The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  *

  At Verona, I catch a bus to the station. I have just missed the train to Bologna. It is late afternoon and quite warm. I phone Ette and tell her the time of the train I am catching and she says that she will meet me at the station. I have a little time to waste, so I find a table at one of the station’s bars and I order a toast and cappuccino. The toast is really a toasted sandwich with a filling of ham and cheese. I sit quietly savouring my snack and watching the world go by.

  *

  The train to Bologna hurtles across the plains of Emilia-Romagna. The landscape is so flat in comparison to the train route between Milan and Venice. I look at the distant farmhouses, each with their row of protective trees. The late afternoon sun envelops the fields in amber light. The train is warm. I am sitting on the left, but those on the right have drawn every available piece of curtain to protect themselves. There are a number of windows open in my open-plan carriage and the ensuing breeze is humid. I feel quite mellow and sleepy.

  *

  As I step down from the train, I see a familiar face. Ette has somehow chosen the correct spot on a long busy platform to meet me. She smiles at me and greets me like a long-lost friend. In these first minutes of our meeting, I have such a sense of welcome and being cared for.

  We drive to her flat in her white Ford Fiesta. The slow chaos of city traffic gives way to the speed and order of the tangenziale, the by-pass. We appear to be heading into the country on a motorway, but my friend tells me that we are still in Bologna, just moving towards the periferia – the outskirts. All around, I can see farmland and rustic dwellings scattered here and there. In the distance, I notice the cupola of an important landmark: the Sanctuary of the Madonna di San Luca. To the right are the tennis courts where her husband, Marco, plays tennis. To the left, there is a new shopping mall and a huge sporting stadium that sometimes acts as a venue for pop concerts.

  Abruptly, we leave the motorway. We wind our way through a country lane. On the right, there is a house with neatly tended grapevines and chickens running between them. A dog barks as we drive past. I notice trees covered in pink and white blossom. The white trees are pesca, peach, and the pink ones are ciliegia, cherry. Ette explains that she is passionate about cherries and that her parents grow copious quantities of them on their farm. I ask about the farm. Her parents are almost self-sufficient, but their main source of income is from the growing of grapes for wine production. I am absolutely enchanted by this connection with country life.

  At the end of the country lane is a T-junction with a main road. Opposite is a row of shops and a bus stop. We turn right, then almost immediately left. Behind the shops is a new housing development: blocks of flats coloured in shades of apricot and cream. We have reached our destination.

  The flat is on the first floor and reached by a lift, although there are stairs for emergencies. It faces the elements, with a red tiled pathway connecting the entrances of all the dwellings on this level. I look over the iron balustrade, down at the communal gardens below, and then return my gaze to the flat. The hidden windows are secure with closed brown shutters. Ette struggles with the keys for the heavy wooden door. She turns them many times, it seems, and finally the door is released and falls open.

  Inside it is dark at first and we have to put on the hall light whilst the shutters are opened to let in the daylight.

  It is a simple and stylish flat. Painted white throughout, it is furnished with a blend of ultra-modern and dark antique-looking furniture. In the living area, there is a contemporary sofa in creamy, off-white colour fabric. This is contrasted with a dark wooden table and a sideboard. The walls are also embellished with the same juxtaposition of old and new. On one wall, there are framed prints that are about one hundred years old. On another wall, there are soft, dreamy sketches of reclining nude ladies, drawn by a friend of the family who resides in Vicenza.

  Ette gives me a guided tour. It is a bit unusual, she tells me, in that the flat is on two levels. The entrance area gives way to the L-shaped living space. Immediately on the right of the front door is a door leading into the kitchen. Opposite the kitchen, on the left of the front door, is a small second bathroom. There are two more doors on the right, after the kitchen. The first leads to the cupboard under the stairs, which is useful storage space for shoes and coats. I will find spare carta igenica, toilet paper, if I need any. The second door leads to the stairs.

  At the top of the stairs is the main bathroom and three bedrooms, one of which is laid out as a study.

  In the room that is to be mine, Ette thoughtfully shows me how to operate the shutters for the windows. On this floor, all the shutters are adjusted with internal chords. The chord is pulled downwards in order to raise the shutter and is pulled towards you in order to lower it. I had found these difficult to operate in the past but the mystery is now dispelled. It is just a matter of knowing the technique of how to do it. Now, it is effortless and no longer a struggle. It is even possible to adjust the shutter so that there are little gaps between the metal slats, enabling a glimmer of light to permeate the room in the morning. I prefer not to sleep in the absolute dark so favoured by Italians and I like to know when morning has arrived.

  Ette is at pains to make sure I understand that I should relax and feel at home. She tells me that I may take a shower, watch television, read, whatever I like. There is a little time before her husband arrives home and she has preparations to attend to in the kitchen. She asks me whether I like turkey and asparagus and I assure her that I do. She leaves me alone to unpack.

  There isn’t a great deal to unpack but I am glad of these few minutes alone. My bed is of the metal fold-up variety, which is used for occasional visitors. It is simple but clean, comfortable and perfectly adequate. A woollen crocheted blanket, made up of different coloured squares, covers the bed. I haven’t seen a blanket such as this since my childhood. My grandmother made one that I had on my bed, but it was knitted, not crocheted. I admire the stitches, mostly trebles. They are similar to the treble pattern of the black jacket I am making. The jacket is really a crochet cardigan that I am making in black for my concerts. The idea was inspired by the preponderance of lace I have seen at Italian concerts and the difficulty I have in getting suitable clothes for my own concerts.

  I look around the room. It is light and airy. There are white muslin curtains at the window. On one side, there are fitted wardrobes with plain white doors. In a recess between two pairs of double doors is an old-fashioned wardrobe in dark wood. It has a mirror on the door and is not dissimilar to one I have at home. This wardrobe is really the linen cupboard. Inside are shelves packed with towels, sheets and pillowcases. Ette introduced me to the linen cupboard in case I had need of extra towels or an extra cover for the bed. I peep inside at the neatly folded linen. I love the traditional pillowcases and smooth linen towels with their edges, handcrafted in crochet or embroidery. Some of them even have boarders delicately decorated with holes made by drawing the threads of the fabric away.

  I close the door of the cupboard gently and go downstairs, to investigate the progress of the preparations for dinner.

  At dinner, I meet Ette’s husband, Marco, who is an engineer. Engineering is the most esteemed of professions in Italy. Both Giovanna’s father and brother are also engineers, and I am proud to say that my father is a retired engineer. In Italy, he would be well-regarded.

  We eat our meal in the small kitchen. Behind me, there is a portable television on the counter, which informs us with the news programme, the telegornale, and entertains us with the publicità, or adverts. The turkey is wafer-thin slices of breast, pan-fried with a creamy asparagus sauce. The sauce is delicious and we all mop up the residue with bits of bread.

  *

  I sleep well, despite the heat. I drink freshly squeezed orange juice and tea without milk for breakfast. I also consume a good quantity of biscuits since there is nothing else. The biscuits are excellent but I am not sure they will sustain me until lunchtime. I don�
�t eat a traditional cooked English breakfast at home, except on special occasions, but I do like to eat cereal with fresh milk. I can see that the lack of cereal and fresh milk is going to take some getting used to.

  The plan is that Ette will accompany me to the lesson today, taking me by car to the station and showing me the route. She has also realised that I have brought the wrong clothes with me; they are too warm for this weather. She shows me a selection of T-shirts and asks me to select one. I choose a beautiful turquoise blue. This, with my leggings and navy blue blazer, make a passable outfit. We hardly know each other yet, so I am a little embarrassed to borrow the T-shirt, but I am also touched by her kindness.

  Before we depart, Ette cleans the floors throughout the flat, easily and quickly, by passing a kind of broom, with its head covered in a duster, over the surfaces. Her husband suffers from an allergy to dust and pollen. She likes to keep the floors clean by attending to them regularly. The floors are tiled and easy to clean in this manner. My house is full of fitted carpets and the most rigorous vacuuming has little effect on dust levels. Even steam cleaning and shampooing are only temporarily effective. I am most interested in these easy-to-clean floors.

  *

  The trip to Padua goes smoothly. I am keen to notice every detail of the passing countryside. Mists enshroud the flat fields. Later, they will disappear as the scorching heat of the sun pervades the atmosphere. I fancy that the fields look flooded. We pass over a huge suspension bridge above a wide and energetic river I take to be the Po. I ask Ette if the flooded fields are where the rice is grown, but she is not sure. I buy Italian brown rice at home and I am interested to know where it is grown. Ette, like me, is new to this region. She has only lived in Bologna since her marriage in the autumn. Marco’s family live in Bologna, but Ette’s family is from Breganze, north of Vicenza.

  The train journey takes just over an hour and a quarter. We are taking the faster EuroCity train for which we have had to pay the supplemento, an extra charge. The EuroCity is an international express train and our train is going to Vienna via Venice. Once again, I notice the feeling of being connected to other European countries in a way I have not been used to in England.

  *

  The lesson also goes well. I must begin to prepare a sonata in D major by Emanuelle Barbella for the lower diploma that I shall have to take in the autumn. Apparently, there is a recording of the Barbella played by Fabio Menditto. I scribble the details in my notebook for later investigation.

  Another issue raised in the lesson was the business of summer mandolin courses. The Maestro thinks it would be helpful for me to attend the plectrum course in Spain. It is to be held in Logroño in Rioja and he is to be one of the course tutors. A number of other students are planning to go. I don’t know what to say about this unexpected proposal. I start to say something but no sound emerges. I clear my throat and manage to croak that I will think about it. Privately, I can’t help thinking that I have enough on my hands just coming to Italy without entertaining a new project of a trip to Spain.

  *

  Friday morning is taken up with a trip into central Bologna. We leave the car parked just outside the historic centre and take a bus from Via Saragozza the rest of the way. From the bus stop onwards, I am aware of the perpetual portici, arcades, which line the streets everywhere. Seemingly, they were built in the twelfth century to house thousands of university students. Originally, they were built over the streets on to existing buildings. Over the centuries, the Bolognese, mindful of the protection they offer from the elements, continued to add further portici. I have read that Bologna has more portici than any other city in the world – more than 35 km to be precise.

  When we alight from the bus, I am taken on a fleeting tour of some of the principal sights. We walk across Piazza Maggiore, scattering the pigeons as we go. The sides are flanked by overgrown medieval palazzi, but the largest building is the Basilica di San Petronio – a symbol of municipal prestige. Everywhere I see the characteristic red bricks of Bologna, instead of the marble and ornate plaster decorations that are used so extensively in other parts of Italy to indicate wealth and importance. I try to drink in every detail, but we do not linger as long as we might since we have a pressing task to undertake. We are shopping for English books – that is to say, books for learning English.

  In a nearby street, we find a bookshop and descend into the basement to find language books. We look through the various books and Ette seems to like the two that I advise her as suitable. We purchase them and return to the dazzling sunshine and smart shop windows, filled with designer labels and the sartorial elegance of luxury bags, shoes and suits.

  In a gastronomic shop, we select some cheese for lunch. Both cheeses are local and one is smoked.

  We catch the bus and return to Via Saragozza. Ette wants to show me the church of San Luca set on a hill and reached by a long uphill walk through yet more portici. We cheat and go most of the way by car. The views from outside the Sanctuary of the Madonna of San Luca are stunning. The south of the city is skirted by luscious green hills planted with grapevines. Looking back at the city centre, I see the patchwork of terracotta roofs pierced at intervals by the campaniles of various churches.

  On the way home, we stop to visit the mama di Marco, Marco’s mother and Ette’s mother-in-law. The street is quiet and full of lush gardens surrounding low blocks of flats, with about three floors. The gardens are protected with fences of metal railings. Ette presses a button by the side of the gate. Some incomprehensible speech comes from the metal grill at the side. Ette replies and we hear a buzz and a click. The gate swings open and our attention is drawn above our heads to the balcony, where a smiling lady is waving and calling.

  ‘Ciao,’ the lady says, with obvious pleasure at seeing us.

  Ette explains that she is Marco’s mother. Inside, we are formally introduced.

  Marco’s mother is cheerful and chatty. She has prepared some pasta for Ette to take home, but first we sit down to have a little chat. She asks me about my journey and what we have been doing this morning. We tell her about our visit to the church of San Luca. She asks whether we walked up the hill under the portici and we say that we drove there in the car. Marco’s mother says it is a beautiful walk and especially useful as a kind of penitential pilgrimage. For a moment, her expression is wistful. I ask her about the cloth and pattern, pinned and half-cut on the table. Suddenly, she is animated again. She works part-time as a tailor. An unfinished jacket adorns a dressmaker’s dummy behind me. The sun streams in through the balcony door and illuminates the pale wooden floor. I tell her that my mother is a gifted dressmaker and we have lots to talk about.

  As we prepare to leave, Marco’s mother darts into her tiny kitchen and retrieves foil containers from the freezer. The containers are filled with homemade lasagne. She places them in a plastic carrier bag and we take our leave.

  *

  The cheese we have purchased for lunch is served fried. I had imagined that we would eat it just as it was. Accompanied by salad, it is surprisingly good, but too rich and filling for either of us to finish the last mouthful. We thankfully retire to our respective bedrooms for an afternoon rest.

  *

  The evening is partly taken up with Ette’s evening class in difesa personale, self-defence. I accompany her to the palestra, the sports-centre. I am really pleased at this opportunity because I have always wanted to attend a self-defence course. Although I am only allowed to observe, I am sure I shall learn something from the experience.

  *

  Saturday brings a problem that needs to be resolved. My flight leaves Verona just before eight o’clock on Sunday morning. It is very early and after I booked it, I realised I would have some difficulty getting from Bologna to the airport. I tried to book a hotel room, just for the Saturday night in Verona, but I was unable to find a place because it was the week of the Agricultural Trade Fair.

  There is a train that travels through the night, but it is uncerta
in, despite enquiries, whether the bus connecting the station and airport will be operating early in the morning.

  Ette is unhappy about this journey and feels the only solution is for me to go with her to her parents’ farm, and to stay there for the Saturday night. She will drive me to the airport in the morning and then continue on home to Bologna. I am anxious not to cause her or her family any inconvenience, but she is sure that this is the best plan.

  *

  North of Vicenza, and after several hours of dull motorway driving, we are approaching Breganze. As we enter the village, we look up into the hills ahead and see at their summit a life-size cross. Ette tells me that when we reach the cross, we will have reached her parent’s farm.

  We negotiate steep gradients and tricky bends in the narrow leafy lanes of the hills. The car struggles and strains to take us higher and higher. We drive through a concealed entrance and find ourselves in a farmyard. Behind us as we drive in, on one side of the yard, is an ancient farmhouse. We park on the right side of the yard. On the other side is a row of barns used for housing animals and storage. As we get out of the car and stretch the stiffness from our bodies, I can see just how high up we are. In the foreground, the land falls away in a series of gentle pleats. We are facing south and I notice how incredibly flat the land is in the distance. It seems to stretch for miles and disappears into a lavender haze, which makes the meeting point of sky and land indistinguishable.

  Ette runs across to the barn to greet the dogs. There are five dogs, each with their respective kennel under the shelter of an open section of the barn. All the dogs bark excitedly, vying for attention. Ette talks to each one in turn, patting and fondling their ears. Her chatter is high-pitched with feverish rhythms. I cannot understand this Italian dog talk. They are extremely appreciative of her attention and affection. She obviously adores them and misses them terribly. The one with long ears and long, wavy copper hair wags his tail the most. He is her special one: the one that belonged to her when she lived at home. I remember seeing a beautiful photo of them posing together at the flat.