The Mandolin Lesson (24 page)

Although the academic year has drawn to a close, I find myself unexpectedly back at the
Conservatorio
in the second week of June to take an exam. The rules have changed and I am required, along with three other mandolin students, to be successful in an examination in order to pass into the next year of study. It is probably only a formality, but I am unnerved by yet another test, especially when I thought there would be no more assessments until the final diploma.

The Maestro confirms that I should present the first two movements of the G minor partita by Sauli. I love these movements and the whole work they come from and I play the piece fairly well in the lesson. However, I am suspicious. It all seems too straightforward and simple. I start to fret about what exactly the examiners will be listening for.

The day is hot and interminably long. We are unable to escape to take any substantial refreshment because we are on standby for the exam. We are unable to find out an exact time for the exam and we receive a number of vague and conflicting messages. Eventually, we are asked to wait downstairs in the corridor leading towards the examination room. We distract ourselves by chatting and joking, but I notice that my head is swimming. It must be the heat and lack of food, combined with a little pre-performance stress.

When it is my turn to enter the examination room, I feel strange and weak. I sense the impatience of the examiners. I had thought there would be some conversation as in other examinations, but they are anxious for me to start. I adjust the height of the music stand and lightly touch the strings to re-check tuning. I had already tuned carefully before entering. To my horror, my feet do not touch the floor. I have been given a piano stall to sit on instead of a chair, but I do not feel able to adjust it. Under the beady eyes of the examiners, I start the music and immediately regret doing so.

Without proper contact between my feet and the floor, I am uncomfortable and unable to support the mandolin adequately. Worse still, I cannot establish a secure sense of pulse. I am unbalanced and insecure and the music reflects this. It is clumsy and awkward. I tense up and hit the strings too hard, which results in one of the A-strings becoming flat and making everything sound even more dreadful. I can't think of a word to say in Italian when the music is finished. My mind is blank and confused.

*

After a shower back at the hotel, my body feels a little more comfortable but my mind is still uneasy. The silence of the room is punctured by the squeal of the phone. There is someone to see me in the foyer.

It is Gianluigi. The Maestro is in the car outside and we are about to depart for a rehearsal of Vivaldi's
Juditha Trumphans
in Venice. I had been very much looking forward to this opportunity. I have not heard this oratorio before and tonight there is a rehearsal for a concert to be given by
I Solisti Veneti
in the
Basilica di San Marco
. The Maestro is playing the mandolin accompaniment to the aria ‘
Transit
aetas
': ‘Life passes'. Gianluigi and I are really just hangers-on.

In the car, the Maestro informs me that I passed the exam and can continue into the seventh year. However, my mark was not that good and he thinks I should delay taking the final diploma. I can take it whenever I am ready as an external student. I sense he is perplexed that I play well sometimes and not others. I need time to let this all sink in. I should feel relieved, but at the moment I feel disappointed.

On the bridge to Venice, we park the car and change to a bus. At the
Piazzale Roma,
we proceed on foot. The Maestro races ahead, sure of the well-worn route to the
Piazza San Marco
. Strangely Gianluigi is uncertain, as this is his first time in Venice. I, on the other hand, have already rehearsed this walk with my husband. Gianluigi and I follow the Maestro like two young ducks following their mother. We are always a few paces behind, but as we reach each corner I always remember the way we should go, left or right, or straight ahead. I chat to Gianluigi, telling him the things I remember from my last visit and pointing out things of interest. How odd: here I am, an Englishwoman, giving a young Italian man a guided tour of Venice.

As we walk through the Campo S. Margherita, I long to linger. The warm evening air, drenched in golden light, is laced with cooking smells mingling with the fragrance of summer flowers. I am so hungry and I think how lovely it would be to stop for supper and a glass of wine, to sit at one of those outdoor tables, but no, the Maestro continues on tirelessly.

In the Basilica, Gianluigi and I find a kind of natural bench, made from stone jutting out of the posterior wall. We sit and watch what is happening. I feel the cold, damp Venetian stone against my back and I gaze up at the ceiling. It is quite incredible. The beautiful mosaic pictures with golden embellishment are illuminated exquisitely by powerful lights, which are being adjusted in rehearsal for a television recording of the concert. The lights are positioned on towers of scaffolding. There are no chairs and no pews in the space of this Holy place. There are no tourists, just an orchestra and some singers going through their paces at the front. It is absolutely extraordinary. All the times I have previously visited the Basilica, it has been crowded and dark and hurried. Now, I have a precious gift: light, space and time to view the mosaics in the cupolas, and all this accompanied by the most marvellous music. My attention is drawn from the plumage of an angel to the theorbo. I adore the deep purr of the strings.

Outside, in a brief break, there is still no talk of food, but I am able to buy a soft drink. I am astonished to see my companions choosing a sloppy
granita
of garish fluorescent green colour.

At about ten o'clock, while we are still waiting for the magical mandolin moment, Ugo advises us that the rehearsal is badly behind schedule and that he thinks we should make our way to Venice station. Gianluigi has the overnight train to Naples to catch and I must return to Padua by train. We are both sad not to have heard the mandolin, but we cannot risk being stranded in the watery city.

Again, Gianluigi is uncertain, but I manage to steer us to the correct stop for the number one
vaporetto
. We buy the tickets and we are soon aboard the
Accelerato,
which, despite its name, chugs deliberately along the Grand Canal. Sluggishly, we move past the tapestry of
palazzi
with their intricate lace balconies and embroidered windows, and facades of richly coloured threads – some gilded and some faded.

At the station the ticket office is closed, but Gianluigi is feeling more at home. He takes me to what looks like a cupboard full of cleaning materials, where an assistant sells me a small green cardboard ticket. It doesn't mention Padua, it just records the distance in kilometres, but Gianluigi says it is normal for a ticket out of hours. Then he takes me to a local bar, where we satisfy our hunger with toasted cheese and ham sandwiches. Finally he insists on accompanying me all the way onto the platform, making sure that I get the correct train and that I find a suitable carriage with other people. I am touched by his gentlemanly concern.

I have a five-minute walk from Padua station and I walk smartly through the groups of girls working the streets. Curiously, I feel no sense of unease. They are just doing what they do. I neither judge them nor fear them. I just walk safely to my hotel.

Italy comes to England in July in the shape of Sergio Zigiotti.

Sergio has completed the mandolin course, but is still studying at university to finish his degree. He needs to spend a few weeks in London perfecting his English for an exam he must pass, in order to conclude his work for the degree.

The two weeks of Sergio's stay are an extremely happy period, in which life takes on yet another different rhythm. Sergio attends a language course in the mornings and some afternoons I travel on the tube to meet him and we spend the rest of the day together at the British Library looking at old printed music. One day, we are able to make photocopies of duets and other music by Antoine Riggieri as it is already on microfilm. We are extremely pleased with our find. On the train home, Sergio points to an article in someone else's
Evening Standard
. The young man reading, noting my interest, gives me the paper as he leaves and I read a feature about an author called Louis de Bernières who has written a novel entitled
Captain Corelli's Mandolin
.

On the days that I stay at home, I am usually teaching the violin or attending to various chores. At about six o'clock, when Sergio arrives home or we arrive together, we ritualistically make a cup of coffee and sit in the garden for a while and chat about music. The weather is unusually and consistently good at present. Then, I prepare supper. Sergio seems to know nothing about cooking, so I always send him away to relax. This works perfectly, because I am happy to be left with my thoughts and preparation while Sergio retreats to the sanctuary of my music room. Then as I prepare the vegetables, freshly picked courgettes or peas, to go in a risotto or a sauce for pasta, I am serenaded by the most beautiful music. Sometimes, it is the sound of my new Baroque mandolin with which Sergio is very much enamoured. It is such a joy to hear someone else playing the mandolin in my home, to hear the cascade of different patterns filtering down to the kitchen. I am utterly enchanted.

At supper, my young Italian friend is appreciative of my food and eats up every morsel, but he is unconvinced that it is truly Italian. It is different food from the food that his mother cooks. I am unconcerned because cooking changes so much from region to region and even from family to family. I know that some of my recipes are interpretations. For example, I often use more than one vegetable in a risotto and although I might use traditional risotto rice,
arborio
,
carnaroli
or
vialone nano
, on occasions I am also frequently prone to using Italian brown rice for reasons of health. Much discussion on culinary matters ensues each evening. One day, Sergio announces that my food is truly delicious, but not, in his opinion, strictly Italian. He concludes, with a twinkle in his eye, that it is
‘la cucina di
Frances', which ends the discussion and I take as a huge compliment.

At the end of each meal, Sergio gets up without fail to make the coffee. He excels at making an espresso. My husband then clears away the table and washes up, whilst Sergio and I withdraw to the music room for an hour or two of playing. Every evening is brought to a close in this way. We play duets a great deal and Sergio helps me enormously with my playing, giving me advice and encouragement. Sergio also trained initially as a violinist and he has brought Bartók's violin duets along for sight-reading, which really tests me out. Otherwise, we spend all our time playing original music for mandolin.

Sergio is so grateful for the hospitality I have afforded him, but I feel it is little recompense for the way in which he has so greatly enriched my life through our mutual study of music.

It is late September and I find myself driving in the dark, down a tree-lined drive in search of a Baroque mandolin.

The mandolin is going to be played by a friend of mine, Alison Stephens. Like my friend Sue, she studied at Trinity College of Music and sometimes all three of us play together at the Opera House.

I have brought my mother to the concert at Finchcocks, an early Georgian manor set in unspoilt Kent countryside. The manor is home to a remarkable private collection of historic keyboard instruments that are displayed and demonstrated on specific open days.

Living some distance from my parents, I don't often get the chance to take my mother out to a concert. However, Finchcocks is reasonably local to my parents' home and is a convenient location for an outing. Tonight is a special occasion. So often I have wanted to share my music with my mother and it hasn't been possible. Although this isn't my concert, it is very close. It is my friend playing and it is exactly the kind of mandolin music that I play.

When Alison joins the ensemble,
Fiori Musicali
, to play the Vivaldi mandolin concerto, I am surprised to see my mandolin's twin. Alison is using an original 1764 Vinaccia. She is extremely fortunate to own such an instrument. They are difficult to find and usually fragile, requiring careful restoration. I am struck by how my own modern copy of a Vinaccia appears to have the same design and similar markings to the one my friend is playing.

In the interval, I make contact with my friend and discover that her mother is also here for the concert. Our two mothers make friends whilst we discuss mandolins. Upstairs, some of the rooms containing instruments are open for inspection and whilst Alison retreats to prepare herself for the second half, I accompany the mothers on a wander round.

In the second half, we hear the Paisiello mandolin concerto. It is stunningly beautiful and my mother and I are both very much taken by it.

*

Just a week after the Baroque mandolin concert, I am playing with Alison and Sue in
Romeo and Juliet
for the Royal Ballet. We are playing at the Apollo, Hammersmith since work on the modernisation of the Opera House has now started.

Everything is strange and cramped at the Apollo. All around the side and back of the theatre are temporary buildings to house costumes, toilets and so on. After the interval, as I return up some concrete stairs backstage with my mandolin in hand, I come face to face with two female ballerinas wearing the most flamboyant make-up and provocative costumes. They smile and I allow them to pass by, carefully protecting my instrument with my right arm. All at once I am back in Padua returning from Venice, walking from the station to my hotel.

*

Another rhythm, another pattern, is initiated in the autumn – one that I hadn't anticipated. My son's organ teacher has moved to a new post and in order for my son to continue his studies with the same teacher, I find myself accompanying him to a new place of worship. On Thursday afternoons, having rearranged my own teaching to another day, I travel by tube to collect my son from his boarding school. We then travel together on the underground, across London, to St James's Park and take the short walk to the
other
cathedral. When I walk over the threshold of Westminster Cathedral, the Roman Catholic cathedral, I feel at once as if I am walking into a church in Italy. It is an emotional moment.

There is holy water to bless oneself with, just as I do with Giovanna, and there is a plethora of candles to light. There are side chapels, one with exotic mosaics, and there is a lady who sits quietly waiting for enquiries and usually a nun to welcome people. A man pushes a long broom handle, polishing the floor. Everyone moves in silence or with hushed whispers. There is an atmosphere of stillness and respect. People come here to pray, to worship and the tourists mingle inconspicuously. There is no charge to enter, although there is a small admission fee for the lift in the tower.

Every week I offer prayers and light candles, and some weeks, after a trip to a nearby bookshop, I return to strands of plaintive organ notes wafting like incense, only to find that it is
my
son who is playing. I feel a great sense of joy.

*

I do not return to Italy until November and I am happy to be able to stay once again with Giovanna. She has had a lodger, a girl sharing her flat to help with the expenses, who has now departed.

Everything continues much as before: Brescia, Bologna, Cervinia for skiing with a train ride from the west side of Milan to Padua and two nights at my usual hotel, Bologna again. I visit Bologna three times in the spring.

*

I am exhausted. It is hard to keep the pace up. Travelling. Practising. Attending lessons. Teaching my own pupils. Performing. Looking after my family and coping with endless chores. And this isn't the whole list of activities to juggle. Sadly, I have long since stopped going to Italian lessons. I decided that I have enough practice whilst I am in Italy. In any case, the language is a matter of confidence. If I think I can do it, I can. When I tell myself
I can't, I haven't practised enough, I will forget everything I have ever studied
and so on, then I am tongue-tied. When I give myself a mental pep talk, when I say to myself
you will have the words you want just as you require them, they will come to you
, then the Italian words and expressions complete with hand signals just flow like lava from an erupting volcano.

And so it should be with my playing in the Italian manner, but somehow that is more elusive.

I decide not to worry about the exam – the final diploma – any more. I have to accept that, for whatever reason, it is just too much pressure, too much stress. I decide that I just have to get through the final year and that I have to try to enjoy it as much as possible. I am not one to give up easily and it seems to me that commitment, attending the full length of the course, is the essential thing.

What I actually learn and take away with me is also important, not the piece of paper, the certificate that I had hoped for to confirm that I had been through this course and met the required standard of accomplishment. Whether I get the piece of paper or not, I will still be judged by what I accomplish in giving good concerts and by passing on my knowledge to others through teaching.

In fact, I didn't begin the course with the idea of obtaining another qualification. I had only wanted to improve my playing. The qualification is a thing to have, a material possession. I have quite a few of them already. The playing, the ability to express oneself, the creativity to arrange something, in this case notes or sounds, beautifully and in a pleasing manner, is something far more ephemeral. It is something spiritual.

Nevertheless, I am niggled that some lessons are better than others; that I seem to be getting more uncertain about my playing when I am under the spotlight. When I give concerts in England or when I play in relaxed circumstances with my Italian friends, I am fine. But when I feel I am being analysed in the lesson, it touches a raw nerve and I am mystified by it. I thought I had done so much to rearrange my thinking, to process my past, to heal old wounds. What is it that so disturbs me?

*

Sometimes, I am accompanied to the lessons by a ghost. I never acknowledge her but I feel her presence.

I have the impression that she is a teenager at first, but then I realise that she is much younger. She misses a lot of school because she is ill. She only attends occasionally. The illness makes her feel weak, her chest is often sore and wheezy, and sometimes it is difficult to breathe. When she returns to school, her illness, her weakness, seems synonymous with stupidity. She is slow and often criticised by her teachers. When she returns, those she thinks are friends have made new friends. Everything is confusing. Everyone knows about new things that have been explained whilst she was away. She feels as if she is on the outside looking in.

Misunderstandings occur. She feels powerless, unable to express herself. She feels worthless and unattractive, lonely and sad.

She increasingly bothers me, even though she doesn't exist any more. I don't understand why, but a casual remark, a look, a circumstance can set off vibrations and I feel her feelings again.
But she doesn't exist any more
. I am not the same person. I have come a long way. I have taught so many children to play the violin and I have done so with a sense of humanity that has healed those painful memories.

I need to go within and look deeper. Healing doesn't always get dealt with in one treatment. Sometimes further work, further refinement is needed. However, my existence is hectic and I am irritated by my weakness. I don't give the matter sufficient attention. I respond by throwing myself further into my work. I continually contort myself trying to arrange the notes in this way or that way, always trying to find the perfect arrangement in order to please. The harder I try, the further I get away from succeeding.

*

Sometimes, I need the Maestro to be more appreciative than analytical. Sometimes, I feel as if I know nothing. I know this is about me and not about him. Then, if I acknowledge that it is not true about myself and that the truth is that I do know something, I blame myself instead for creating the situation in the lesson where I displayed my lack. I blame myself for not focusing my thoughts in a positive way sufficiently to bring about the outcome I desire. What I desire is that the Maestro will be pleased with my playing and in turn pleased with me. At all costs, without even being conscious of it, I blame myself instead of accepting the situation. I am so unkind to myself that it is impossible to move on.

Constantly, I am searching for answers. Constantly, I am reading, thinking, praying and meditating.

In my final year, everything around me is so beautiful and I want to enjoy it, yet it is tarnished by my inner turmoil. I cannot believe that I am having this struggle. I am supposed to be a professional. I have so many well-received performances to my credit. I have obtained so many academic objectives in the past. I had thought that the achievement of my Master's degree had finally vindicated the humiliation and healed the deep hurt of failing my eleven-plus exam. I had forgotten all the illness and missed schooling that preceded it. The structure of tuition in the
Conservatorio
is quite old-fashioned, just like my early school days. It seems to have set this old pattern off again, this pattern of feeling unworthy and not good enough. I forget to consider that what I am doing is special and remarkable. I am the first foreign student, the first English student, to study mandolin at the
Conservatorio
in Padua. It really doesn't matter if I am the worst student in the world, since what I am doing is unique. It is quite an achievement in itself. It is something worthy of celebration.

It suddenly occurs to me that when my closest friends used to say that it was nice to see me at church, my reaction was connected to this old wound. I always, if not openly, felt offended by their remarks. I never thought that they were pleased to see me. Instead, I assumed that they were criticising me for my frequent absence. The internal monologue would say,
They just don't understand the difficulties of my life
.
They don't realise that I often attend church in Italy when I am not here and sometimes I am also at the cathedral for my son.
In reality, in every return to church after every absence, I was reliving my return to school after each illness. I felt disapproved of.

And in Italy, I have the same problem of continuity and the same fear of disapproval. I just drop in once a month whilst everyone else is going at least once a week to the mandolin class. Now Kim from Korea is taking the class. He has a wife and child and has taken a two-year sabbatical from his job and has brought his family to live in Milan so that he can attend the class each week. Miki from Japan lives in Brescia during the academic year and is also able to attend weekly. Two Croatians also visit the
Conservatorio
to explore the possibility of joining the class. They are hoping to commute from Croatia on the train. The class has become quite international.

The Maestro is a good teacher. He is a consummate musician. His playing is beautiful and expressive, but also filled with energy and excitement. But his true gift, his genius, and perhaps this is why I am somewhere deep down so in awe of him, is that he truly understands how the playing of his instrument works. He has an intimate and profound knowledge of its technique, which he explains to his students with eloquence and clarity. He tells me that he only really understood some of the finer points when he began teaching and had to communicate his skills to others. I have always thought that the process of teaching helps the teacher to better absorb the knowledge he or she is trying to impart. I remember this being true for me with the violin and perhaps now this is what I need with the mandolin to consolidate my playing of it.

*

One Sunday morning in England, I am at church. Near the beginning of the service, the minister says some words which are described as the summary of the law. Basically, these are the two commandments given by Jesus.

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength,” the booming voice of the minister declares emphatically.

How often have I heard these same words repeated?

He continues with the second commandment, “Love your neighbour as yourself.”

Something strange happens. These familiar words startle me. It is as if I am hearing them for the first time. They seem to jump out of the text emboldened. They seem illuminated, highlighted in fluorescent rainbow colours in my mind.

A thought comes into my head.
But what if you don't love yourself? What if you don't know how to love yourself?

The people around me blur and the continuing words of the service fade into a low background mumble. Why hadn't I seen these words in this way before?