The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  Ette is happy with my arrangement to stay in Padua for a couple of nights. She thinks it is sensible. To my delight, I find that Deborah is also sitting an exam and is staying at the same hotel as I am. I am pleased to have her company during these tense few days.

  The rehearsal with the pianist goes well. At least it goes well once I remember to count in Italian.

  “Uno, due, tre,” we count together since I have to begin the Barbella sonata on the fourth beat. It is really difficult to rehearse in a foreign language. I especially find it hard to translate the numbers. It is so instinctive to think in English numbers, but I have to give an indication of speed and communicate this to the accompanist who doesn’t speak English. For a split second I am edgy and the thought flickers through my mind that she must think I am stupid. I file the thought away under the heading ‘stupid’: that is, ‘stupid thought’. Almost immediately we become settled, communicating in the same language: music.

  The pianist is a lady professor at the college. I discover that she has a son about the same age as my own son and this gives us a link. In the same moment I realise that she is about the same age as I am and I am becoming increasingly conscious that I am considerably older than the average student is. At the beginning of my study, I just didn’t consider my age. I suppose, in my mind, I just thought that I was young. Now a number of people have asked me about my age and I feel embarrassed to admit that I am in my late thirties. Most people think I am much younger, because I look about ten years younger than I really am. When I was a teenager and I looked plain and studious, I was disgruntled that all my friends looked so mature and beautiful. Now it is quite an advantage to look younger than one’s chronological years. It is just that I have the sensation of harbouring a guilty secret: I am approaching my fortieth birthday. In music, it is not only desirable, it is almost obligatory to be brilliant, talented and young, very young. When musicians are mature, they have usually made their mark in their chosen field. Consequently, I love stories about late starters. Edward Elgar, for instance, didn’t make his mark on the world until he was the wrong side of forty.

  Another hitch occurs in the rehearsal. This time it is with the name of the notes. We use the first seven letters of the alphabet but Italians use solfeggio names. The problem is that the solfeggio, or Tonic Sol-fa, I had experienced used the system of the moveable doh. In other words, whichever key you are in, the first note of the scale is always doh, the second ray, the third me, and so on. In Italy, however, the system used is that of a fixed doh, starting with C as doh. Therefore, C is always doh, D is always ray, and E is always me, and so on. A further complication is that the Italian spellings are slightly different. Thus C, D, E, F, G, A, B are represented by do, re, mi, fa, sol, la and si.

  So when the pianist casually refers to one of my chords as “la, mi, la,” I struggle, thinking at first that it is B, F, B, which makes no sense. I stare blankly, feeling again momentarily stupid. Then I make the connection that it is simply A, E, A, which makes perfect sense. I just don’t have the fluency to think of these notes in the Italian language. If I think of their pitch names, I think of their English names.

  A wave of panic threatens to engulf me when the Maestro offers me a bit of paper with the notes of the strings for other types of mandolins. The Milanese mandolin has six strings, for example, and in the viva voce part of the exam I may have to quote the notes of these strings using their Italian names. I decide upon a mnemonic. The strings are from the lowest to the highest, G B E A D G. Simply, it is the word ‘BEAD’ with a G on either side. Also, read backwards, it is the same as the Neapolitan mandolin strings preceded by G B for Giovanni Battista (Gervasio), Baroque mandolinist, or simpler still, Great Britain. There are a number of possibilities. Having remembered the sequence, I would then need to translate them into their Italian equivalents. At one level this is all quite straightforward, but under exam conditions such basic tasks of recall become almost impossible.

  I reach a new zenith of pre-exam stress when I am introduced to Fabio Menditto, a former pupil of the Maestro, who has arrived to help adjudicate the exams. Fabio recently became Professor of Mandolin at Aquila, near Rome. He is the soloist on my CD of the Barbella sonata, the same sonata I have prepared for the exam. I worry about how he will view my interpretation. I feel agitated and nervous.

  Outside the main entrance of the Conservatorio, I come face to face with Fabio. He lights up a cigarette and he asks me about myself. I tell him about my recitals and teaching in London, and about my commuting to Italy to learn about the Italian school of mandolin playing. He is fascinated. He confesses that he doesn’t like to travel extensively. We are briefly interrupted by a red scooter, which we have to move out of the way for. Fabio slowly inhales more smoke from his cigarette. For a moment he is thoughtful, then he asks another question: “É tu, sei al suo agio in Italia?”

  He is asking me if I am at my ease in Italy. I tell him how interested I am in the way of life: the culture, the cuisine and even the way of dressing. The warmth of the bright October sunshine is on my face. The street we are standing in is narrow with a few tables and some chairs belonging to the Bar Pollini behind us. A plant in a square terracotta pot catches my eye. The ambience is one of an outdoor culture, exotic and a world away from the grey skies of London. I glance at the passing Paduan women wearing impeccably tailored suits. My navy blue blazer jacket is a classic piece and blends in well. In an unguarded moment, my conversation seems to be flowing. I feel quite animated and I confide that I do feel at my ease. I do feel comfortable here.

  *

  Deborah and I arrange to eat together during the evening prior to the day of the exams. Deborah says she knows of a restaurant where we can eat good food cheaply. I’m not entirely sure what to make of this statement, but we meet at seven o’clock and walk from our hotel back towards the Conservatorio and the historic centre. The restaurant is only five minutes away from the Conservatorio but I had been unaware of its existence.

  Nothing could have prepared me for the experience of the Brek Restaurant. To begin with, it is a self-service restaurant and this concept alone conjures up the image of canteen dinners at a college or a workplace. The idea of self-service means mediocre meals, kept warm for long periods of time, and, as a result, long past their best. It means massed produced menus with little attention to detail, quality or choice. It means stodgy dinners, unhealthy cuisine and fast meals. It represents everything that is an anathema to the Italian ideal of cuisine, and it represents everything that the Brek Restaurant is not!

  I look around, slightly disorientated at first. I appear to be in a market where each of the stalls has canopies in green. Each market stall is in fact a counter for a different part of the meal. I take a tray and follow Deborah, watching the procedure carefully. We go to the pasta counter, which is set up like a field kitchen, with a number of gas rings and huge frying pans. The menu is changed on a daily basis and is chalked up on a board at the entrance and individually at each counter. We choose a sauce with zucchini, courgettes, and farfalle, pasta butterflies. The food is partially prepared. The pasta is reheated, perhaps completely cooked, in boiling water. The cook pours some olive oil into the skillet and fries some pancetta cubes. When they take on a nice golden colour, and they do quickly because the oil is hot, sliced courgettes are added. Finally, a dash of passata is added and the pasta is stirred into the mixture. The cook serves up to about six people at a time. Each plate has a lid to keep it warm. Parmesan cheese is added at the time of serving, but there is more available at the tables. The cook already has some more pancetta cooking for the next batch as we are served with our food.

  Next we go to the salad counter with huge bowls of leafy salads, containing amongst other things radicchio, as well as bowls of single items such as tomatoes, grated carrot and fennel. The salad can be seasoned and dressed at the counter, but if you forget, it doesn’t matter because all the tables are well supplied with olive oil and other condiments.
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br />   As we move onto the dessert counter, we pass the second course counter and smell steaks and slices of veal being seared and cooked as required. The patisserie counter is like a treasure chest with its beautiful fruit tarts, each studded with exquisite jewels: kiwi pieces as emeralds, strawberries as rubies, dark grapes as garnets and so on. I modestly help myself to a portion of fresh fruit salad.

  Before paying, I survey the drinks: bottles and half bottles of wine, red and white, and the cheapest local wines available are on tap, decanted into the appropriate size carafe. Mineral water, naturale or gassata, still or sparkling, in big and small bottles, is also available. Additionally, there is a limited supply of soft drinks. The emphasis, however, is clearly on wine and water. I opt for the water.

  As I wait briefly in the queue for the till, I notice that there is a wonderful selection of fresh bread and rolls, but I decline to choose anything further. I have quite a feast on my tray and I am pacing myself in preparation for tomorrow’s exam.

  Deborah and I meet up with Fabio and Gianluigi, who is also taking the lower diploma exam. We all sit together, eating and talking. When the meal is over and the conversation is not, we decide to have some coffee. The group consensus is that we should go to another establishment for our coffee, which would entail a piccola passeggiata, a little walk, enabling the conversation to continue.

  Our piccola passeggiata turns into a gran passeggiata as we walk through the streets of Padua, talking about music and the world of the mandolin. We walk across the Piazza delle Erbe, around the Palazzo della Ragione and across the Piazza della Frutta. We walk under the porticos and past shuttered shops. We wind through tiny streets and sometimes Deborah and I stop to look at a stylish jumper or some other interesting garment that catches our eye in a window that isn’t shuttered. We are almost back to our hotel when we stop at a bar for our coffee. Then, having gulped down our sweet espressos, we continue the walk since the conversation has not yet concluded.

  The night air is mild and I feel as if we are experiencing the remnants of a departing summer. At last we pause in the Piazza Cavour and we sit on some steps. Fabio and I are absorbed in a deep and fervent dialogue about our chosen instrument. I feel heady from the atmosphere: the food, the gentle climate, and the ambience of the surrounding architecture, added to an exchange of views with people who share my passion for the mandolin. My body is pulsating with energy. I feel as if I could stay up all night discussing the intricacies of mandolin music and its performance. I have nearly forgotten the exam. There is just a flicker of it at the edge of my consciousness.

  Eventually and reluctantly, we all return to our respective accommodation.

  *

  I am called into the exam room. As I walk in, I flash a glance at the formidable examining panel behind the long table on my left. I try to pretend to myself that they are not there. I sit on my chair, adjust the music stand and check my tuning. I signal a glance and a nod to the accompanist and we begin.

  Everything goes as rehearsed: the Conforto concerto, the Barbella sonata and the unaccompanied prelude and cadenza by Munier. From time to time, I have the strange sensation of hearing beautiful music, but I somehow feel disconnected from it. It is almost as if I am not in my body. I’m not sure where I am or, more precisely, where my mind is. I just feel separated from the physical sensation of making the music happen.

  With the execution of the music completed, I am asked to approach the table. The Maestro introduces me to the panel, explaining that I am commuting from England in order to undertake the course. He puts me at my ease and I am grateful. I am asked the tuning of the Milanese mandolin.

  “G B E A D G,” I say aloud and then translate, “sol, si, mi, la, re, sol.”

  They are satisfied and say that I am free to depart.

  The Maestro greets me with the news that I have passed the exam and I am profoundly happy. To pass an examination in music in a foreign country fills me with a wonderful sense of achievement. It also means that I can continue with my studies. I am now promoted to the fifth year of the mandolin course.

  2

  My task for the November lesson is twofold. The first job is to find a suitable flight. This is easily achieved on this occasion; I purchase a ticket for Bologna after just a few phone calls. The second job is to acquire some new music, the sonatas of Robert Valentine, which proves to be altogether more difficult.

  The Maestro reminds me that it is possible to view the published edition of these sonatas, printed in Rome in 1730, at the British Library. There is an Italian publisher who provides a facsimile edition of this work, but it is impossible to order a copy in England. Thus, the obvious solution is to obtain a photocopy from the British Library.

  I don’t have time to go to the British Library, but I do have a Reader’s Ticket and I am familiar with their procedures. Instead I make a phone call to a very helpful lady in the Music Library, who advises me to put my request in writing. This, I do.

  I write a courteous letter with all the required information. The full title of the work is Sonate per il Flauto Traversiero, col Basso che possono servire per Violino, Mandola et Oboe. It is curious that these flute sonatas, which may also be suitable for the Violin, Mandola (mandolin) and Oboe, were published in Italy over 200 years ago and composed by a man with an English name.

  I consult my dictionary of music and find that Robert Valentine was born in Leicester in c1680. He lived in Rome for over twenty years, returning to England in 1731 where presumably he spent his final few years. He was well known in his time as a flautist and a successful composer. The opera XII I am seeking is just one set out of fifteen sets of sonatas that were published in Valentine’s lifetime. I am intrigued by the thought of a musician making the difficult journey between England and Italy several centuries before me. Equally, I am fascinated by the idea of an English Baroque musician assimilating Italian culture.

  I remember to mention in my letter that my understanding is that the sonatas are already held on a microfilm and that it will be possible, therefore, to process my order without undue delay. I explain that I hope to be able to study this work before attending a mandolin course in Italy in three weeks’ time. I put it in this way, inferring perhaps that it is a one-off course, because it is simpler and basically still truthful. I can’t really go into detail about ongoing mandolin lessons. I think that would diminish my credibility.

  Three days later, I receive a reply. The quote for a photocopy of the six sonatas is approximately £50. The cost is quite simply out of the question.

  I decide upon a new plan. When I was in Padua the other day, I visited the music shop close to the Conservatorio. It is called Musica Musica. I had a little chat with the proprietor, explaining that I was studying mandolin with Maestro Orlandi at the Conservatorio and that I commute from London, visiting Padua once a month. The proprietor treated me like a celebrity and, although flattered by his respect and interest, I am getting used to the idea that this sort of behaviour is just normal good service in Italy. The proprietor said that he would be happy to supply any mandolin music that I required and I have decided to test out his service.

  As I am in London at the moment and I am still a little apprehensive about using the telephone to speak Italian, I begin to put my plan into action by composing a letter that can be faxed. The only fly in the ointment is that I don’t have a fax machine. Undeterred, I succeed in finding a friend who does have a fax machine and the plan is implemented.

  Unfortunately, following three abortive attempts at sending the fax, my friend returns the letter to me. There is nothing else for it. I just have to muster up my courage and face the telephone.

  I prepare carefully for the call. I rehearse my pronunciation out aloud. I underline the principal words and phrases of the letter in thick pencil. I also phonetically write out the letters of certain spellings, since the letters of the alphabet are pronounced differently in Italian. At last, I am ready to make the phone call. It goes much better than I ha
d anticipated. The proprietor of Musica Musica isn’t too fazed at my calling from London and he thinks it will be possible for the music to arrive in time for my lesson.

  *

  In Bologna, I have a pleasant surprise when Ette announces that her family are coming for lunch on Sunday. This is not a common occurrence, since they live a long distance away and there is always much work to be done on the farm. I am pleased that their visit coincides with mine.

  Saturday is spent in the preparation of food. Ette keeps referring to polpettine and finally I discover exactly what they are. After lunch and after the post-lunch sleep, Ette and I sit down at the kitchen table with minced meat and flour. Then, from the combination of veal and pork mince, and with a few other special ingredients, we fashion little balls, which will be cooked tomorrow in a tomato sauce.

  I also have a lesson in making tiramisù. Its name sounds so exotic and means literally ‘pick me up’. We dip Savoyard biscuits in strong black espresso coffee and line a dish with them. It is possible to add Marsala wine to the coffee, but it isn’t essential. Egg yolks are beaten with sugar and then added to mascarpone cheese. The whites of the eggs are whisked until stiff and then folded into this mixture. The mixture is placed on top of the biscuits and the whole dessert is refrigerated until required. Just before serving, it is dusted with cocoa powder.

  As we work in the kitchen, Ette asks me about the food and traditions of an English Christmas. She is anxious to know if I will be having a presepio. I am not entirely clear about what is meant by the word ‘presepio’, a new addition to my vocabulary, since my friend has explained the recipe for baking a kind of dough. I am wondering whether it is a cake of some kind. When we emerge from our culinary preparations, Ette finds a photograph to show me the presepio she made last year. Perplexed, I find myself staring at an exquisitely beautiful nativity scene. Ette tells me that all the figures and animals are crafted from a kind of bread dough that is baked in the oven. I am astonished and enlightened.