try out the English he has been studying at school.

From stillness, our music begins. Notes drift here and there, soft and fine, like gossamer threads floating in a gentle breeze. Softly, neatly, smoothly, passionately, we create a seductive pink and golden glow. The sun is set. The light fades. Our music fades. The notes become stillness once again.

*

We celebrate the success of the concert with supper at a local
pizzeria
. Being part of this group of mandolin students feels like being part of a family. There is a feeling of warmth between us; everyone looks after each other, a bond we share because of our commitment to a tiny pear-shaped instrument. I love this sense of belonging. I love being part of this family.

I have a pizza with
melanzane
, aubergines, which I am partial to, but I notice that Ugo chooses a pizza topped with
rucola
and raw tomatoes. When the pizza arrives, it is swamped by a huge mound of salad and Ugo asks for the
condimenti
and proceeds to dress his salad with olive oil and salt. I decide I will try this variety the next time I have an opportunity. I also notice that everyone seems to drink beer with pizza in Italy. I imagined that people would enjoy a good glass of local wine with their pizzas, but time and time again, I see people imbibing Italian beer instead of
vino locale
. I try the beer and find that, strangely, it does seem to have an affinity with pizza.

“Tonight I will stay in Padua in a hotel and tomorrow I fly home from Venice,” I tell someone.

Another question is asked.

“I arrived yesterday at Milan and I stayed last night as a guest of the Maestro's family in Brescia,” I continue. “Midweek. Two nights. Arrival at one destination, departure from another. Yes, it sounds glamorous and expensive, but I saved coupons for a whole year from my supermarket, and then exchanged them for this special ticket. It is amazing what a person will do for the love of our instrument, for the love of music.”