At Gare du Lyon, I head for a new looking development of subterranean shops and restaurants. I find the restaurant we had eaten in during the previous spring. It is an unpretentious establishment and I feel a sense of security knowing that I have visited it on an earlier occasion. I am also encouraged by knowing that they cook quite an acceptable French version of pizza. I am nourished by a pizza forestiere, which is topped by ham, mushrooms and an egg. I have a window seat and as I quietly sip my mineral water, I watch, from the safe haven of my table, anxious commuters hurrying along outside. I also have a salad and then a coffee. I take as long as I can over my meal. I read the menu three times, translating all the words I am able to, and I watch the progress of the other customers, listening carefully to the spoken language. I am comforted by the food and warmth of the restaurant. Eventually I am unable to waste any further time having a leisurely supper and I pay my bill, remembering to take advantage of the ladies’ room before departing.
It is half past six and I have about an hour and a half before the departure of my train to Italy. I am at a loose end and find myself wandering aimlessly. I look in the windows of some of the shops. There is a wonderful chocolate shop. I feel as if I am on automatic pilot. The pleasure of window shopping eludes me. There seems nowhere suitable to sit down and rest so I am trying to occupy myself by looking at the shops. Normally I enjoy window shopping, but now my eyes seem glazed over. I have seen so many images flashing past me during the course of the day and it is probably only natural that I should feel tired. I long for a comfortable, inconspicuous chair where I can sit down and relax, and just be.
Near the platforms for international departures, there are benches to sit down on. These benches are made of metal and are reminiscent of park benches. The whole area is partially exposed to the elements and the night air is cold and sharp. I find a place to sit and from which I can see information about my train. It is still early evening and yet this station, like many others throughout the world, acts as a magnet to marginalised people. The homeless, the drunk, the mad and the sad, all intermingle with international travellers.
I am profoundly grateful when I enter the safety of the overnight train to Venice. I easily find my carriage and compartment. The compartment is divided into six couchettes, three on each side. Each berth is provided with a small pillow, a blanket and a plastic bag containing a clean pillow case and a sheet. My bed is at the top, which I had thought would give me even more security and privacy once I had made the journey up the ladder. I quickly take up my belongings and arrange them in a recessed shelf near my head. I then set to work making up my bed. It is neat and cosy and I look forward to collapsing on it, but I feel I cannot collapse just yet. It is so odd sharing one’s bedroom, my compartment, with five complete strangers. The train moves out of the station and everyone mills around in the corridors looking out of the windows at the illuminated city melting away into darkness.
A lady in uniform passes through the corridor informing people that the buffet is ready to serve supper. The thought is tempting: a thin, moist steak accompanied by French fries and a glass of red wine. I wish for a moment that I hadn’t eaten earlier, but I console myself with the thought that it was a better plan. I am now better organised. I don’t, for example, have the hassle of taking all my belongings with me to the buffet car. I have, as it is, to take a small calculated risk by leaving my stowed away belongings whilst I visit the bathroom and clean my teeth. I feel uncomfortable about it, but I am exhausted and it is too complicated. I think, anyway, that taking my mandolin to the bathroom will only attract unnecessary attention to it. I also have enough trouble keeping my balance in the short walk between the compartment and the bathroom. The train seems to move about considerably more than I remembered from the spring rehearsal.
At last I am tucked up in bed and I try to relax and rest. I am not wearing night clothes. I wear instead the underneath layers of my day clothes: a long-sleeved cotton polo neck sweater and cotton leggings. They are chosen for comfort and their quality of being non-creasing. It is the most practical solution to the problem of travelling in this way.
I do not sleep well on the train. I am restless. At times, I become too hot. I remove the blanket a little but I leave the sheet in place. I have arranged it to be folded in half with the fold on the outward edge of the bunk. In this way, I feel I will be contained and less likely to fall out of my lofty bed. I hear the voice of the customs official at the Swiss border. I handed my passport to the carriage steward soon after boarding the train. Passengers are re-issued with their documents in the morning. This ensures that passengers are not disturbed from their sleep. I lie awake on the still train thinking that I have just arrived in Switzerland, the second foreign country of my journey. I also think about the Calace Preludio I have to play for my audition. I run the opening bars over in my head, imagining how my fingers feel to play it. This should send me to sleep but it doesn’t. I remember how once I had found that listening to my own imagined playing of this piece had comforted me in hospital. When I was very ill, it soothed me and made me soporific. Now it only served to increase my anxiety because I worry that I haven’t been able to practise on the journey. Then I worry that I have had insufficient sleep and I will be too tired to play properly.
I stir. I realise something is happening. The train has stopped and I must have finally fallen asleep. A deep loudspeaker voice announces ‘Verona Porta Nuova’. I have arrived in Italy. I look at my watch. It is a quarter to seven. I snuggle under my blanket, feeling its warmth and comfort. Now I don’t want to leave the place of my repose. It seems that all night I struggled to be in a place as relaxing as this and now that I have found it, I must abruptly abandon it. Sluggishly and somewhat resentfully, I make an effort to prepare myself for the day. I put on my boots and my jacket. I tidy the bed. When I have retrieved the ladder – there is only one per compartment – and descended by it, I run my fingers through my hair. I glance in the window at my tangled hairstyle and strategically place a hair band on my head. I feel fractionally more civilised. I join other people in the corridor to watch fields and farms flash by in the ever increasing daylight as we speed towards Padua.
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 i
f 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.
The Mandolin Lesson Page 4