The Mandolin Lesson (26 page)

Maria Cleofe Miotti, my friend Ette, makes a visit to England in July. She and her husband stay with my family for a week's holiday. During the week, we give a concert of Italian music for two mandolins at my church. We play sonatas by Barbella, Scarlatti, Gervasio and others, all with the accompaniment of harpsichord and cello. I am relaxed and happy and we both enjoy our music-making. The concert is a great success and a significant moment in my work of bringing unknown Italian repertoire to England.

*

Somehow, the
Conservatorio
had precipitated a crisis of confidence within me, at the same time as being the catalyst for my evolution as a mandolinist and as a human being.

People are endlessly fascinated by artists, including those who are musicians, because they are involved in the creative process and in doing so they touch upon divinity. But creativity isn't just about performing music, painting pictures or even writing a book. Creativity is not the prerogative of artists. Creativity is available to each one of us in each moment: we can choose to be happy or we can choose to be sad. In each moment, we are free to choose our reality. We can choose love or we can choose fear. I have decided to choose love.

*

I arrive at Venice airport one Saturday afternoon in spring with just over two hours before the concert at the
Conservatorio
. I know it will be a miracle if I arrive in time. I have managed to keep my overnight bag with me as hand luggage in addition to the mandolin. This is a good start as it allows me to walk through passport control and straight out of the airport, although passport control is very slow today.

Before leaving, I find the
biglietteria
and ask if there is a direct bus to Padua. I haven't tried this route before but I have a feeling that it is possible. For a moment I feel unsure, but then the official says that it is about to leave in five minutes. The ticket costs just 6,000 lire and the bus stop is outside the door and 200 metres to the right. I find it easily.

The bus is a joy. Firstly, it is almost empty. Secondly, it takes me on a detour to
Piazza Roma
, the entrance to Venice, which means that I have a wonderful view of
Venezia
, entering across the rail and road-bridge that joins the islands to the mainland. The sea is exactly as I remember, turquoise, beautiful turquoise, contrasting with shot grey clouds. On one side of the bridge, against the backdrop of the industrial area, young men practise windsurfing. On the other side, other young men are engaged in a more traditional pursuit: learning the skill of the gondolier. I see several boats, each with three gondoliers silhouetted against the sea.

Eventually, the bus delivers me, almost door to door from the airport to the
Conservatorio
, in approximately an hour. I am in plenty of time for the concert. If I had taken the bus to Mestre station and then taken the train to Padua, my usual plan, the journey could have taken hours. It is a matter of missing connections and there is also a long walk from the station to the
Conservatorio
.

As I walk down the little side street to the
Conservatorio,
a voice calls my name. I look up and it is Ugo's wife, Marina. It is a lovely welcome. Then, as we go inside talking together, I begin to meet other friends. One by one, they come up to me, kiss me on both cheeks, hug me and ask the appropriate questions. How are you? When did you arrive? How long are you here for? It is absolutely wonderful. I feel as if I have arrived at my party, a special Italian party in my honour, as I meet my friends and companions from the past four years. I have not seen or been in communication with some of them since last summer.

I play two pieces in the concert. They are both group pieces. In the first,
Sinfonia
by N.Piccinni, a Baroque piece, I play sitting next to Ette. In the following piece, Scot Joplin's
The Entertainer
, I sit next to Sergio. I am delighted to be able to play with friends who have played an important part in my Italian life.

The concert is a celebration of twenty-five years since the foundation of the
cattedra di mandolino,
the teaching post of mandolin
,
at Padua. It is therefore a great privilege to be included in the pupils, past and present, playing in this concert.

The Auditorium
Pollini,
the concert hall of the
Conservatorio
and our venue, has tiered red seating. The surrounding walls are white and the stage is of natural wood and is spacious. Behind us stands an organ, which I always think is a bit strange, being mostly covered in white painted wood with occasional golden coloured trumpets exiting from spaces around the console.

The concert is well attended and much appreciated. Giovanna is in the audience and we meet up after the concert. We go to the
Caffé Eremitani
for a drink with Sergio and Cristiano. I have tea
al limone
.

Next, Giovanna and I meet Sandro, who I had helped in the summer when he attended a language course in London. He is accompanied by two other friends, a married couple, and we all go to another café. This time, I have an apricot juice. Sandro hands me a present, a beautifully wrapped gift, large and heavy. A struggle with thin curly ribbons combined with some delicate tearing of paper reveals a huge round dish, the type used for serving spaghetti or other pasta at the table. It is a brownish-red colour with white decorations of mandolins and musical notes. It is a one-off, handmade dish. It is truly beautiful, unique and special, and more than was necessary for my kindness. I am quite touched by this gesture of gratitude.

We return to Giovanna's flat. This is my first visit since her relocation to Padua. I have a simple, comfortable room with white walls and a wooden floor and a view of
Santa Giustina
between the apartment blocks opposite. We go out for a pizza and then return for an early night.

*

Sunday is a quiet day. We sleep late and have a civilised breakfast of cornflakes, fresh milk and tea. I am always grateful for the cereal and milk to settle my stomach for the day. It is just a matter of what you are used to. The biscuits and
brioche
aren't always sufficiently filling to last me until lunchtime. Also, I am glad to have proper milk. So many times UHT milk is thought to be equal to fresh milk, although I have to admit that Italian UHT milk is better than English UHT milk for some reason. What the reason is I don't know.

We visit Giovanna's new flat. It is the one she will move into after her marriage in May. It is a brand new flat and at present the builders are adding finishing touches. The outside is primrose yellow and yellow ochre. Inside, there is a spacious living/dining room with a connected kitchen space in the corner. On one side, a wall is being increased to create a partition and prevent the whole area being open plan. The other side is a workspace, which is open to the living space by virtue of a half wall.

On the same level, there are also two bedrooms and two bathrooms, one of which is small and doubles up as a utility room. In addition, there are wooden stairs to a second floor with an attic type room, with a slanting ceiling, which might provide space for a study or a guestroom. Both floors have a balcony.

The wooden floors are very dusty and Giovanna explains all the alterations and extra work yet to be achieved. Then, she and a friend will clean the flat ready for moving in. She is not sure about the shutters for the windows. They are the traditional kind like wooden doors, which necessitate opening the glass window in order to close the shutter. Giovanna is used to the kind made of many horizontal strips of wood or metal, which is adjusted by means of a thick tape that is positioned internally at the side of the window. I think the flat is wonderful and my friend is extremely fortunate to have found such beautiful accommodation in which to start her married life.

We take a walk before lunch and we visit
Prato della Valle,
which I had never managed to see before. It is apparently the largest
piazza
, public space, in Europe and the second largest in the world, Red Square in China being the largest. I'm not sure about these claims. My guidebook only says it is the largest
piazza
in Italy. There seems to be a lot of green grass and statues in the centre of this
piazza
, hence the name
Prato
, which means grass. In the centre, there is a fountain and there are beautiful
palazzo
s all around. There is one with Moorish influence in its design which I particularly like.

I become a tourist and take some photographs. Somehow I have never got into the habit of taking photographs, despite my camera being so very tiny. I am always trying to blend into the surroundings. I am always trying to look and appear Italian, but now I have a conflict. I want to record so many memories as I have a sense of a phase in my life drawing to a close.

We visit the Basilica of
Santa Giustina
. We are dwarfed by the hugeness of the empty space within. We visit the side chapels and feel the heat of the many candles as we pass. A Mass is in progress in the little chapel under the main altar. My friend says that the cupolas of the roof look beautiful from her apartment when there is a pink sunset. It is amazing that such an extravagant piece of ecclesiastical architecture is only a short walk from the famous Basilica of
San Antonio
. It is especially so when one considers how the exterior of
San Giustina
mirrors
San Antonio
with its clump of domes.

We also visit the Basilica of
San Antonio
on our way home. The Mass is just finishing and the unaccompanied singing which brings the service to a close touches me deep within and I feel the slightly giddy feeling of my emotions surfacing. There is always something special about this place. There is a pervading feeling that I notice when I am in this building. Despite the internal opulence, there is a sense of being somewhere pure and holy.

Outside, we return to the world of street stalls selling all the usual religious and tourist trinkets. This time I notice candles of every size, small religious images, statues, icons, postcards, plastic cameras for small children and the ubiquitous Pinocchio pencils.

At home, we lunch on chicken breasts cooked in a griddle pan on top of the stove and a salad. This is followed by light sponge cake similar to
colomba
or
pandoro
, and coffee. We are both ready for our siesta and we have a luxurious two hours for our afternoon sleep.

In the evening, we meet up with Giovanna's fiancé and go to a big cinema complex just outside of neighbouring Vicenza. The cinema complex is situated next to a shopping mall and I remember the pyramid structure after which it is named as being a landmark when we took the journey to Breganze. The film is booked up, so we buy tickets for the next performance.

In the meantime, we decide to eat and the fiancé takes us to a country pub he knows. As usual in Italy, the pub is really a
pizzeria.
It is a restored farm building constructed from local thin, long bricks. These bricks are arranged in various patterns and the beautiful designs are visible internally as well as externally. We are delighted by the architecture. The
pizzeria
is very busy, but after about ten minutes we have a table. There are lots of rooms inside, but we seem to be near what looks like a monastery cloister in which the openings onto the courtyard are glazed.

The menu is extensive offering traditional and special pizzas, as well as various kinds of local bread with fillings or salads served separately. I have a pizza with a salad of
rucola
and tomatoes added on after the cooking. A touch of salt and a drizzle of olive oil perfectly complements the generous salad placed on a pizza base that is crisp, light and wafer-thin. In my five-star rustic ambience, I muse upon the fact that pizzas in England are positively stodgy by comparison.

The Walt Disney film
A Bug's Life
is great fun to watch in Italian. It is not a film I would have chosen for myself, but I am nonetheless greatly entertained.

*

Monday, 8
^th
March, is
Festa della Donna
. Today certainly feels like a festival or a celebration. I am out of the flat at eight o'clock with all the other Paduans. Giovanna has to go to work and her flatmate has not returned from her weekend with her parents. Giovanna only has one set of keys and Italian front doors all seem to require being locked from the outside. If you examine the hinged side of the door it is possible to notice up to seven metal bars, several centimetres in width, which move into the door frame with the turn of the key. With doors that lock like prison doors and sturdy wooden or metal shutters at all the windows, it seems that Italians are very security conscious when it come to their homes. I remember Ette being surprised how open English houses are without shutters and with windows looking onto the street.

I walk for about twenty-five minutes into the centre of town. It is fresh, but any chill is psychologically dispelled by the sun illuminating everywhere it is able to penetrate.
Via Facciolati
is a big main road leading towards the centre. I have left the tranquillity of a simply furnished white room behind me and stepped into the world of feverish activity and loud traffic noise. I notice the side streets with wires strung across between the buildings, supporting and powering streetlights. Sights such as these, a lone light shade with a single bulb, high up in the street and attached to a wire, reminds me that I am somewhere very different, somewhere far away from England.

I stop for some traffic lights at an intersection. I feel already in such a positive mood. It is something I have long been cultivating within. But it is also something that is actually happening around me now. The quality of Mediterranean light provided by the sun is perfect. I feel so lucky that it is good weather today. The buildings, apartments and villas are radiant in their pastel shades. There is one villa painted in pale lemon, with decorations picked out in white, standing between palm trees in a garden overflowing with exuberant vegetation.

I smile at the policewomen on duty at the intersection. She smiles back. An old man on a bicycle, also waiting to cross, asks me about the mandolin case. Was I an amateur or a professional? I say that I am a professional, but not here, in London. He asks me if am playing in a concert. I am able to say yes, that I have already played in a concert given at the
Conservatorio
on Saturday. He asks if it was with the
Solisti Veneti
. I say no, it was a special concert of present and past pupils of the
Conservatorio
to celebrate twenty-five years of mandolin teaching there. He is impressed and rides off happily as the lights change to green for pedestrians. I am also happy, deliriously happy.

I walk across
Via San Francesco
and glimpse views of the domes of the
Basilica
of
San Antonio
. I am in a state of constant delight looking in all the shop windows and taking in the various features of the architecture. I notice the tall rectangle shape of windows, the green wooden shutters, the wrought iron design of balconies and the arrangement of potted plants on those balconies. I notice a Venetian looking
palazzo
and I read the plaque, which mentions the building's association with Dante. I don't remember this building from my previous visits. I stand for a moment to take in the detail of the quatrefoil tracery motif that embellishes the windows, a feature commonly found in the architecture of Venice. So carried away am I by my vision of delight that I completely forget to turn right into the
Via Zabarella,
which leads directly to
Via Eremitani
and the
Conservatorio
. Instead, I go straight ahead and suddenly realise I am in the
Piazza Erbe
with the distinctive landmark of the
Palazzo della Ragione
. It is only a five-minute detour that I have taken and I am soon at the
Conservatorio
.