The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  We resume our studies by playing chamber music. We play lots of Baroque trio sonatas. They are not really works for three instruments. The term trio indicates not the number of instruments required, but the fact that originally it was written as three lines of music. A trio sonata usually comprises of two treble lines for two melodic instruments, such as mandolins, and a single bass line. The bass line would then be ‘realised’, a technical term for amplifying a simple line of single notes by adding other harmonising notes. Normally, the harpsichord or lute would provide these extra notes or chords. However, often a cello would strengthen the bass line by playing the single line of notes as well. Hence, trios sometimes consist of four instruments instead of three.

  We play trios by Barbella. I play the second part with Giovanna and two of the boys play the first part. The Maestro plays the bass part on the mandola, adding in extra chords from time to time. The music seems completely new, like playing at sight, yet I know that I have seen some of this music previously in a different edition. This edition is a facsimile of the original edition and the notes seem wobbly and strange to my eyes. I find it quite a challenge to read, but enormous fun to be contributing to the sound we are making. One movement in triple time is particularly fast and leaves me breathless and confused.

  Inside the cover of the music is a quotation about the composer. It reads:

  ‘He seems to know music well, and to have a good deal of fancy in his compositions, with a tincture of not disagreeable madness.’

  It is written by Dr Charles Burney, the celebrated English music historian, who travelled extensively throughout Europe over 200 years ago. He wrote about his experiences meeting musicians and hearing them play formally in concerts and informally in private homes. During his time in Naples, Burney met Emanuele Barbella and they became friends.

  Being trained first as a violinist, I like the idea that Barbella was a violinist as well as a composer. I also think the ‘not disagreeable madness’ is a beautifully accurate description of the music. There are certainly some surprising moments!

  Time evaporates. It is four o’clock and the hours have passed quickly without my being aware of time. Music-making, as opposed to studying technique, is an experience of such intense pleasure that I am totally absorbed by it. I love the onomatopoeic nature of certain Italian words such as divertimento, which sounds like a diversion. Divertimento can mean fun and entertainment, but it can also mean pleasure and enjoyment. Being diverted, as I have been, is synonymous with pleasure and enjoyment.

  On the way back to the station, I notice some of the shops are open and some of them have sales on. I see a pair of navy blue trousers, a mixture of wool and viscose, which I try on and with great abandon proceed to purchase.

  I also realise I haven’t eaten any lunch or had enough to drink. The mandolin course is casually constructed and run in a relaxed manner. Music courses I have attended in England provide written timetables with the times of meals and breaks, as well as the sessions to be followed. In addition to meals, there is normally a morning break for coffee and an afternoon break for tea. I stop at the station for a toasted sandwich and a bottle of mineral water.

  *

  It is Tuesday and there is an unanticipated interruption to the mandolin course. It is August 15th, a national holiday.

  Ette has phoned Ugo on my behalf and established that the course will take place despite the holiday. However, she manages to obtain permission for me to have the day off so that I can be with my family and friends. I am filled with mixed emotions. I don’t want to upset the Maestro by missing an important part of the course and appearing uncommitted. On the other hand, I don’t want to give offence to my friend and her family. My internal dilemma is settled by remembering that travelling to Brescia by train is not a practical option since the service will be considerably restricted.

  The plan for today is a trip up into the mountains. We pack a picnic and set out in one car. Marco drives and Ette sits with him in the front. My family and I sit in the back.

  We are heading towards Asiago in the foothills of the Dolomites. I sit back and try to relax by taking in the panoramic views as they change with our ascent. This is made difficult by the fact that the road is a long series of suicidal hairpin bends with sheer drops beneath my window. Apart from dealing with my own fear, the discomforting pressure on my ears and the nauseous feeling in my stomach, I am conscious of anxiety from my family. My husband and son are bickering in undertones. My son is uncomfortable with his physical space. He feels squashed by both of his parents and is making a bid to get more room. My husband feels totally out of control because he is not driving and this is a hazardous road. In addition, he is the most fussed family member on account of the fact that we are unrestrained by seatbelts in the back of the car. Rear seatbelts are not yet obligatory in Italy and although there is a legal requirement to wear front seatbelts, it is a requirement that is frequently ignored by the indigenous population.

  I do understand and have great sympathy with my husband’s concerns about the seatbelts, but I am powerless to do anything about it. I am overwhelmingly embarrassed by my husband’s agitation and decide not to translate our discussion literally for my friends.

  I am glad when our perilous journey comes to an end at Asiago. An agreeable mountain resort with beautiful walks, Asiago attracts tourists in both summer and in winter. Many of the shops are open and we wander along the high street. In the Farmacia, the chemist’s shop, I obtain a tube of cream to deal with mosquito bites. Italian mosquitoes seem to prefer English blood and managing the irritating bites is a high priority on a day when family tensions are running high. In another shop, we look at goods handcrafted locally in wood. My son is placated by a miniature squirrel, which he purchases for his collection of tiny souvenirs.

  We drive a little further into the countryside looking for a picnic spot. I notice signs for the surrounding cemeteries where the British dead lie following the Battle of Asiago in 1918. A feeling of sadness envelops me but I say nothing. Soon we pass through woodland where lots of families have set up their picnics. Many of them are barbecuing food. Whole families of three generations sit on camping chairs, chatting around the fires.

  Without warning, our car is besieged first by sleet, then violent rain and finally by hailstones. All the cars looking for picnic spots become a traffic jam as flash floods block the road. People are scattered as the picnic parties try to take cover and rescue their food.

  After a while, Ette is unconvinced that there is any point in staying. My husband, who loves walking in the Brecon Beacons and other wild places, feels that the bad weather will pass. But it is useless to argue. Italians feel that good weather is essential to outdoor pursuits. We return to the farm the way that we came.

  At the farm, we sit around the kitchen table in a subdued manner. I eat my salami and bread in silence. In my head, there is mandolin music.

  *

  I return home to the farm after another day of making music. I am so happy to be spending my time playing, talking, thinking and breathing mandolin music in Italy. My family is also happy with their day. My son likes having the farm as a base where he can relax with his own toys and possessions. He has voiced his discontent with his parent’s overdosing on cultural visits and sightseeing. He doesn’t want to be always driving off here or there, to see some boring house or church. This all came to a head on a previous self-catering holiday in Umbria. My son didn’t just want to sleep in his Italian house. He wanted to live there. And I can understand how he feels.

  My husband is also enjoying his idyllic existence. He has participated in the lifting of potatoes, he has watched Pina making passata and he has sampled a recipe I am unable to find in any cookery book: a risotto made with hops. Undoubtedly, this is a recipe passed down the generations in rural communities by an oral tradition. I am sorry to have missed this experience.

  On occasions, my spouse disappears entirely and I locate him in the cantina with the other m
en, knowingly discussing and sampling wine. He emerges from the shadows of the damp, dark cellar, deep in conversation, or so it seems, with Firmino and the farmhands. I am not sure exactly how they communicate since my husband’s Italian is limited and Firmino and his assistants usually speak in dialect. I discern a great deal of sign language and facial expressions. Small amounts of ruby red liquid are poured into tumblers after being siphoned from the tall, shabby tanks. This is perhaps the last vendemmia to be processed in the old cantina. If everything goes according to plan, the next harvest of grapes will be fermented in the new cantina under the new house.

  The evening meal is eaten outside in the farmyard. We sit around a large table beneath the canopy of a grapevine. The foliage of the vine is trained over a pergola. Small maturing grapes hang in bunches from the ceiling like Chinese lanterns. Here and there lighter green, smaller leaves give way to delicate tendrils that curl like springs.

  The meal extends beyond the nourishment of physical needs. As we share the experiences of our individual days, our spirits are also nurtured and encouraged. Much of our discussion is tinged with humour and the sharing of food and minds takes on a sense of celebration. As far as my family is concerned, it is a winning formula for a happy holiday. All three of us spend the day doing things we enjoy and then in the evening, we come together to recount our pleasures over a glass of wine and some wonderful food. We are all content.

  At the end of each meal, the number of people around the table is always greater than at the beginning of the meal. This is due the steady stream of people popping in to say hello. These visitors are always made welcome and offered a glass of wine or some dessert or a coffee. At the end of the meal, two bottles are passed around. One contains grappa and the other contains prugna. I avoid the grappa, which is far too strong for my liking, but I am intrigued by the prugna, which I have not encountered before. A local speciality, prugna is made from plums and has the taste and aroma of marzipan that is reminiscent of apricot brandy. I try a thimbleful of the liqueur in my espresso. I am won over immediately by this heavenly addition to my coffee.

  One evening, as we sit sipping our coffee, my son enquires about the direction of Venice. The farm is cloaked in a darkness that is only found in the countryside. The only lights are the stars, which seem to sparkle with exceptional brightness. Pina points to the corner of the yard that is the entrance and the exit of the farm. My son checks his watch. It is ten o’clock. To the incomprehension of those around the table, he walks over to the corner of the yard which has been pointed out and stands shining his pocket torch in the direction of the distant twinkling lights. He has an agreement with his Italian godmother, who lives in England but is visiting her family near Venice. As various circumstances make it impossible for them to see each other in Italy, they arranged to think of each other at this time on this day. It is a very special moment.

  As we sit chatting late at night, I am sometimes aware of the smell of animal dung wafting on a current of warm air. At times it is overpowering and yet there are overtones that are rich and sweet. I think of how the bad odour of waste and decay is recycled into the soil and nourishes the new life of grapes, peaches, apricots, figs and cherries. Even in the tasting of the wine we are drinking, I detect the smell of the soil, fragrant with warm damp grass and the haziest suggestion of manure, which is translated, not unpleasantly, into one of the many strands of its flavour. The smell of the land and the taste of its produce are imperceptibly entwined.

  When eventually I retire to bed, the cicadas make music that soothes me to sleep. Their nocturnal song is rapid and perpetual. Sometimes it fades into the background, buzzing like the sound of an old-fashioned radio searching between the stations, or hissing like the white noise of an old seventy-eight record being played. Sometimes I hear only the tremolo exercise, played on an open string.

  *

  I have begun searching for new clothes that will make me look more normal here and are suitable for the climate and environment I find myself in. For example, I have noticed that women on the trains tend to wear shorter raincoats, not only, I suspect, because they are stylish, but also because they are more practical. Over the past year, I had realised that my long trench-coat style raincoat had been a great handicap. The trains in Italy are much higher and it is necessary to climb widely spaced steps to gain access into the train. This is quite awkward with luggage, especially a mandolin case, when the hem of one’s coat is getting constantly caught between the steps.

  On Saturday evening, I return home to the farm feeling irritated. My family disappears and I sit down at the kitchen table to tell Pina my problems.

  “We began the day with a visit to the historic centre at Vicenza,” I tell her. “The Teatro Olypico with its illusion of perspective was incredible and I am really pleased that I had the opportunity to see it. But,” I continue, “I was disappointed that when I returned to the exquisite blouse shop near the Piazza dei Signori, I found it shuttered up with a notice that said the shop was closed for its annual holidays.”

  I had found this shop, specialising in blouses of exceptional quality, one evening when we made a short stop on the way back from the station. I feel cross with myself for not entering the shop then when it was open. I had seen beautiful blouses ornately decorated with embroidered collars and pockets, or drawn thread work giving the impression of tiny holes along the edges of collars and cuffs. I suppose some examples would be better described as ladies’ shirts, with their clean, simple cut and concealed buttons.

  “Then,” I resume, “we returned to Marostica and, in the lower castle, I saw the exhibition of the costumes used for the human chess game. They were fantastic! We were too late for lunch and found all the restaurants busy so we grabbed a sandwich. Our day culminated in a final trip to Bassano del Grappa. There I managed to purchase a bottle of prugna, but that was all. I was hoping to do some clothes shopping, but we arrived in the afternoon before the shops opened. By that time, my husband was restless to be in the countryside of the mountains or somewhere far away from the shops. My son was fed up with sightseeing and wanted to be at home on the farm. My family day out ended in misunderstandings and failed expectations.”

  Strangely, my family now seemed happy, as if nothing had happened, but I was still frustrated at not being able to undertake my shopping expedition.

  Pina listens quietly. I mention that on the way back I had even seen some clothes I liked the look of in a shop window in Breganze, but I was unable to stop. Pina tells me that her husband isn’t that keen on clothes shopping either. I am surprised because I thought Italian men were more interested in shopping than English men are. Pina gets up from her chair and tells me that she will be back in a couple of minutes. She returns having replaced her apron with a jacket and tells me that we are going shopping.

  We drive, in Pina’s car, down the hill from the farm into the town. After parking near the church, we walk to the shop window that I had seen. It is a tiny window, skirted by a thin strip of pavement with a steep gradient. It is on account of the road being so steep at this point, and the pathway being so narrow, that we slowly passed by earlier and I was close enough to be able to catch a glimpse of the window’s contents. There are only two items visible behind the glass. One of them is the pale blue jumper that had caught my eye previously. It is a simple tunic shape with a jewel collar and side vents.

  Inside, Pina talks to the two ladies in the shop. She seems to know them quite well. I try on a number of garments and I find myself feeling calmer. Pina advises me that the cotton pale blue jumper suits me well. I knew it would do. She also suggests I try a pure wool polo neck jumper in light pink. She thinks it is a good classical piece for the wardrobe I am building. I try it on in the fitting room and I listen to the ladies chatting on the other side of the curtain. It is such a good feeling, being looked after. I need no persuasion. I take the blue and pink jumpers. Both of them are in the sale so I have two bargains. It seems extraordinary that I am able to bu
y clothes that are so stunningly elegant and of the highest quality in such a small country shop. Pina and I go to a bar a few doors away and celebrate my successful shopping and my redeemed day with glasses of peach juice.

  *

  The hired car is parked in the designated space at Marco Polo airport. As we unpack the luggage from the boot, I am alarmed to see one or two giant ants crawling over one of the bags. In a plastic carrier bag, there are some emergency food supplies: a bottle of mineral water, a half-eaten packet of biscuits and three figs. We pause for a few minutes to replenish ourselves. We each take a swig of water from the plastic bottle and I begin to carefully peel the figs, which Firmino had picked from the tree this morning. Instinctively, I throw the middle one to the ground as I realise that it is alive with giant ants. I shudder in the heat of the midday sun. The remaining two figs, however, are perfect. Their pink flesh is warm, fragrant and sweet. As I enjoy these most succulent of fruits, I look intently out towards the hazy Venetian lagoon and I take stock. The first year is over.

  il secondo anno

  1

  The second year commences with the lower diploma exam. I have arranged to spend a whole week in Bologna, Sunday to Sunday. My plan is to commute between Bologna and Padua. I have to attend rehearsals with the piano for the exam, undertake the exam and in my spare time attend sessions of a mandolin course that is running at the same time. All of this takes place on the first four days of the week. However, when I attend the Conservatorio on the first day, the Maestro advises me that it would be prudent to remain in Padua for a couple of nights. On my way back to the station in the evening, I make a reservation at my usual hotel for the following two nights.