The Mandolin Lesson (7 page)

Our search for a restaurant continues. I am cold, tired and hungry. We have, it seems, walked miles today. I just want some hot, delicious food and my bed. Eventually, on the well-beaten track towards St. Mark's Square, we find a restaurant that is open. It looks as if it welcomes tourists and I am suspicious of its quality. Nevertheless, we enjoy a simple meal: grilled vegetables drizzled with extra virgin olive oil, a slice of pan-fried veal, salad, wine and water.

*

I sleep soundly, but when I wake, I realise yesterday has taken its toll. I have a migraine beginning and my stomach feels unsettled.

On the way to the station, we stop for breakfast at the same bar as yesterday. I have nothing except a few sips of water. The sweet smell of the shop makes my stomach heave and I go outside to wait.

The short train journey doesn't improve matters. On my walk from the station to the
Conservatorio,
I resolve to be stoical.

When I arrive at the
Conservatorio,
the classes are already in progress. I knock on the door.

“
Avanti
.”

I open the double doors and enter. The class is busy. There are lots of people waiting for their lesson. The day is run rather like what is termed a masterclass in England. Everybody attends. One person at a time receives a lesson whilst the others observe, making comments if they are invited to do so.

After a short while, my husband is restless again. Attending a lesson is not like a concert. There are lots of stops and starts, and discussion in between. The discussion is technical and difficult to follow in Italian. He departs for a walk.

I try to concentrate on the discussion. When it is my turn, I make my excuses, saying that I feel a little fragile. The Maestro jokes that it is probably Venice with the constant movement of water that has caused my nausea. I find it difficult to think of the correct form of address as we talk. I notice that the other students address him formally with
Lei,
but I have always used the informal
tu
. This is because we met as colleagues from different countries. Now it dawns upon me that I am his pupil and must afford him the appropriate respect when we are in the teaching context. It is confusing.

My playing goes well and I am happy. I am advised to use fourth fingers for descending passages. (This is a subtle difference between violin playing and mandolin playing only for those interested in the technicalities – otherwise, skip the rest of the paragraph. The mandolin is plucked and an open string will continue to resonate, if not stopped by a finger. By using the fourth finger instead of the open string, when followed by a note a tone below, it is possible to avoid a discordant clash. On the violin, this doesn't occur because the bow is responsible for making the string sound, and when the bow is on the next string, playing the next note, the previous note has ceased.)

I am also sent to buy a new scale book. I follow the directions to the music shop,
Musica Musica
, which is just around the corner from the
Conservatorio
. The new scale book, by Luigi Schinina, is really intended for violinists and as I am familiar with other violin scale books, I don't anticipate too much difference between what I have been used to and the new book.

I manage a little light lunch with my husband in the middle of the day. At the end of the day, I check possible dates with the Maestro for the following month. Then, I begin my journey home.

*

When I awake on the train approaching Paris, I am still not feeling well. This does not bode well for the day, since we have arranged to have some free time in Paris before catching the Eurostar home.

We embark upon a tour of the
Louvre
. It is too big to see everything, so we decide to concentrate on the Italian paintings. It becomes increasingly difficult for me to focus on the paintings. I am unsteady, and I have a great desire to sit down and close my eyes. I am battling constantly with myself, trying not to become absorbed by the raging pain in my head and behind my left eye.

At the pyramid shopping centre, there are stylish, modern shops and wonderful places to eat – but I am not able to enjoy any of this. Here I am in Paris, with the fragrant smell of crêpes and other cooking. Normally, I would find the atmosphere delicious and irresistible. Instead, everything is too noisy and the pungent aromas of Parisian cuisine seem to be making me feel sick. I collapse on a bench. My body is racked by pain. How can a migraine be so debilitating? I cannot concentrate on any thought. It seems that my consciousness, my very soul, is ignited with the searing fire of pain. I feel embarrassed and angry with myself. My man is mad with me. I am absolutely exhausted and my journey, on this occasion, has been spoiled.

This morning, I have arrived in Padua again for another mandolin lesson. On this trip I have reverted to the old-fashioned train and sea crossing by catamaran. The Eurostar is too expensive this month.

I walk along with the other commuters through the subway beneath the platforms of Padua station. I am feeling confident that I am establishing a pattern in my journeys. I know where to go and what to expect. I have my breakfast at the station, visit the ladies' room and walk to the
Conservatorio
.

I begin to recognise the faces of those who work at the
Conservatorio
. The porters: a young man with dark hair and glasses and a gentleman of mature years wearing a casual shirt and a grandfatherly cardigan. Often they sit behind a wooden table near the entrance, reading the newspaper.

I am in good time this morning, but after a while I begin to feel uneasy because I haven't seen anybody else I recognise from the mandolin course. I pluck up the courage to speak with one of the porters. I ask the elderly gentleman if Maestro Orlandi has arrived and, if so, has the room changed since there is no one in the usual room. I use the word
classe
for classroom but I suddenly remember
aula,
which seems to work better. He tells me that Maestro Orlandi has not yet arrived.

After a further period of time, I begin to feel quite anxious and I speak again with the porter. He makes a phone call to the secretary on the first floor but the answer is the same. The Maestro has not yet arrived. No one has seen him or knows of his whereabouts.

I decide I should phone Ugo's house in case this throws some light on my problem. I find some change and wait by the telephone at the bottom of the stairwell. A girl is speaking effusively on the telephone. When she has finished, I take my turn and pick up the receiver. Suddenly I notice some large dangling earrings next to the receiver, and I run up the stairs after the girl to return the earrings. She is grateful but I am a little flustered that I can't remember the word for earrings.

I try to phone Ugo but the telephone does not work. I imagine that I have done something wrong. I check the number. I have dialled correctly, using the complete code, since it is another city. All I can hear is what I think is the unobtainable signal. All the phone signals sound slightly different here. The phone has eaten up all my money and is now out of order. I can't believe it!

Just as I wonder what to do, I turn around and a lady approaches. She tells me that there has been a telephone message from Maestro Orlandi, saying that he is unable to attend the
Conservatorio
because his child is sick, and that I should telephone him at home. I am extremely thankful for this communication, but at the same time dismayed at the thought of missing my mandolin lesson.

Unexpectedly, I see a face that I recognise from the mandolin course. It is Gianluigi, from Naples, here for some history and harmony lessons. I explain, as best I am able to, all my troubles. By now, I feel panic-stricken at the thought of all the time and money that would be wasted if I didn't succeed in having my lesson. The stress causes some short-circuiting in my thinking process. The Italian language becomes more difficult than usual. I am conscious of missing out words, using the wrong words, and failing to make the correct agreements to word endings. Words are inadequate. It all seems too awful.

Gianluigi calmly removes something from his pocket and places it in my hand. It is a phone card. He tells me that there are telephones equipped for phone cards just a short distance away. He points through the arcade opposite the entrance of the
Conservatorio
and to the left.

I find the telephones and manage to get through to Ugo. He wants me to go to his house in Brescia for my lesson. This means returning to Brescia, which is almost two hours away. I had already passed through Brescia whilst sleeping on the train early this morning. Another complication is that I also have to get to Ugo's house, which is on the outskirts of Brescia. It sounds impossible to me, but Ugo says it is possible and that I should ring him when I get to Brescia.

At the
Conservatorio,
I explain to Gianluigi what has happened. I return his phone card and thank him for his kindness and help. I am deeply touched by his warmth and generosity. He says it is nothing.
È niente
. I disagree. For me, it was quite a lot. His manner is casual, almost self-effacing. I thank him once again for rescuing me and I depart for the station.

*

At Brescia, I phone Ugo and he says that Giovanna will collect me from the station. My spirits lift. This is the silver lining to the cloud. I hadn't expected to see my friend Giovanna on this or on any of my trips at present. She is working hard studying for her degree.

As we drive out into the countryside, Giovanna and I chat continuously, catching up on all our news. We talk in English, which is a great relief to me. She leaves me at Ugo's house and we resolve to see each other later at the rehearsal of the Mandolin and Guitar orchestra. I have checked the train details and found out that I can join the overnight train to Paris at Brescia. I just need to be at the station at about ten o'clock.

I am now able to begin my mandolin lesson. This and the promise of playing again with the mandolin orchestra has redeemed what, only a few hours ago, seemed a disastrous day.

We start with scales: G major with a new fingering. I have to play it twice and follow immediately with the arpeggio, which is also repeated. It is like an exercise playing the scales and arpeggios in this manner. I am told not to worry about mistakes. It is fluency and the right-hand movement that are important. Do not stop for mistakes, just keep going. One note after another with unbending fixation.

How different this is to my study of the violin. The scales have the same fingering, the same patterns, but the issue for the violin is completely different. Every note on the violin must be made from scratch. The violinist has no markings on the fingerboard to guide the fingers. The violinist must choose the exact spot to place a finger in order to make the pitch of the note. This is before all other musical considerations: the rhythm, dynamics, articulation.

A violinist sometimes feels lost trying to find the notes. It takes hours of practice to learn the feel of where the notes are. Hours of practice with Sevcik exercises, learning the geography of the fingerboard. Violinists are envious of pianists who have their notes already made for them. They are sometimes envious of other string instrumentalists who have frets for their fingers to fall between.

Consequently, I spent hours practising my violin scales slowly, checking each note for intonation, and making slight adjustments. Now I feel as if I must race on carelessly and sometimes the frets get in the way of my fingers.

The lesson continues with more soothing sonatas by Lecce. There is a lovely passage in the fourth sonata that conveys the illusion of alternating sevenths and sixths. In reality, all the notes are played separately, rapidly and repeatedly. The effect is one of a harmonic progression. The two chords continuously follow each other: one is discordant and full of tension, and the other is harmonious and relaxed.

The arrangement of the notes in this passage is a little awkward for the plectrum. The direction of the plectrum must change each time one changes string. At speed, this is the equivalent of a tongue-twister for the mandolinist. My teacher suggests an alternative arrangement of strokes. Now the strokes are down, up on each string. The arrangement works perfectly and I play the passage with ease. The harmony has its potency restored, and is reminiscent of the music of Vivaldi.

I also start work on the preludes and cadenzas of Munier. A name little known outside mandolinistic circles, Carlo Munier was one of the most important figures in mandolin playing in the second half of the nineteenth century. Born in 1859 in Naples, he moved to Florence when he was twenty-two years old and remained there for the rest of his life. He enjoyed a distinguished career as a performer and teacher, one of his most famous pupils being Queen Margherita of Italy.

The interpretation of the preludes and cadenzas is extremely interesting to me. We have to discuss where it is appropriate to increase or decrease the speed of the notes in order to generate excitement. This music should reflect its improvisatory nature, even though the notes are written out. A sense of impetuosity must be cultivated so as to enhance the virtuosic content. It is a fascinating discussion.

*

I eat supper with Ugo's family. We talk about Christmas. Ugo's children, like all Brescian children, had presents last week on the Feast of Santa Lucia. Traditionally, presents are given to children in this part of Italy on December 8
^th
instead of Christmas day. I am quite surprised by this.

I tell them that when I arrive in London tomorrow evening, I have to go directly to the Barbican Centre, where my son is singing with his choir in Britten's Ceremony of Carols. It seems so strange. Here am I eating supper with an Italian family in the Italian countryside. Tomorrow, I shall be in London listening to my son singing in one of the world's most prestigious concert venues. Tonight, I will rehearse with the Brescia Mandolin Orchestra. Tomorrow, I will have breakfast in Paris.

*

At the orchestra, I am deliriously happy just to be part of the sound. I don't worry if I can't manage all the notes because it is just so thrilling to be part of a plucked string ensemble. The deep throb of vibrations when we strike chords together is exhilarating. It is as if not only the strings and the instruments are vibrating, but we and everything else in the room vibrates in sympathy.

Giovanna drives me back to the station. Before I depart, she gives me a Christmas present. It is a small, round wooden box. On the lid is an array of mountain flowers in pink, red, yellow and blue on a green background. She explains that it has been hand-painted in the traditional Austrian manner by a friend of hers. The box contains traditional nougat sweets. This unexpected kindness completes a perfect day. I clutch my Italian Christmas present and begin my journey home.