The Mandolin Lesson (4 page)

My first priority at Padua station is to make for the station buffet in order to have breakfast. Lots of commuters are taking their coffee at the bar but I need to be a little more leisurely, so I sit at one of the small round tables. To my left, there are huge glass doors which look out onto platform one and afford me a generous view of the station's comings and goings. I order a cappuccino, a
brioche
and a glass of water. The
brioche
is warm and contains apricot jam. It is delicious. I am so happy to have arrived and to be sitting in Italy eating my breakfast.

Next, I find the ladies' toilets. The lady attendant indicates a particular door. I pass the first open door and see the continental ‘hole in the tiled floor' model of toilet. I am pleased that my cubical contains a proper toilet. I am feeling a little soiled by this stage. I knew that this trip would be like a camping expedition, so I have come prepared with individually wrapped baby wipes for intimate and difficult cleaning. Outside, I go to the large sinks to wash my hands. I also need to clean my teeth and wash my face, but I feel self-conscious. I look at the attendant and engage her eyes. I ask her if it is okay for me to wash my face and teeth quickly. I explain that I have just arrived on the overnight train from Paris and that I have, in fact, been travelling for twenty-four hours from my original point of departure in London.

The attendant becomes animated and is most accommodating. She asks me about the purpose of my visit and as I smooth some moisture cream on my face I tell her that I am going to study mandolin at the
Conservatorio
. She seems very impressed and wishes me good luck. I happily leave some money in her little bowl. I feel I have had very good service.

I leave the station and make my way towards the historical centre. There are many other people walking purposefully with me in the same direction. Some are dressed smartly in suits and look as if they might be going to an office. Others wear trousers or jeans, casual jackets and fashionably coloured rucksacks, and are probably heading for the university. Founded in 1222, the university is one of the most distinguished seats of learning in Europe. The list of alumni includes such famous names as Petrarch, Dante and Galileo.

The crowd of people I am walking with find it difficult at times to make its way along the pavement. There are all types of obstacles: ladders leaning against windows being washed, people unloading boxes from cars into shops and cordoned off excavations of the pavement's surface. To the right is a main road full of chaotic traffic. Buses, cars and
Vespa
motorcycles all compete with each other to be first. People have to take care not to enter into this competition with the traffic by stepping inadvertently off the pavement. The crowd also has to stop occasionally at intersections to respect the traffic lights. On the corner of one intersection is the hotel where I stayed on my last visit. As I wait for the lights to change, my ears are assailed by a high-pitched siren. Within seconds, a police car screeches through the intersection with an officer leaning out of the window waving something that looks like a table-tennis bat.

At the other side of the road, the pavement widens out, making my progress much easier. To the left is the
Piovego
Canal, which runs beneath the pavement and the main road. I notice a barge tied to the bank of the canal. As I continue past the public gardens, I am pleased that this time I know my way to the
Conservatorio
. I look at my watch and realise that I am far too early. It is only nine o'clock. I decide to seek refuge in the
Chiesa degli Eremitani
.

The church is dark, cool and peaceful. It is almost empty of people. One lady kneels and prays. A couple, probably tourists, wander along the sides of the nave, looking intently at everything. I sit down in a pew, glad of the rest. For a short space of time, I am able to be myself. I can think, pray and reflect on my forthcoming day. Even if I had no religious conviction, the church would still provide a safe retreat to hide in and to be myself. There is no need to react to people around me or to the situation I find myself in, as is necessary out on the street. There is always the tension of having to be constantly mindful and aware on the street. Here, all I need to do is just sit and be. It is a wonderful release.

After a period of quiet, I am restored and I begin to feel intrigued by my surroundings. A great treasure of early Renaissance art, the Church of the
Eremitani
was sadly damaged by an air raid in 1944. Its jewel, the
Ovetari
chapel frescoed by Andrea Mantegna in the mid-fifteenth century, was devastated. A mini exhibition tells the story of piecing together the salvaged fragments. I suddenly remember that I should be continuing on my way to the
Conservatorio
. The frescos are absorbing and I resolve to return another time in order to respond fully to them.

Two minutes later, I am at the door of the
Conservatorio
. The building is salmon pink in colour. To the right of the imposing entrance is a plaque, which reads: ‘
Conservatorio di Musica Cesare Pollini
'. The stone framework of the entrance, the height of about two tall men, is filled with dark panelled wood. At the top is a decorative grill and in the centre are two enormous doors, which are unlocked and left open. As I pass through the doors, there is a porter's window to my right and huge glass doors in front of me. The other side of the glass doors is the vestibule proper.

The entrance hall is palatial space with a marble floor and lighting suspended from on high. Noticeboards on the walls display information about forthcoming concerts, and the arrangements for various classes and examinations. After the notices, on the left-hand side, is a stairwell encasing a grand marble staircase with ornate wrought iron railings. Long benches covered in brown leather flank the walls and at the far end of the lobby are more oversized glass doors, mirroring the front doors and leading onto a courtyard filled with foliage and bicycles.

I place my mandolin case and bag down on one of the benches. Almost immediately, I am approached by a young man carrying a mandolin case. He is from Naples and is here today to sit his diploma exam. I tell him that I am from England and that I have just arrived today by train to take my admission exam. We chat as if we have known each other for years. I tell him that I had read about him in
Corriere della Sera
. In a short article, the newspaper had outlined the plight of those wishing to study the mandolin. It said that it was impossible to study the mandolin in Naples, the birth place of the mandolin (the Neapolitan mandolin, that is). As a result, one young man was having to make an unprecedented lengthy journey for his lesson. Every week, the young man commuted the round trip between Naples and Padua. This was surely the longest trip anyone has had to make for a mandolin lesson, the newspaper claimed. That is, until today. We both laugh. The idea of travelling between London and Padua seems at once both wonderful and ridiculous.

Other mandolinists are attracted to us. It is a strange experience being part of a group of people who are seriously studying the mandolin. Our common interest is a unifying force. I feel immediately at home and comfortable with these complete strangers. Two others, both young men, are taking their diploma exam today. A third is a young lady called Deborah who, like me, has also come to take her admission exam. They have all brought friends and companions, so we are quite a crowd. They chatter extensively and nervously. They ask each other what time their exam is, where Ugo is and what is happening next. No one knows where Ugo is, neither do they know what is happening next – but they are all certain, like me, that their exam is at the fast approaching eleven o'clock. At this moment, it becomes clear that we all have the same appointment.

A rival group begins to manifest. A ripple of awareness moves through our group. The rival group is a collection of Maestros lead by Ugo. They are the examining panel and they make their way to one of the teaching rooms. At intervals we are invited in to listen to the recitals, which form the basis of the final diploma exams.

The recitals consist of three pieces: two with piano accompaniment and one unaccompanied. Each recital is about forty minutes in length and so each exam, taking into account a few other requirements such as the chat with the examiners, lasts about an hour. It will be teatime before the admission exams even begin. Deborah is concerned about catching the train home. She has to return to
Piemonte
, Piedmont, where she lives close to the French border. I assure her that my train will leave mid-evening, so I am happy for her to have her exam first. She is happy too and we go to the nearby
Caffé Eremitani
for lunch.

Deborah talks a great deal. Her Piedmontese accent, influenced by hard French sounds, and the quickness of her speech makes it almost impossible to understand – but she is so patient and kind, taking care to slow down, repeat and clarify whenever I ask her to, that I am drawn to her. Her companion is a lady of about her mother's age, a family friend, who has accompanied her on the long journey. I thought the lady was her mother, but her own mother is unable to make the journey today. As we eat our
panini
, rolls, and drink mineral water, I tell my new friend about my journey and my family. After a quick espresso,
we return to the examinations.

The afternoon passes happily, listening to beautiful music. Some of the pieces I have never heard before. One of these is the concerto in A minor by Raffaele Calace. It is a real treat to listen to such a richly romantic work. I am transported by the most luscious sounds, the most exquisite nuances, to the Neapolitan coastline. I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, I smell the scent of the lemon trees and I visualise the sapphire blue sea as I look over to the island of Ischia. Absolute paradise!

Later I am intrigued by another piece of music which is new to me:
La Fustemberg
by Antoine Riggieri. It is a theme, a simple tune, with a set of ten intricate variations on the theme. I am fascinated by the complex patterns and shapes of the music formed by string crossing. The plectrum dances backwards and forwards, often between two strings, with the left-hand fingers changing constantly to alter the pitch of the notes. Sometimes, the two strings are close together, next to each other. Other times, the strings are far apart with one or two strings between them, which the performer must take care not to touch. In my analysis of this music, I assume, as usual and for the sake of simplicity, that the mandolin has just four strings like the violin. In fact, it really has four pairs or courses of strings. Each pair of strings is tuned to the same pitch and when playing it is essential to think of each pair as one thick string.

At the end of the afternoon, the candidates are recalled individually to hear the amount of marks they gained and whether they have succeeded in passing the exam. I am a little shocked to learn that one of the candidates has failed and that there is no possibility of retaking the exam. Seven years of study is crowned by glorious success with the passing of the final exam and receiving the diploma certificate. Alternatively, seven years of study is negated by the failure to pass the final hurdle and the lack of a piece of paper. It seems a harsh system compared to England, where it is possible to resit such exams. I am touched by the devastation that the failed candidate feels. There is nothing appropriate to say.

I wait for Deborah to sit her exam. Now, it is my turn. It is half past five and I am totally exhausted. I am physically tired from travelling; I am mentally tired from listening to a foreign language all day; and I am aurally tired from listening to so much music. I am worried because I haven't found a moment's privacy to warm up or practise. I am anxious because of the diploma results. I begin to doubt myself, thinking,
If one who has lived and studied here can fail, then what chance do I have?
I try to ignore the great tension in my body and I begin to play. I give a performance of a Calace
prelude. It is not bad, especially considering the circumstances, but it certainly isn't good. Ugo asks me why I chose something that is so difficult and complicated to play. I thought the piece was a good vehicle to exemplify various aspects of my technique. He advises me to study something simple, the solo sonatas of Francesco Lecce, and tells me to come back for a lesson next month.

At least I have passed the exam. I cheer myself up with the thought of an Italian supper. I return towards the station to find a
pizzeria
that I had noticed on my way to the
Conservatorio
this morning. It is in a parade of shops, which are near to the station. I decide that the most sensible plan is to relax eating a meal somewhere close to the station. Then I don't have to worry about the time, because it will only take a few minutes to walk to the station. The
pizzeria
is small, plain and simple. The pizzas are reasonably priced and their quality is excellent. I have a
pizza ai funghi,
a mushroom pizza, with a salad. I also have a quarter litre of local white wine, brought in a handmade pottery jug, and half a litre of mineral water.

I feel a little naughty ordering wine when I am eating alone. I justify myself by remembering that the significant word is ‘eating' and not ‘alone'. Alone is academic because I am amid other people eating. It is just that some people, like me, have a table all to themselves. Drinking wine with food is the culturally accepted norm in Italy. It compliments and enhances food, and is meant to be made use of in conjunction with food. It is not something to be consumed by itself for its own sake. I come from a culture in which drinking is traditionally something separate from food. For the majority of ordinary people, drinking is something which happens in the pub. Although it is often represented as a social activity, it is also often presented as something medicinal. I remember as a child that a person who had suffered a shock would always be offered a good stiff drink to steady the nerves.