The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  It is about five o’clock and my friend is fortunately in the habit of stopping for a cup of tea at this time in the afternoon. We go inside and find a saucepan to boil some water in. The kitchen is furnished with old-fashioned kitchen cupboards. Ette searches through one of the cupboards for the tea and some biscuits. In the middle of the room is a kitchen table. At one side, the chairs are lined up against the wall, as if in a doctor’s waiting room. We draw two chairs to the table and sit down to drink our tea without milk, and to eat our biscuits. I find myself mirroring my friend, dipping each biscuit into the light brown liquid before placing it in my mouth.

  After our refreshment, we go outside and meet Ette’s mother, Pina, coming into the yard. She had been busy at the other house. I am a little confused by this, but they take me by the arm to show me. We go back to the road from which we had entered. We cross it. As we do, Ette stops and points out a large pink house further along the lane. “That is a monastery,” she tells me. “Just a few monks live there.” There is a beautiful chapel in which special prayers were said for the marriage of Marco and Ette. They attended the chapel with their close family and friends the night before their wedding. Their official wedding was a civil ceremony the following day.

  On the other side of the road, we continue down a dusty track and past a vegetable plot, until we are in front of a magnificent new building. This is the other house. Ette explains that her parents are building a new farmhouse. It is painted white and has brown wooden shutters. At one end there is a covered tiled area with three tall arches, each edged with red brick. This area is for entertaining and was used for her wedding banquet. At the back, there is a locked room which I am shown into. At one end is a built-in brick chimney fitted with spits for barbecuing food. Outside Ette points out the decorations made from corn, which are still in place from the wedding celebrations. She also tells me about the electric blinds that come down between each arch, to provide further protection from the sun.

  Through another door, which is carefully unlocked, we go into the cantina, cellar, where all the future wine production will take place. Ette proudly shows me all the equipment. There is even an office.

  Upstairs, we pass a lemon tree growing in a large terracotta pot. I view the fruit with disbelief and then delight. We climb a small staircase to enter another door. Here is a palatial room with a good acoustic, plain white-washed walls, a red tiled floor and a fireplace at one end. We open a pair of shutters to let the light in. Out of the window, a steeply inclined hill is planted with vines. I am shown an adjoining bathroom that is stylishly up-to-the minute in design and pristinely clean.

  The other end of the building is unfinished. We walk around rooms lined with concrete and look out of the rectangle holes left for windows. Ette and her mother discuss where different things should be. The plan is to make rooms that can be hired out to self-catering tourists. It is a new market developing in Italy called ‘agritourism’. It simply means that the accommodation is on a working farm. As they chatter, the words drift over my head. I have an urge to pinch myself to see if it is true. But it is true. I really am standing in this Italian pastoral paradise.

  We return to the old house. Pina goes inside and Ette takes me for a walk around the fields. These fields are so different from the fields at home, where everywhere is planted with cereal or used for grazing animals. Here the fields are mostly planted with vines, so the vegetation is higher and you have to walk between it. It is like a maze. I feel a sense of innocence with each moment as I notice some new tree or plant: a fig tree, an apricot tree, a cherry tree. I am constantly delighted at each discovery.

  I try to analyse the fascination I have with these plants. The vines, olive trees and fig trees are biblical plants. Perhaps it is a sense of history and a sense of connection with another time and another place. All those New Testament stories with references to these plants are suddenly brought to life and given new meaning.

  I stand for a moment and breathe in the damp, woody smells. The air is so good. I can hear a disorientated cockerel crowing. I gaze out at the sublime panorama and I am filled with pure joy.

  In the kitchen, there is a constant stream of visitors coming and going: family, friends and neighbours bringing things, collecting things or just dropping by for a little chat. They are all introduced to me and I am introduced to them. It is like one continuous party, entertaining and enjoyable, but Ette assures me this is quite normal for her parents. They are always having visitors. I notice the laughter, interest and concern, warmth and affection that is exchanged between them all, and in which I have also become included.

  A wonderful aroma fills the room. It is only a simple tomato sauce, which Pina is cooking, and yet it smells divine. It is made from an onion softened in olive oil, to which homemade passato is added. The passato is just mashed tomatoes, which have been preserved in jars. I do not know whether it is the simple, fresh ingredients or the country air which makes the cooking smell so good. Probably, it is a combination of all of these elements.

  The table is quickly laid with everyone helping, and we all sit down to eat. There are six of us around the table. In addition to Ette, Pina and myself, there is Franca, Ette’s sister, Firmino, Ette’s father, and Gino, who is a farmhand.

  We begin with spaghetti and the tomato sauce. The Parmesan cheese is passed around, as is bread, and Gino pours red wine into our glasses. It is delicious. Next, there is a choice of local cheese, homemade salami or a slice of home-reared steak. I choose the steak and accompany it with salad leaves dressed in olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. The salad is undressed and we all add our own seasoning to our own taste. Somehow I seem to have become ravenous and I accept a second helping of the steak, which nobody else seems to want. It is pan-fried, thin and melts in the mouth.

  I have been trying to follow the conversation whilst I have been absorbed in enjoying my food, but it has been hard to follow. I thought that the difficulty might have been because I was getting tired or because I was concentrating on the food. Now I discover that the men have been talking in dialetto, dialect. Ette warned me that her father talked mostly in Veneto dialect, but I had forgotten all about it. Suddenly, as they turn their attention towards me, I find I am having a comprehensive discussion about the European community and current farming practices in Italy. I feel elated at being able to communicate with them about their life and work. They too seem delighted. Firmino invites me to return with my family for a holiday. It is a very generous offer and I am delighted by it, but I think it is unlikely that we will be able to take it up. This summer, I am probably going to Spain.

  *

  Early Sunday morning, when it is still dark, Ette knocks on my bedroom door to wake me up. In the kitchen, Pina prepares me coffee. She hands me the sugar and offers me biscuits, which I accept. We whisper quietly so as not to wake the others.

  The car journey is mostly silent except for the English-speaking radio station, broadcast from the American Forces base. The sun rises and the mountains look dramatic. I feel confused: I am anxious to get home but also want to stay.

  At Verona airport, Ette stops the car momentarily whilst I get out. I thank her for everything and tell her I will ring her soon with news of my next visit. I will try to get a flight directly to Bologna. We kiss each other on both cheeks. This has certainly been a memorable mandolin lesson.

  9

  It is the first week of May and I am returning to Bologna directly. I have managed to purchase a cheap ticket on a chartered flight from Gatwick airport.

  The flight is a bit cramped and the service brusque. I find myself sitting near an exit and I am not particularly happy that they have to take my mandolin away to store it under a stranger’s seat. The Italian lady next to me is even less happy about them taking away her precious box containing a china tea set.

  At Bologna airport, Ette is extremely pleased with my travel arrangements since the airport is only ten minutes away from her home. I am also pleased that, despite th
e minor discomforts of the flight, I am just minutes from Ette’s flat only two hours after leaving English soil. In addition, my ticket has cost me half the price of the train fare.

  The mandolin lesson is the source of more confusion this month. I am alarmed to learn that there is no lesson at Padua. At the same time, I am delighted to hear that Ette is taking part in a concert with I Solisti Veneti. She and Ugo are to be soloists in the Vivaldi double mandolin concerto, and I am to accompany her to the rehearsal and performance. If my understanding is correct, I am to have my lesson between the rehearsal and the concert.

  I have to say that I do feel a little bit anxious about all this. It is quite a big responsibility booking air flights when I can barely afford the cost. Naturally, I check the dates are convenient with everybody in Italy before I confirm a reservation. However, it is disconcerting when the plans change after I have made the reservation. Economy tickets cannot be changed once they are booked. From this point of view, the whole operation of commuting to a foreign country for music lessons is a risky business.

  The concert is in a place called Sabbioneta in Lombardy. I had never heard of it. We travel north-west by car, taking the motorway from Bologna towards Milan. At Parma, we turn right and progress northwards towards Mantua. Just after we cross the River Po, we turn left onto a local road, which takes us the short distance to Sabbioneta.

  Our arrival in the town of Sabbioneta comes after a hot and tiring journey. It is mid-afternoon and nothing much is open. We find a bar and we each buy a cone of ice cream. The streets are dark and narrow, offering shelter from the desiccating sun. We stand in the shade, greedily eating our melting and messy ice-cream cones.

  We walk a short way to find the venue for the rehearsal and concert, the Teatro Olimpico. It is locked and there is no one around. We walk around the surrounding streets trying to amuse ourselves. The streets are lined with buildings from the late Renaissance. There is a wealth of history to explore here, but we are preoccupied with the rehearsal and the fact that no one has arrived and the theatre is closed. We are unable to concentrate on the details of our surroundings. We just absorb the atmosphere, ancient and full of shadows.

  We meet a couple of people from the orchestra. They say that the theatre is now open, so we collect our belongings from the car and go to investigate. The theatre is refreshingly cool inside. Built in 1588, it has a simple wooden stage and an auditorium constructed of tiered wooden steps in a horseshoe shape. These wooden steps or benches are the seating for the audience. I am taken aback by the age and simplicity of the design. High up at the back of the theatre is a little balcony with classical statues of ancient Olympians. Apparently the building is modelled on Palladio’s theatre at Vicenza, which I haven’t yet seen.

  Eventually Ugo arrives and so do the rest of the orchestra. It transpires that the coach bringing most of the orchestra has been held up in motorway congestion caused by a car accident.

  Quickly, the orchestra assembles itself on the stage and starts to rehearse. Up until now, the journey, the waiting and the heat have all conspired to make me feel lethargic with the tedium of the day – but with the first vibrations of sound emanating from the players, and resonating around the teatro, I am awakened and energised. Claudio Scimone, the conductor, puts the orchestra through its paces and it is a fascinating process to watch. One of the works in the programme is, most inappropriately for this heat, the Winter Concerto from Vivalidi’s Four Seasons. Scimone’s slim body moves lithely, sometimes with vigour to establish the characteristic pulsating rhythms and at other times with softness to coax the most delicate pianissimo. At the moment when all the violins play tremolo, to imitate teeth chattering with cold, I see the conductor pretending to shiver with cold. This exuberance may seem over the top to some people, but it gives me great pleasure to see musicians enjoying their music and the sense of drama seems to enhance the performance.

  Before the rehearsal is quite complete, I notice with some amusement that two ladies have already begun to wash the tiled floor at the front of the auditorium. How lovely it is that with the simplicity of a mop and water, the dust is banished.

  There isn’t much time before the concert is due to begin and there isn’t much space in the communal changing rooms. Thus, I find myself backstage, in the wings of the Teatro Olimpico, Sabbioneta, having my mandolin lesson. We improvise, using a table as a music stand, and there are no chairs so we have to stand up to play.

  We study the Barbella sonata for the impending exam.

  My teacher is anxious to show me the character of each movement, as well as to clarify technical details. Often, the two are imperceptibly entwined. In the opening Largo, he demonstrates how to play various chords. The plectrum must be as light as possible. It must glide gently over the strings in order to allow the strings to vibrate as much as possible. In this way, the instrument is given the optimum chance to make the most beautiful sound. If the plectrum is held with tension and the strings are hit harshly, the sound is strangled because the strings aren’t allowed to vibrate freely.

  I watch my teacher playing effortlessly, as if the plectrum were a feather stroking silken strings. I find it difficult to relax and feel the same sense of abandon. I try too hard to imitate what I have been shown and I struggle with the plastic plectrum and the metal strings.

  Surprisingly, the Fugato goes well. The rhythms of this third movement are straightforward and I understand the concept of a fugue with its conversational style. I am able to forget the plectrum and just enjoy the music.

  The Andantino is marked ‘alla Francese’, which, according to my teacher, implies inequality of notes. This means that the movement has to be played in the French style – that is, the style favoured in France during the Baroque era. It means that pairs of even notes are executed with the first note of each pair longer and the second note shorter. This tradition of playing notes unequally is well known in less formal traditions such as folk and jazz music. However, I will have to make quite an effort to remember to play the music differently from how it is notated. I also make a mental note to look up the subject of inequality in one of my books on performance practice when I return home.

  I mention that I have managed to make some arrangements for the Spanish plectrum course. This news is met with approval. I have booked a villa in Rioja for my family. It is in a quiet hamlet, some distance from Longroño, roughly about three quarters of an hour’s drive. It is difficult to be sure because some of the roads are in the depth of untamed countryside.

  Our playing and our discussion are interrupted from time to time with people brushing past or asking a question. Now the auditorium is filling up and my teacher takes me to find a place to sit. We walk right through the auditorium and out the back into the foyer, through a small door and up some tiny twisting stairs. I find myself amongst half a dozen special guests sitting on the small balcony, high up at the rear of the auditorium. It gives me a wonderful view and a good sound.

  The concert is brilliant: the music is exquisitely beautiful and well-received by the audience. Afterwards, there is a buffet supper backstage, consisting of bread, salami, prosciutto, cheese, slices of pizza, wine and water.

  On the way home, as we drive along the motorway at midnight, we see flashing lights searching the night sky. Ette says it is a discotheque.

  10

  It is the final day of May and I am returning for my June lesson. It seems strange to think that I was in Italy at the beginning of the month and now I am here for the end of the month. As I missed February I am anxious to take the opportunity to fit in another lesson, despite the fact that the course officially closes for the summer holiday at the start of June.

  When I meet Ette, she tells me that my lesson has been rearranged for Saturday. She also wonders if I would mind if we visited her parents’ farm this weekend. It is the harvest of the cherries that allures her to return home. Naturally, I am delighted by the prospect of revisiting the farm.

  *

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p; On Saturday, I take the train from Bologna to Padua and attend the Conservatorio for my lesson. Everything is progressing well with my playing and I feel content. When the lesson is finished, I return to the station, as arranged, to meet Marco and Ette who are coming by car from Bologna. Together, we continue on to Breganze.

  At the farm, we are told that Ette’s parents are in the fields. Ette and I go to look for them. We are met with an extraordinary sight. A white figure resembling a beekeeper is high up in the tree. On closer inspection, it turns out to be Ette’s mum dressed in men’s overalls. The tree trembles as Pina divests it of its fruit. On the ground, Gino holds a ladder and a basket. Pina descends from the tree and inspects the harvest, which is divided between a number of baskets. We all help to carry the baskets back to the house, tramping between the leafy vines.

  In the kitchen, Ette and I sit at the table sorting out the cherries. We spread newspaper on the table and tip the contents of the baskets onto the surface. Then, we begin to divide them into three categories: the best and most perfect cherries, the slightly bruised cherries, and the bad and mouldy cherries. The three different piles of fruit slowly rise up and are then dispersed into cardboard boxes, which Pina has found. Each cherry is dark red, like the colour of wine. The best specimens have skins that gleam as if they have been polished. Ette continually samples cherries as she sorts through them. She encourages me to do the same, but I am reticent. A little pile of stones is growing at the corner edge of the table near her elbow. We are both so happy, laughing and chattering as we sort through the mound of fruit. So many of the cherries are complete with stalks and many of these are joined in pairs or threes. Suddenly we are little girls again, bedecking our ears with the most beautiful jewels that nature has to offer. We giggle as we show off our dangling earrings to each other and then settle again to the meditative work of sorting. It is a simple, soothing pleasure.