The evening is taken up with a special supper put on for the friends of Ette’s parents. Apparently, the weather isn’t that good. It seems fine to me. The consequence is that it has been decided that eating will take place indoors in the new house. Long tables have been laid out with white tablecloths in the room with the built-in barbecue. Gino is in charge of building the fire and brings twigs and other suitable wood to the hearth. Pina explains that there isn’t room for the wives as the meal is inside, so only the men will be attending. Ette’s sister is going out for the evening with her friends. Thus there are only three ladies, Ette, her mum and myself, amongst a male-dominated gathering.
There are lots of jobs to be done, so I busy myself with carrying and fetching things. There are big bowls of pasta salad to be eaten before the roast meat and big bowls of salad leaves to follow. There is also a collection of desserts, covered over with clothes to protect them from flies. I help to set the tables with cutlery, glasses and serviettes. I feel really pleased to be included as part of the team. When everything is organised, Ette and I go back to the old house to use the bathroom and to change for dinner.
On our return, the party has already started. In the courtyard, guests are chatting and drinking glasses of wine. Gino is cutting up homemade salami. He carefully removes the outer skins of the sausage slices and places them on pieces of toasted bread, which have been rubbed with garlic and drizzled with olive oil. He offers me one and I accept. It is delicious.
The air is warm and sweetly fragrant with the smell of wood smoke and roasting meat. I notice the progress of the lemons on the little tree by the steps. A bird is singing blissfully and for a few moments I am still, alone with my own thoughts. I feel so tremendously lucky just to be here, overlooking hills draped in vines. I reflect upon the people I would love to share this view with.
Abruptly my introspection is shattered, as I become the centre of attention. Everyone it seems is introduced to me. Some want to practise their English. Others are interested in my reasons for visiting Italy, my music and my thoughts on Italian life and culture. Others still want to know about England and English life. I become involved in lots of different conversations. Each one is fascinating and thoroughly enjoyable. I am so busy talking that I could easily forget to eat. However, I love good food too and somehow I manage to juggle the two activities of which Italians are so passionate: eating and talking.
The roast pigeon is very good and much better than I had expected. I was cautious in accepting the meat because I have only tried pigeon once before and that was in a pie cooked by Giovanna’s mother. In the pie, it had been combined with a variety of other ingredients and it is difficult to recall exactly, or to separate in my memory, the flavour. This time, though, the meat is excellent. Simply roasted with olive oil and rosemary over a wood fire, the gamy flavours emerge. It is beautifully moist with a tasty, crunchy texture on the outside.
There is also a choice of roast farm-reared pork, which I had declined, not being a great fan of pork. Ette prefers the pork and brings over a morsel, which she insists I try. My prejudice melts away. It is also excellent.
As the meal drifts towards its conclusion, the dessert is served – a choice between fresh fruit salad and tiramisù. Unexpectedly, it is accompanied by music as chatter on the other side of the room dissolves into singing. The singing is high spirited but it certainly isn’t drunken singing. Rather it is cultured; operatic arias and traditional songs sung in dialect.
Pina serves coffee and a bottle of grappa is passed along the tables for those who like a shot of it in their coffee. Three tenor voices soar above the others in competition with each other. First, they try to outdo each other by singing the loudest and longest note. After this power struggle, they give way to a more refined approach by seeing who can ornament the end of the phrase with the greatest art. They trill and twiddle with notes to their own – and to our – amusement. Then, one of the tenors decides he wants to sing a song especially for me. I have to go and stand by him whilst he performs a love song with exaggerated operatic gestures. I feel a mixture of being slightly embarrassed and, at the same time, being greatly honoured by this serenade.
The singing is quite remarkable. These are ordinary folk doing ordinary jobs and yet they are singing the music of their heritage, the music that underpins western art music and is often thought to be the music of the privileged. The singing is an expression of pure joy and a celebration of life. Tonight it is the men of Breganze who are privileged, to know this joy and to be engaged in this celebration.
At about midnight, I return to the old house accompanied by Ette and Marco, who holds a small torch. I am tired but happy. It is pitch black and we huddle together following the tiny pool of torchlight. As we stumble along the dusty track, we notice lights twinkling in the distance and we comment upon the sound of the men, still singing and laughing, which fades away behind us.
*
After Sunday lunch, I help Ette and her mum with the final bit of clearing up after the previous evening’s meal. Ette and I sweep the tiled floor of the room where we had eaten and of the courtyard outside. Pina washes with a mop after we have swept. I look out over the hills and catch myself thinking that this is fun, even therapeutic. I don’t understand my thought process. I absolutely hate the chores at home.
I follow Ette and her mum to the orto, the vegetable garden. We pick green salad leaves. Ette shows me which ones are best. Normally, I don’t like doing this kind of job. I worry about the insects and getting dirty. Now I am not thinking about those things, I am just noticing the lacy edge of the leaves. I don’t know this plant and I ask what it is called. Rucola, I am told. I am none the wiser, it is completely new to me. It is strange but I am like a small child, wanting to know everything about their world. Ette tells me that it is very good as a salad leaf and we are taking a quantity back to Bologna with us, so we will be able to try it. She also promises to show me a very good recipe, which uses rucola with pasta.
We pack the car with our overnight bags, the mandolin and the food, cherries, rucola, farm-reared steak and homemade salami.
In Bologna, Ette shows me the recipe for rucola with pasta. Whilst the pasta is cooking, a tub of mascarpone cheese, another new ingredient to me, is heated together with a little butter in a saucepan. When the two ingredients are melted and nicely amalgamated, the rucola is added and allowed to wilt just like spinach. This only takes a minute. Finally, the cooked pasta is folded into the mixture and is served with a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese. It is a superb dish, simple and nourishing. It would make a good light supper just on its own. I add lots of freshly ground black pepper to my bowl of pasta and I think I would add the cheese to the saucepan at the final stage of preparation, just before serving.
Ette and I discuss plans for the summer. My idea to go to Spain for the plectrum course has come to nothing as a result of a letter I received just before coming to Italy. The letter explained that, unfortunately, no one else had booked our ‘off the tourist trail’ villa and the owners had decided to withdraw it from the brochure. We could have a full refund of our deposit or choose another villa, but neither option helps with the course. The brochure doesn’t feature other villas near to Longroño.
I discover from a phone conversation with Giovanna that there is to be a mandolin course in Brescia, the week before the Spanish course. This would be far more convenient. Ette suggests that I take up her parents’ offer to bring my family to stay on the farm, whilst I attend the mandolin course in Brescia. It seems an excellent plan.
11
I have returned to the farm with my family. Both my husband and my son are delighted with the location, although for different reasons. My husband dreams of a life of self-sufficiency in the country, whilst my son is liberated in a way he has not yet experienced – by being free to wander outside the house by himself. In our London suburb, children are not encouraged to play outside in the street or to go with their friends to the park. We are constantly f
ed information, which makes parents believe, rightly or wrongly, that our streets are unsafe. Here, though, it feels secure and comfortable.
We are staying in the room in the new house, which is at the top of the steps by the lemon tree. Two of the lemons have been harvested and are now in our room. Pina has thoughtfully placed them with a knife on a small plate, along with tea-making things, in case we want to make a cup of tea in the privacy of our own room.
I decide to have a little practice whilst my family have gone off to explore our new environment. I put the mandolin case on the bed and open it up. There is just one shutter partially open and I need a little more light, so I open up another shutter. As I open the shutter, the sun pours in, immediately lighting up the previously darkened room as if I had switched a light on.
It is late afternoon and I begin to play the Conforto mandolin concerto, which I am preparing for the exam I am taking in the autumn.
“Da-da-da-da, dum dum, dum dum. Da-da-da-da, dum dum, dum dum.”
I sing the opening bars and play at the same time. I try to be conscious of the pulse to make sure my timing is secure, but I am troubled at first by the opening semiquavers. On my copy of the music, the words ‘right hand molto rilassato’ have been written. Molto rilassato meaning very relaxed. Also written, in capital letters, is the word ‘LIGHT’. This word and the other words are instructions written by the Maestro. The right hand is required to be light and relaxed, so that the music is fluid and delicate. Somehow, the semiquavers at the beginning seem too fast. I seem to play them awkwardly and I feel that sensation when you trip over something and then recover your balance, and feel for a few seconds out of control.
After a few more attempts, I recover sufficiently to satisfy myself and the music continues to dance along happily. My notes blend and merge alternately with the murmur of a cicada and the sound of a gentle breeze rustling the vine leaves. In a performance of the concerto, a small ensemble of string instruments would accompany the mandolin: a few violins, a cello and perhaps a harpsichord. In an exam, for practical reasons, the piano would provide a prosaic accompaniment. Here, the sounds of nature conspire together to make an improvised and poetic accompaniment.
I play for some time. When I stop, the sun is lower but still potent. Outside, its heat seeps into everything: the soil, the plants, the stones, and even people. Inside, it is cool. I love the simplicity of my surroundings. The bare white walls are conducive to study, giving the room an atmosphere of a studio. It is plain and without distraction. An echo enhances the sound of my mandolin. I am undisturbed, solitary in my sanctuary. It feels as if a few minutes have elapsed, but when I look at my watch I realise that the minutes are hours. Bliss.
*
After lunch on Saturday, Pina thinks we should explore the environs. She suggests that we go to Marostica to look at the scacchi. She keeps talking about the scacchi (pronounced scakki) and tries to explain their significance, but I am none the wiser. I really don’t know what she is talking about and I have left my pocket dictionary over at the new house. She also thinks we could take in Bassano del Grappa. She arranges for us to take a family friend as a guide, a doctor from Milan who is also staying for a few days at the farm.
The doctor, a heart surgeon, is elderly, gentle in manner and speaks some English.
Refreshed from a post-lunch nap, we drive towards Marostica. It is about four o’clock in the afternoon and everywhere there are signs of life sleepily stirring. A shutter opens, out of a door an old man shuffles, and young people congregate on motorcycles. It seems so strange venturing out at this time of day. In England, the shops would soon be shutting, instead of opening up for the second half of the day’s trading.
The sun is still blinding and blistering hot. My husband is driving, I am sitting in the back with my son, and the doctor is sitting in the front passenger seat. Unexpectedly there is some confusion about the turning to take and, simultaneously, the crazy antics of a car overtaking us on a bend. Somehow, in the confusion, my husband accidentally knocks his sunglasses off. From where I am sitting, it is difficult to understand exactly what happened. I only know that the glasses have fallen off and as they are retrieved from the floor, it becomes apparent that they are broken. My husband is extremely agitated because the sun is so bright and it is difficult to concentrate on an unknown road.
When we park outside the city walls of Marostica, our first task is to find a new pair of sunglasses. A pair of sunglasses, as well as being a fashion statement, is an essential item in Italy. The sun is so much stronger than in England and it is also consistent, giving a predictable summer. Despite changes in the weather pattern, caused in recent years by the greenhouse effect, we still suffer capricious weather during the summer months at home.
Almost immediately, we find a shop that sells cameras, binoculars and sunglasses. As we walk inside, I feel a sense of trepidation, knowing that my husband finds shopping for personal things stressful, and I fear that we might be heading for a family crisis. A middle-aged man behind the glass counter is deep in conversation with a customer interested in a camera. A lady, possibly the shopkeeper’s wife, comes to our rescue. I tell her that my husband needs a new pair of sunglasses. She shows us to another counter at the other end of the shop. We show her the broken pair and she takes out about six pairs of metal frame glasses, which are similar in design. My husband tries on the different pairs. He looks at himself in a mirror that stands on the counter. He rejects one or two pairs. The lady attentively wipes and cleans the lenses of the glasses to be tried and, when necessary, makes adjustments to the glasses with a small screwdriver. The whole process is intensely fascinating.
Eventually, it seems that my spouse has tried on just about every pair of spectacles in the shop. In reality, we have probably only looked at about twenty pairs. My opinion is sought yet again, but there is still a flicker of indecision in the purchaser’s mind. It is between two pairs of glasses. Both are fine, but I have expressed my preference. I am astonished at the assistant’s patience. She is not at all bothered. The doctor also has an opinion. He feels that one pair is supremely better than the other pair. They are more elegant and more refined for a man. It is done. My husband produces a plastic card and unflinchingly pays the designer frame price for what is undoubtedly the best pair of sunglasses he has ever owned.
Outside the shop, looking every inch an Italian behind the new shades, my husband informs me that he was sold this pair of glasses. I don’t quite comprehend his meaning for a moment. I wonder is he dissatisfied? Then he clarifies his position and explains that the assistant took an inordinate amount of care and time to make sure that he bought the correct pair, the most suitable pair. I had to agree with him. We had had wonderful service and the shopping was a pleasurable experience.
In the piazza of Marostica, everything becomes clear to me. Scacchi is chess. Marostica is a fairytale medieval town with two castles, one high up on a hill and the other one lower in the piazza. It is also a town obsessed by the game of chess. The piazza is marked out in huge grey and white squares, which host a biennial re-enactment of a human chess game, played in 1454. The game was a pacifist version of a dual to win the hand of Linora Parisio. Her father refused to let the suitors fight the traditional dual for humanitarian reasons. He wanted neither of the men to die or to become enemies, so he decided that the two rivals should play a game of chess. He also devised a perfect compromise: the winner would have the hand of Linora and the loser would take her younger sister, Oldrada, as a consolation prize.
The re-enactment uses period costumes, the knights being mounted on horses, and is carried out with announcements in Venetian dialect since Marostica was under Venetian rule during the fifteenth century. Everywhere I see posters of the spectacle and I pick up a leaflet about it. The pictures depict the pageant in the foreground of the lower castle, which was the home of Linora. It looks a magnificent pageant and I wish I could attend. The programme boasts 500 people in costume, twenty horses, fireworks
, and period music. Apparently Linora was secretly in love with one of the suitors and the leaflet explains that she sent a secret message to the people of Marostica saying that if her choice of suitor was successful, then the lower castle would be illuminated by white light. This was so that everyone could participate in her joy. I find the sentence construction in the leaflet awkward at this point. The Italian uses the subjective tense and the English translation is not clear. It suggests that the castle might be lit up if the correct suitor wins. I am anxious to know if Linora married the man she loved and was happy in her life. The next game will take place in September of next year, just over twelve months away. I can’t wait that long!
We decide to adjourn to a bar at the side of the piazza for a quick drink. I have an apricot juice and I carry on reading my engrossing leaflet. This game of chess has captured my imagination. I read that the 1994 re-enactment used the moves of a famous game played in 1858 at the Paris Opera, during a performance of the Barber of Seville. I am slightly disappointed that the Marostica game doesn’t use the original moves. Perhaps it is not recorded. This hiccup of authenticity doesn’t throw me for long. I have in my mind a picture of a box like those at Covent Garden, with two gentlemen playing chess whilst the performance of the opera is in progress. I suppose the game is silent and wouldn’t disturb other members of the audience. I also think how theatrical the game of chess looks in the picture before me. It could easily be an extravagant opera set.
The Mandolin Lesson Page 11