The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  *

  It is midday and Ette’s family have arrived. Her parents bring with them her aunt and uncle and the farmhand Gino, who is practically one of the family.

  Immediately, Pina takes on her role as mother and homemaker. She inspects the preparations for food in the kitchen and then solicits Gino’s help in visiting the cantina for wood and wine. The cantina is really an extra garage in the basement of the flats where Italian people store their wine, preserves and other junk which has no place in the living space. I keep my suitcases and old boxes in my loft, but Italian people keep theirs in a cantina or cellar.

  In the contemporary square hearth, that I had previously thought to be ornamental, Pina builds a wood fire beginning with a cone of twigs arranged around screwed up newspaper. Then, small logs are arranged and quickly ignited. Soon, a good fire blazes and larger logs are added. The fire settles as the logs burn slowly. Glowing, they send out warmth and comfort which touches a deep eternal place within the human psyche. The clinical efficiency of central heating warms physical bodies, but is unable to nourish the soul in the way a wood fire can. I watch the flames for quite some time. They are at once both dangerous and destructive and yet also life-enhancing through their energy of warmth and light. Saint Francis thought of them with great affection when he spoke of Brother Fire in the Canticle of the Creatures.

  During the meal around the extended dining table, I find the lively and humorous exchange between the men extremely engaging. Firmino stops, aware of my attention, and asks if I have understood. Embarrassed, I have to admit that I haven’t understood. He explains that they were speaking in dialect, which accounts for why I vaguely understood that they were discussing a funny problem with salami but that was about all. Gino kindly translates for me their latest adventure in undertaking the autumn task of making their own salami, with graphic detail. I am relieved that my grasp of the Italian language hasn’t mysteriously deteriorated. It is quite a strange feeling, like being a small infant again, to understand emotionally the sense of a conversation but not to understand it intellectually. The conversation had communicated the frustration and humour of their experience, just as other emotions such as fear, anger, sadness and joy can be communicated without being understood.

  After dinner, we all go out for the traditional passeggiata. The air is cold but the sun is bright and Ette accessorises her winter wardrobe with sunglasses. I am beginning to understand more fully why they are an essential item even in winter and not just a fashion statement. Looking glamorous, like a beautiful model, my friend is really just being practical. The light is far more intense during the winter months in Italy than I have experienced in England. I make a mental note to remember to bring my sunglasses when I next visit.

  Our party slowly meanders through the nearby residential streets, passing detached houses, set in their own grounds, behind fences and gates fabricated in metal. We chat in twos and threes, pointing out things of interest as we pass. Sometimes I withdraw, not feeling it entirely necessary to understand or even to notice every single word that is uttered. At these moments, I am aware of the vast expanse of duck egg blue that is the sky. As the light changes and fades imperceptibly, I notice a slight bruising of purple-grey clouds. I love the quality of the light. Pale, creamy yellow light illuminates the grey clouds from behind, giving them a halo effect. Later, in the distance, I notice the naked trees seem to scratch the apricot sky. I love the desolate beauty of November and the weeks leading up first to Advent and then to Christmas.

  Gino points out a stunning tree, almost bereft of foliage, but adorned with glinting orange baubles. I wonder, in my innocence, if it is an orange tree, but Gino keeps repeating the word ‘cachi’. I don’t really understand, but Gino is remarkably patient and doesn’t seem upset at my incomprehension.

  The road we are following runs out into open fields and countryside. Firmino spies a piece of land planted with grapevines. It is long past the harvest but Firmino walks between the vines inspecting them. He stops, finding a missed bunch of grapes disintegrating and still attached to the plant. He samples the grapes, some of which are naturally evolving into sultanas, and Gino joins him in the sampling. All at once, they are connoisseurs discussing the merits of the grape variety and the soil in which it grows. It is wonderful to see Firmino become so visibly relaxed and at home on the land.

  On the way back home, I look, without success, for the lizards I had seen in the summer. I remember their movements, sometimes furtive, sometimes darting. They would flicker and flash with their luminescent lime green backs and their tails and feet of pumice grey.

  Back at the flat, I am shown examples of the orange baubles. Cachi are in fact persimmons – a fruit that I have tried only once before and I had found to be disappointing, both in taste and texture. In fairness to the persimmon, I have heard that it must be absolutely ripe before eating, otherwise it can taste unpleasant. However, its decorative quality is quite exceptional.

  *

  In Padua, the Valentine sonatas have not arrived, but they will certainly arrive, I am told, in time for my next visit. In the meantime, I work on the Scarlatti sonatas.

  3

  When my spouse inquires about what I would like for my Christmas present, I usually say that I would like an item of clothing. This is because my budget for clothing is practically non-existent. The small income I earn from teaching the mandolin, violin and theory, and supplemented by occasional mandolin concerts, is barely enough to cover the cost of the expenses required to sustain my career and interest in music. Each year, I have a long list of expenses: instrument insurance, instrument maintenance, strings, music, Musician’s Union subscription, professional journal subscription and so on. The list is endless and now I have to cover travelling expenses to Italy.

  It is with all this in mind that I submit a request for this year’s seasonal gift. I ask for a pair of jeans, not any old jeans though, a pair of designer jeans – in fact, a pair of Giorgio Armani jeans.

  This seems a puzzling concept to some of my English acquaintances. They have the idea that jeans are both casual and sloppy. I, on the other hand, have been considering the idea for at least six months, if not a little longer, and I have come to an altogether different understanding.

  In Italy, I have noticed that many young people, and especially the students at the Conservatorio, wear jeans. However, jeans are usually designer jeans and are part of a smart casual dress code. Usually they are worn with a jacket and good leather shoes, not trainers. Jeans are worn to college, for shopping, and for visiting friends and family. They are not worn for doing the housework, gardening, car maintenance and other messy chores.

  Some people think that my desire for a pair of jeans is part of a mid-life crisis. It is true that I am approaching forty and that as a teenager I never actually owned a pair of jeans. In the early seventies, I remember cutting out triangles from scraps of cotton material and inserting them into the seams of wine-coloured cords to make them into fashionable flares. However, all this is to miss the point. In reality, a pair of Italian designer jeans, although appearing to be extortionately priced, are in truth an essential item in the capsule wardrobe of a European woman in the nineties. Together with my navy blazer jacket, I have an outfit that can be teamed up with a selection of blouses or other suitable tops to give a varied look that fits in with life in Italy at a minimal cost. I am, as every reader of Vogue knows, not being at all extravagant, but following the principle of dressing classically. The jeans are an investment that I hope will give me quite a few years of wear.

  Needing no more justification, I persuade my husband to accompany me to choose the jeans. In a Covent Garden shop, during a dark Saturday afternoon in the hours before Evensong, I try on three different pairs of jeans. It is not difficult to understand the reason why Italians favour the designer product. It is not a shallow whim to display a name or a label. On the contrary, it is a question of being pragmatic. The reality is that the jeans are so well cut that
they look amazingly elegant and feel extremely comfortable to wear.

  *

  In Padua, after the mandolin lesson, I visit Musica Musica. It is about half past four, which I have taken to thinking of as ‘the buona sera hour’ on account of this being the time of afternoon when everything returns to life again and the term of address changes from buon giorno to buona sera. The afternoon seems to be missed out altogether. I have never heard anyone say buon pomeriggio.

  In the music shop, I am delighted to learn that the Valentine sonatas have indeed arrived. I am so pleased to take possession of my new music book. The peach and plum marble swirls on the cover are so attractive. Inside the facsimile edition, with its quaint eighteenth century writing, I look at the frontispiece with the composer’s Italianised name ‘Roberto Valentini’ followed by ‘Inglese’ to acknowledge his English origin. Unfortunately, I now have to return to Bologna by train and tomorrow I fly home. This means that even with the best intentions, I won’t be able to commence work on my new music until the January lesson. I already have music to study for the next visit, so in-depth study might well have to wait yet another month.

  4

  It is the depth of winter and my life has taken on a new rhythm without my perceiving it. It is measured in mandolin lessons and monthly trips to Italy. Each time I return, usually on a Tuesday, I spend the following morning arranging the next trip. I phone around looking for the most economical fare. I have a yellow cardboard folder, which contains the tickets and connected correspondence for my travel. On the outside of the folder, I have printed a list of telephone numbers of the airline companies who fly to the destinations I am interested in. In general, the pattern that has established itself is Milan if I am staying with Giovanna or Bologna if I am staying with Ette. When I have found the most reasonably priced ticket, I make a few phone calls to Italy to check my accommodation and to confirm the date of the lesson. I then make my reservation and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can settle down to practising the music for the next lesson and focus on my teaching, which will generate some money to cover the cost of the fare.

  Just before my departure to Italy, I see an interesting advertisement in my music magazine. The Arts Council of England seeks applicants for the Artist’s Research and Development Fund. I write at once for an application form.

  On Tuesdays, I attend an Italian class during the evening at the University of London. Last summer, I obtained a certificate for reaching a certain level within the internally run Scheme of Proficiency. Now I am in the most advanced group and I have the opportunity to take another exam that is offered by the Institute of Linguists. The more serious members of our group are keen to take the exam and ordinarily I would be one of this subset. However, my commitment to the mandolin lesson means that more often than not I have to miss every fourth Italian lesson. It is a compromise, but I feel it is better to attend when I can than not at all. At least this way I am able to make some progress with refining my linguistic skills. I also like the structure of the homework that is set weekly, although sometimes it is a struggle to find sufficient time for it. The idea of another exam, though, fills me with horror. I just don’t feel I have the mental space to afford it while I am studying music so intensely.

  *

  When I get off the plane and my feet touch Italian soil, I have a strange sensation of taking on another role. I walk out of my life in England and straight into my life in Italy. It is as if I am walking onto the stage in a theatre wearing the appropriate clothes and carrying the correct props for my performance. I do not wish to give the impression that my experience is in any way artificial, unrealistic or pressured by expectations. I merely mean that one minute I am speaking English and being busy with playing, teaching, church activities and family responsibilities. The next minute, I am speaking and thinking in Italian, and totally bound up in the lives and concerns of the family that is looking after me.

  In Bologna, I go shopping with Marco and Ette. Having had lunch and having taken a rest, we set off at about five o’clock – the ‘buona sera hour’. We visit first a shop that specialises in modern furniture. Inside, we see some beautiful bookcases constructed in cherry wood with glass-filled panels that lift and slide back over each bookshelf. I immediately fall in love with these bookcases and imagine them in my own home. My own bookcases are open and dusty. They are so difficult and time-consuming to keep clean that I have largely given up. These bookcases with the rich glow of cherry wood and their clean, simple lines are stylish and harmonious. My books and music could be displayed and stored neatly, free from dust, whilst at the same time contributing to an uncluttered look and a peaceful atmosphere. I have seen a number of similar bookcases in the houses of my Italian friends.

  We move on to a lighting shop, which also thrills me. I walk around slowly, amazed at the high quality and diversity of fittings. This is only a little shop on the edge of Bologna and I would have to visit a central London shop to find anything approaching this selection. I suppose it is the sense of style that strikes me most. There are traditional fittings, although they are mostly Venetian glass chandeliers. But it is the contemporary fittings that really excite me. They have the power to transform mediocre rooms into places of exemplary design. Living space can be completely reshaped by just a little artful illumination. I stop to admire a cascade of tiny opaque glass cones suspended mid-air, as if drizzling, from thin pendulous wires.

  Just as I am inspecting some up-lighters, we have a dramatic moment when everything becomes suddenly pitch black. A light flickers and steadies itself into a beam on the floor. A lady moves with a torch towards the front of the shop explaining that the lights have fused and she is going to the fuse box. I am a little confused for a moment and consider the possibility that it might be a power cut. Then, power is restored and the shop is once more alive with the intense energy of white lights, coloured lamps, coruscating chandeliers and the heat of all the bulbs.

  During the evening, I spend time with Ette’s other family – her in-laws. Each Saturday, Ette and Marco visit Marco’s parents for dinner. When I am staying with Ette and Marco, I accompany them on their visit.

  These visits are a great source of pleasure to me. We don’t really do anything special; we just spend time being together. Marco’s parents and particularly Marco’s mother always make me feel so welcome and a part of the family. It is always very relaxed. Usually the television is on and Ette and I are given a pile of magazines to read. Marco’s mother has a great interest in fashion and current trends in fabrics, probably as a result of her tailoring work, and has a good collection of magazines. Ette and I decide which ones we want to read and then sink into the cushions on the sofa for a quiet half-hour.

  Every now and then, Marco’s mother returns from her preparations in the kitchen and we have a little chat about something or other. Sometimes Marco’s younger sister, Rosanna, also joins us for a little chat. Often the men retire to another room to discuss work-related topics.

  The meal on Saturday always follows the same pattern. Marco’s mother cooks a kind of soft bread roll using a device that looks like a waffle iron. These bread rolls, cooked in this particular way, are a Bolognese speciality. On the table is an array of fillings that can be placed inside the still warm rolls. There is prosciutto, salami, local cheese, artichokes and wild mushrooms, both preserved in olive oil. There is also salad of celery, chicory and bulbs of fennel. We each have a miniature pottery saucer in which to place a little olive oil and salt. Into this dressing, each individual dips pieces of a salad as required. The dinner is really an Italian version of English high tea. The sticks of celery arranged in a jug remind me of the suppers we had during my childhood on a Saturday evening. My mother would always have a wonderful spread of freshly baked bread, cheese, ham, pickles and celery.

  My Italian meal concludes with a varied selection of desserts and fruit, followed by an espresso. Marco’s mother makes an exceptionally good tiramisù and I have to indulge in a second helping
.

  *

  I dip my biscuit thoughtfully in my tea. I glance up for a moment at the light filtering through the crochet curtain. In the distance, a bell tolls persistently. It is always the same note, enhanced with reverberations.

  The tea, with the absence of milk, is translucent golden brown. The biscuit tastes rich and wholesome. Made with cream, it is called ‘Macine’ and is thick and round with a small hole in the centre. On the back of the packet, it gives details of the calorific value of different breakfast combinations that include the biscuits. It seems that I am partaking of the 350 calories breakfast: four biscuits, a cup of tea and a fruit yoghurt. I look longingly at the other varieties of breakfast biscuit. There is the exotic ‘Settembrini’, which contains the pulp of figs; the highly embellished ‘Pan di Stelle’, which is a chocolate biscuit studded with nuts and tiny white stars; and my personal favourite ‘Ritornelli’, which is made from almonds and cocoa.

  On the side of the packet is a recipe for the biscuits I am eating. I am intrigued to know whether the recipe will turn out biscuits similar to the ones I am consuming with such relish. It claims that the recipe is genuine and simple, but it seems strange for the manufacturer to give away its trade secrets.

  My flight isn’t until lunchtime so I spend most of the morning helping Ette with the chores. I strip my bed of its linen and I take the sheets downstairs to be washed. Whilst I am there, Ette opens the door to the cupboard under the stairs and rummages around. She reappears and offers me a cardboard box, much like a pyramid in shape but with six sides and the top sliced off. I recognise the box: it contains Pandoro di Verona, a special kind of light sponge, which is traditional at Christmas time in Italy. I ask my friend if she is sure. She says that she has several of these cakes and there is too much for just the two of them. I remember that my son is particularly partial to this cake. It has a moist outer coating and the box contains an envelope of icing sugar that is to be sprinkled over the cake before serving. I waver for a moment, considering the extra item I shall have to carry. Then I hold out my hand, take the thin red ribbon handle on the top of the box and accept the gift with gratitude.