The Mandolin Lesson (25 page)

In a moment of perception, I realise that you cannot love other people effectively if you do not first love yourself. If you are unkind to yourself, if you don't forgive yourself easily, if you don't accept yourself just as you are, if you don't appreciate and value yourself one hundred per cent, then you will not know how to, let alone be able to, achieve the very high ideal of loving unconditionally.

I had always understood that love meant putting other people's needs before your own. Now, I realise that it is impossible to put other people's need before your own until you have first seen to your own needs. It is a paradox. Love is a paradox.

I am on the number ninety-four bus from Zola Predosa going into central Bologna. It is a journey I have done many times. It is the journey that takes me within walking distance of the train station.

The elderly gentleman next to me asks me about my instrument. I explain that it is a mandolin and we have a little chat. He seems very friendly and genuinely interested. Eventually, to satisfy his curiosity, I have to explain that I am not really living locally and that I am just staying with my friend. I had thought that it was all a bit complicated telling him that I am travelling to another city for my mandolin lesson and on top of that I don't even live here permanently. I only volunteer the information when it becomes absolutely necessary.

The man falls silent and thoughtful and I think we have finished our conversation.

“Your Queen Elizabeth played the lute,” he suddenly continues, “not the present Queen, but Elizabeth I.”

I am taken aback and have to agree. Our conversation moves in a new direction. Whilst I am having an in-depth discussion on Renaissance music and the connection between the lute and the mandolin, I notice, rather uncomfortably, that the bus takes a wrong turning. It is going completely the wrong way. I remember another bus ride a long time ago, almost twenty years ago. It was during my first ever visit to Italy.

*

Cento cinquantadue
: 152.

I had found the correct bus stop amongst the myriad of bus stops near the central station in Rome. It was the departure point for the number 152 bus:
il numero cento cinquantadue
, which was to take me to the outskirts of the city in order to collect the mandolin I had commissioned. I clutched my instructions: a detailed hand-drawn map, together with notes on Italian public transport. I had purchased the bus tickets in advance and I held a large spray of flowers, which I had bought that morning in the market of the
Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II
. The flowers, intended for the mandolin-maker's wife as a token gesture of gratitude, were already beginning to feel cumbersome. The huge, happy
Signora
at the flower stall had, with customary Italian charm and generosity, insisted on arranging together roses, carnations, lilies and other flowers. Instead of a modest posy, I had accepted a lavish floral display beneath cellophane and curly satin ribbons that needed to be cradled in upturned arms like a small sleeping child.

The bus arrived and I mounted at the rear, placing a ticket in the clipping machine. Then, I found a free seat by the window. I was almost smothered by the flowers and thought how fortunate it was that I had found a single seat. I was able to rest the flowers against the window without causing anyone else discomfort and it was good to be sitting down with such a weight to carry.

It was just after ten and the April sun was beginning to get hot. I had no idea of the length of the bus journey, other than I must get off the bus when it reached its destination. I would know this because the bus would make a U-turn and come to a rest facing the direction in which it was originally travelling.

In the meantime, I had decided to enjoy the journey, taking in everyday Italian life as I passed it by. The bus was bumpy and uncomfortable as it bounced over cobblestones: the seats were made of moulded plastic without upholstery and the long single deck bus seemed devoid of suspension. As I moved from the tourist centre into the suburbs, I became aware of the adrenaline racing around my body. I was excited by the reality of achieving a long cherished ambition to visit the eternal city, and also by the thought of meeting the master luthier, Pasquale Pecoraro, who had agreed to construct a concert mandolin for me. At the same time, I was beginning to feel a little isolated and anxious. I glanced at my watch, half past ten. At the
Colloseo,
I had inquired in Italian about the opening times. The attendant replied in perfect English. Obviously, he had detected my English accent.

“
Questa fermata è per
…?”

The question was repeated and although I didn't catch the final word, the name of the place, I realised that I was being asked if this was the correct bus stop for a particular destination. At once, my fears were confirmed and panic surfaced for a moment. It was like the emerald lizard I had seen the day before at the
Villa Borghese
; suddenly you notice it and then it is gone. I collected myself and with English coolness explained that I was a foreigner and didn't know.

Outside the bus, buildings of sand, apricot, rose and ash moved by, their peeling walls blistered by sunlight. Modern blocks of flats interspersed with the older buildings, each dwelling complete with its own balcony decorated prolifically with herbs and pot plants. All the windows were protected from sunlight by the characteristic green or brown shutters or rolled canvas blinds. The women congregated together in small groups; the younger women in yellows, blues and other bright colours with matching flat shoes; the older women in black garments and carrying heavy shopping bags.

Occasionally, the bus stopped close enough to see inside a shop. Black olives, cold meats, cheeses,
tortellini
and other filled pasta were displayed on red and white chequered cloths behind the glass. Bottles of local wine stood in the background. Further on, there were shoes and bags in colours and styles that looked as if they had spilled out of the pages of
Vogue
.

Once again, I felt excited. I felt rapturous that I would soon possess an instrument of superior craftsmanship. I would soon meet the man who could construct the Stradivari of the mandolin world. I felt like an intrepid explorer or a pioneering television reporter; I was joyous and strong. My appointment was for eleven o'clock and the bus had made the expected U-turn. It had come to a stop facing the direction from which it came. I got off the bus.

I began to walk in the direction that the bus had originally taken. The road was wide and straight, stretching miles into the distance. On both sides of the road, there were blocks of flats. In the distance, there were many more buildings. One of these buildings was crowned with a dome that appeared glass-like and gleaming in the sun: a modern church or a futuristic public building perhaps. The map indicated that I would pass a small chapel on my left and after this I would reach a T-junction at which I must turn left. A little way further and I would notice a supermarket. By walking through the car park of the supermarket, I would arrive at the block of flats where
Signore
Pecoraro lived.

Quite straightforward
, I thought as I passed a number of shops. I perceived a gathering of large, threatening local men who were taking their morning coffee at a café. Their Mafioso appearance made them seem unapproachable.

In a few moments, I had reached the T-junction and was surprised to discover that although a railway line travelled parallel with the road that ran at right angles, the road along which I had been walking continued. I was also aware that I hadn't passed the important landmark, the
cappella
or chapel. I wasn't sure at first what to do. I decided to err on the side of caution and follow the map exactly. I must find the
cappella
first before turning left and I felt sure it could only be a little way.

I passed fields, which were amazingly green and intended, I thought, for the Italian passion of football. The road was dusty and the sun hot. It was now half past eleven and I felt uncomfortable: already I was late for my appointment and the flowers were heavy to carry in the heat; I felt I should have passed the
cappella
by now. I approached a young lady with a small boy and asked her the way to the address. The lady eventually understood the request, but didn't know the answer. I continued to walk on. There were some more shops ahead and perhaps someone there would know. I had walked out of one district and into another. I had left behind one group of buildings and now approached another group, which included the beautiful glass dome. The road sign said
Napoli
straight ahead. I was consumed with panic; the emerald lizard gleamed in the sunlight. No one knew the whereabouts of
Via Francesco Secondo
. I was tired of approaching strangers and having difficulty with communication; no one expected to converse with foreigners in the suburbs.

Suddenly, I saw a bus station in front of me. I took
Signore
Pecoraro's letter from my pocket and showed the address once more, this time to a group of bus drivers. One of the men smiled at me and explained that I required the
cento cinquantadue
.
Surely there must be some mistake
, I thought. But no, the bus driver insisted that I must take a bus from across the road as far as the
piazza
-something – a name I didn't catch – where I must change and take the 152 bus that I had already taken earlier in the day.

The bus came and I travelled to the
piazza
– whose name I hadn't grasped – where I once again mounted the 152 bus and retraced part of my earlier journey. Again, the bus made a U-turn and halted. I descended from the bus and walked past the café where the Mafioso men were still drinking coffee. (The emerald lizard flashed its tail.) I had no alternative but to approach them. Trembling, I showed them the letter. They smiled sympathetically and one of the men disappeared and returned with a map of the area. It was straight ahead and left in front of the railway line. Stunned by their kindness and generosity, I continued along my former route, this time turning left at the crossroads. After some minutes, I saw the supermarket and its car park.

Signore
Pecoraro pointed to my letter and laughed. He had expected me an hour earlier: perhaps I would like to stay for lunch? I apologised and tried to explain what had happened, but I couldn't find the vocabulary. I was bursting with emotions I was excited to meet the master luthier and to see my beautiful new instrument and yet frustrated by my inability to communicate. I hoped that I hadn't seemed rude.

*

I smile to myself. We are in a supermarket car park. The bus has come to a halt. The bus driver is having an altercation with a driver who has carelessly parked a small fiat and impedes the progress of the bus. The car driver is confused to see a bus in the supermarket car park. He doesn't know that the bus is on a detour. The passengers on the bus are also confused. They don't know what is happening and they chat excitedly amongst themselves.

*

In the October of the following year, I arranged a second trip to the mandolin-maker in order to collect another instrument for a colleague. I sat on the
cento cinquantadue
and felt tranquil and triumphant; this time, I knew exactly where I was going. Everything was in order: the flowers for
Signore
Pecoraro's wife, the bus tickets purchased in advance, and the hand-drawn map. When the bus arrived at its destination, it made the customary U-turn, but incredulously I saw a wonderful Roman viaduct spanning out in front of the bus. The destination was somewhere completely different to that which I had travelled to in the same bus the previous year. Indignant, I told the bus driver that last year when the bus had reached its journey's end, there had been no viaduct. It was useless. The bus driver didn't understand. No one seemed to understand or know the whereabouts of the address I showed them. I couldn't believe it was happening to me again. (The green lizard blinked.)

In desperation, I asked where the supermarket was. There was an immediate response of understanding. It was further along the road continuing in the direction that the bus originally travelled, and left at the T-junction. As I approached the T-junction, I saw a small chapel on my left.
Of course
, I thought,
this is exactly like the hand-drawn map.

Signore
Pecoraro laughed. Eighteen months earlier, the bus had been diverted for a few weeks whilst traffic works were being carried out. I laughed with the master luthier and noticed the decoration on the mandolin; for a moment, I thought it was a mother-of-pearl lizard, but then I realised it was something quite different. Although it looked like a reptile, it was in fact a creature of mythology; a winged monster, a fiery dragon.

*

It is strange how patterns repeat themselves. It is strange how different I feel now. No longer am I afraid of being abandoned. Things still happen from time to time which test me out, but I feel an increasing sense of calm. And I even find myself helping other people in difficulties.

The old gentleman bids me goodbye and wishes me good luck as he exits the bus. I think how privileged I am to have met Pecoraro before he died. The fountain at the end of
Via Marconi
is enlarging through the front window of the bus. I too must dismount at the next bus stop and walk briskly towards Bologna station.

Sitting in my music room, I am playing Vivaldi. It is in my beloved G minor, a key, a colour in sounds, which resonates deep within me. I am engrossed in the beautiful patterns, the sequences, and also by the clarity of harmonic progression, intrinsically implied in the melody. Even though I am alone, the music is potent: it is not necessary to be with the other musicians required by the piece to feel its strength.

The piece is comfortable; all the notes are under my fingers. The music stills me; it is like a meditation.

Outside in the garden, a blackbird sings to his heart's content. He sings lustily, raucously, sweetly. It doesn't matter how loud he sings, what he sings or how he sings. He just sings. He is not worried by what I think about his singing, or by what anyone else thinks about his singing. And he is certainly not worried about disturbing people. It is of no concern to him. To be a blackbird, he has to sing. He has to sing to be. He has to sing to his heart's content. He has to sing joyously.

It is a paradox. Love is a paradox
.

I have struggled with this for a long time: the idea that enjoying my music, giving time to my music might in fact be self-indulgent; a selfish act, a bad thing. For so long, I have known in my heart that this is what I must do. And yet, I have heard conflicting voices: voices that say I should put other people's need before my own. Piece by piece, I discover that it is alright to be who I am and that we each have different ways of expressing love.

I don't need to feel guilty any longer for enjoying myself when I play. In fact, if I don't enjoy myself, then no one else does. If I play the notes with fear, fear that they will not be liked, that they will not be good enough, then they will sound dreadful and no one will want to hear them.

If I desire approval instead of thinking that the notes are already beautiful, then I am also lost in fear. The notes, if it is a good composition, will be beautiful. Whether the listener discerns this or not is not my concern. I know they are beautiful and all I have to do is deliver them confidently without fear.

If I desire approval for myself, then the audience is the wrong place to look for it. Those who listen are fickle and praise is transitory. The only approval I need is my own approval, approval of myself.

I know I still have to deal with all the other doubts that come to test me from time to time. Thoughts like,
music is not a real job
. Thoughts like,
I am a late starter and in some way deficient, a cheat, a fraud
. When someone starts at an early age and quickly acquires sufficient skill to play professionally, no one says this. No one says they haven't studied for a great period of time. Instead, they say that because they are young and have studied only for a short period of time, they are gifted. It is no less remarkable being older and studying for a short period of time with excellent results.

My whole life has changed during the last four years in ways that I couldn't have foreseen at the outset. I have increased in self-confidence in my everyday life: I feel as if I could take on any challenge. I have also developed a deeper faith in humanity: a belief in a safe compassionate world. I am a lot more positive and I have learnt to appreciate and enjoy life instead of seeing it as one long struggle. And all this is in addition to improving my skills as a musician and gaining an insight into another culture, another way of thinking.

However, I still have one final hurdle. I cannot return to Italy until I know that I can play for the Maestro without fear.

On one of my frequent book shopping expeditions, I found a copy of
The
Prophet
by Kahlil Gibran. It is a much-quoted book and amongst its gentle wisdom there is a particular line, which encapsulates my thinking.

Gibran writes:
‘Work
is love made visible
.'

In other words, we have to do everything with love. Every note must be crafted with love, with joy, with care.

All day, every day throughout June, I play the music of Vivaldi. I am not playing the mandolin concertos, rather the violin repertoire, which is also suitable for my instrument. I am trying to get back to the essence that I have somehow lost. I have been so concerned with style and technique that my vision has been obscured. I need to remember how good it feels to play music. I need to feel the pulse of the music within my own body. I need to feels its energy, its life. I need to be absorbed with it and to be happy creating it. I need to forget about playing things in a certain way and fretting about how it will be judged. I need to play music simply, for my own enjoyment, and I need to enjoy it.

It was so easy to see it as work and to forget its joy. It was so easy to forget that the idea is to create and to live. Now, I have to rearrange my thoughts. Now, I have to remember that it is easy to feel the joy, the creativity and the life in music.

It is easy
.