The Mandolin Lesson (27 page)

Breakfast is at the
Caffé Eremitani
. Sitting at a small round table draped in an apricot damask cloth, I order a cappuccino and a
brioche
marmellata
. As I look out of the window at the
Chiesa Eremitani
, its brickwork bathed in sunlight, I feel happy and relaxed. Today being
Festa della Donna
, Ladies Day, everyone is buying and giving sprays of mimosa, a plant covered with tiny yellow fluffy balls. Two ladies at the next table are each given a spray by the waitress. The stems are covered with silver foil, giving them the appearance of flowers worn in buttonholes by wedding guests in England. On the counter of the bar is a huge turquoise ceramic vase. Branches heavy with pink blossom are arranged in the vase, giving the message that spring has finally arrived. After I have breakfasted, I too am given a spray of mimosa. I feel cherished and special.

*

At the
Conservatorio,
I decide to go straight up to room eighteen – the mandolin teaching room. As I arrive, I hear the vocal scales and arpeggios of a female singer. I did wonder at the entrance whether I should enquire from the porter if the room had changed. Knowing how easily confusion has happened in the past and knowing that I hadn't attended the
Conservatorio
for almost a year, I was aware that I might find some change. I enter the room and speak with the singer. She says that it is still the mandolin teaching room and that she is just practising whilst the room is free. I agree to wait outside.

I am not expecting Ugo to be on time and I would rather like to warm up before he turns up. I am refreshed from my stimulating walk from just outside the historical centre into its heart. No long train journey from Brescia or Bologna this morning. No long bus ride at Bologna before even beginning the train journey and no tedious walk from the station in Padua.

I hope to play through my music and I have brought the other parts of the score in the hope that the other students will arrive early and we can play together. Whilst I wait, I look out of the window onto a courtyard and I take a few photographs. Suddenly, a party of schoolchildren arrives. They are accompanied by two female teachers and a male administrator from the
Conservatorio
. They go into the adjoining room for a talk by the violin professor.

Michelle, the new French student that I met on Saturday, arrives. The singer departs saying that she has finished. Michelle and I reclaim the mandolin room. Michelle begins to play the piano, whilst I get my music and mandolin ready. I persuade her away from the piano, suggesting that we play the Barbella concerto together. I have the solo mandolin part and I show her that I have the first violin part for her to play on the mandolin. She hasn't seen this piece before and she is delighted with it.

Miki, the Japanese girl, arrives and I find her the second violin part to play on the mandolin. All three of us play happily together. It is a good start to the morning and I feel the best prepared I have ever been for the mandolin lesson. The door swings open and it is Ugo, grinning. I sense his surprise and pleasure that his students are all using their time usefully.

As we sit down to begin the lesson, Ugo is laughing again at me and I ask him why. He says that I appear so English and organised with all my music parts, neatly printed by computer and arranged in various folders. He still writes out scores by hand and tries to fit all the parts in a compact score, with as much as possible all on one sheet of paper.

I offer him the bass part, so that he can accompany me on his mandolin. The notes would naturally be transposed an octave or two higher since the mandolin is a soprano instrument, but the two parts should make sense. He says thank you, but he doesn't require the music as he knows the music already. I expected him to say this. I knew he would know the music from memory but I was really asking him to play with me. I felt it would be more comfortable if we both played. I felt it would take some of the pressure off and it would be less intense. Instead of me being the object of the critical ear of the Maestro and the other students, I would just be making music. So often I have felt that instead of making music I was being judged. So easily, the element of fear had been present. Where there is fear, there can be no love and no creativity. Then, there is no joy.

We play the Barbella together. My playing is relaxed and confident and we both take great pleasure in its execution.

“
Ha migliorato molto
,” the Maestro tells me: it has improved greatly.

I sense that he is happy and I am happy, too.

The Maestro notices a mistake I have made in copying the manuscript. I have mistaken a sharp sign for an appogiatura. The appogiatura is written as a small note and is a note intended as a decoration to the normal size note it is attached to. He notices a second mistake of the same sort. I think it hardly surprising that mistakes like this occur sometimes, because the manuscript is so messy and confusing. Some manuscripts are legible and the scholar has only to become accustomed to the style of elegant Baroque handwriting. Others leave a great deal to be desired with messy pen work, careless copying mistakes, scribbling out, corrections in miniature and scattered ink blots. In fact, whole sections may be obscured.

This particular manuscript was difficult to reproduce in photocopy from the microfilm for various technological reasons. Firstly, the microfilm was in negative and the machine at the public library was without the attachment to convert it back into a positive image. Thus I had black paper and white spots for the notes, instead of the other way around. Secondly, the size of each page of the manuscript didn't seem to correspond to the size of paper available from the library machine that particular day. It transpired that in order to capture everything on a single page of the manuscript, I had to take four photocopies. I had to shift the magnifying lens of the machine to the left and right, top and bottom of each page, so as not to miss any corrections and scribbles at the edge of the page.

When I came to examine the manuscript at home, I had to cut and paste the sheets together as if I were creating a montage. So complex was the procedure that, in this case, I wrote a score out by hand before feeding the information into the computer. It was impossible to stand by the computer and know what the notes were. I had to compare all the parts and make decisions about the composer's intentions.

Thus, I am not unhappy that mistakes in my work have been pointed out. On the contrary, I am pleased and rather excited. I love the ensuing discussion. I am fascinated by comparative opinions and the evidence presented to support those opinions. It is exactly for this that, in the beginning, I pursued meetings with Ugo. I wanted to know his ideas and reasons for those ideas. I also, from the outset, wanted especially to study the concerto repertoire. It is only now, at the conclusion of my studies, that I have finally reached my objective.

Ugo finds two other separate short notes in the first movement that he thinks are incorrect. I protest saying I have copied them precisely, but Ugo says that I must use my ears. He cups his ears in his hands to emphasise the point. It sounds rude, but in this case he is right. What he might say if he were to put the matter more delicately, is that it is a matter of harmony. The two notes in question are most probably erroneously written, as, in each case, other notes provide a more satisfactory harmonic progression.

The musicological discussion comes to an abrupt halt with a knock at the door. The administrator that I had seen earlier asks for a word with the Maestro. The Maestro returns after two minutes and asks me and the other two students to accompany him to another room. He tells us to bring our instruments.

In the new room, I see the party of schoolchildren I had encountered earlier this morning. They look about twelve or thirteen years old.

Maestro Orlandi is introduced by the administrator and then proceeds to embark upon an improvised talk on the mandolin. He introduces me and the other two students as three of his female pupils, which he thinks is appropriate as today is
Festa della Donna
. He also thinks it is appropriate because the mandolin has so often been associated with female gender. Historically, women, rather than men, have been painted with this instrument. The instrument is full of beautiful curves, he explained, like the shape of the female body. Finally, the generic word from which the Italian word for mandolin,
mandolino
, is derived is
mandola,
which is a feminine word.

I am fascinated by this thesis. It sounds sexist and at odds with the politically correct society with which I am so familiar in England. I listen carefully to the Italian words, which I no longer translate in my head; I just understand them. I think this idea is being explained as an historical concept, but it sounds, with the use of the present tense, so definite that the mandolin is a feminine instrument now. I would like to qualify this statement by saying that, for various reasons, the mandolin has traditionally been thought of as a feminine instrument. Maybe that is what he means, too. Perhaps it is just a matter of emphasis. I am reminded how difficult it sometimes is to understand people when talking in English. Being well acquainted with one's native language does not provide immunity from misunderstanding.

I am asked to play some music to illustrate the sound of the instrument. I play the opening of the Barbella concerto I had been working on earlier. The notes sing out from the instrument. Michelle is asked to sound the open strings of her instrument to demonstrate the tuning and Miki is required to perform some notes with tremolo technique.

The commentary is at times simple and entertaining. At others, it is comprehensive and complex. I notice that the schoolchildren are in their outdoor jackets. They are padded and brightly coloured. They all look like ski-jackets and most of them are done up. Outside, the sun is shining and its light streams in through closed windows. Inside, the central heating is on. I notice how hot the room has become and I am sure the schoolchildren are too hot in their ski-jackets. They have been mostly enraptured by the talk, but as we discuss the mandolin's connection to the lute family and other ancient plucked instruments from around the world, I notice some fidgeting. I am not surprised. They have been attentive for a long time and they must be feeling the excessive heat.

Our talk and demonstration is so successful that we are later called upon to give a repeat, if abridged, performance to another group of schoolchildren.

My lesson continues with a second concerto. This time, it is by Luigi Lamberti. We play the first movement happily. Ugo points out another small note that is erroneously written. I have copied it exactly from the manuscript, but the harmonic sense suggests the Maestro is right.

In yet another place, another wrong note which I have again reproduced exactly from the manuscript. I don't argue. I will reflect upon the correct solution later.

When we play the second movement, I am stopped and told that I am touching only one of the two strings with the plectrum. This is true. It is a little nervous thing I sometimes do when I am playing softly and become distracted. It happens imperceptibly without me noticing. We start again and now I am stroking both strings at once to create maximum volume, whilst, at the same time, maintaining the
dolce
, sweet, sound of the slow movement. The quality of sound is melodious and tender, but also powerful and penetrating.

In the final movement, there are a couple more tiny alterations to be made to my edition. Again, notes erroneously written in the manuscript and meticulously copied by me.

I am very pleased with today's work. I have discovered many new things about the two manuscripts I have studied. It has been a musicological discussion that I had hoped to have last year, at the end of the spring. When I last visited, my playing was so nervous that we never reached the intricacies of today's discussion. Today I played well and instead of discussing playing technique, we were able to discuss the music itself.

I am asked about my next visit. I don't know when I will come again. Probably I will come for Giovanna's wedding at the end of May, but that is only for a few days. Also, lessons at the
Conservatorio
end at the beginning of June. Between now and then is Easter. I do not think I will return for the mandolin until the autumn. I am told that ‘more concertos are good' and I am happy with that plan.

I have a list of music at the British Library, which Ugo would like me to find for him. I was given the list at the concert and now we discuss his requirements. I mention that there is something I too require: my
certificato della frequenza
, certificate of attendance. In the absence of the final diploma, it is quite important that I should have some official record of my attendance. Ugo is at once putting on his jacket and asks me to accompany him to
la segretaria
, the secretary. I tried to arrange this certificate in April last year, but, despite various enquiries, events had conspired to prevent me either attending to collect the piece of paper, or receiving it by post or personal messenger.

The secretary thumbs her way through the mandolin folder on her desk. I am mentally admiring the rose pink colour of her cardigan, when, halfway through the pile of papers, she finds my paper. It is dated 21
^st
April 1998. It has been waiting almost a year in that folder for me. I mention that I also haven't received the
pagina scholastica
, which is an official document I had received in my first two years. In the sixth and seventh years, my third and fourth years, I had received no such documentation. I was told that the Italian government has changed the law stopping the issue of the
pagina scholastica
. The certificate I had just received was in place of it. Today's certificate with its official stamp and signature is on see-through computer paper. Its appearance is disappointing, but I am pleased to have it finally.