The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  Towards midday, when I have finished my Italian housework, I put my mandolin, my overnight bag and the cake onto the back seat of Ette’s car. It is quite cold and we close the car doors quickly. Ette puts the keys in the ignition, but she is unable to start the car. We both shiver, taken back by the sudden temperamental nature of the car at this inopportune moment. It is not a flat battery. The engine will not attempt to turn over. Quite simply, the ignition is somehow jammed. In a split second of panic, we decide to return indoors to make a phone call. A taxi is unavailable, but we manage to speak to Marco’s sister who is free and leaves immediately to rescue us. We are only ten minutes by car from the airport, but without any means of public transport, we might as well be a hundred miles away. It is now past the check-in time of an hour before the flight and I feel very nervous about missing the flight. It seems an eternity before Rosanna arrives in her beautiful Fiat Spirito di Punto. I am so grateful for her kindness in my moment of need. At the airport, I thank her profusely, give Ette a hasty hug and run – mandolin in one hand and cake in the other.

  Inside the terminal, I scan the departures and see with disbelief that my flight has been cancelled. I run back to the glass door of the entrance and see that my friends have now departed. I feel abandoned, confused and panic-stricken. I go to the check-in desk, feeling on the verge of tears. I explain my problem, how I came to be late and now my flight is cancelled. I don’t know what to do. The lady behind the counter smiles and says that my cancelled flight is caused by an air controller’s strike and that it has been transferred to Pisa airport. If I would like to return to outside of the terminal building, I would find a coach which was about to depart in five minutes’ time. I run faster than I would have believed I am able to. I check that the coach is for my flight departing from Pisa and, trembling, I collapse into the first available seat near the front of the coach.

  As we circumnavigate the city and I catch a glimpse between the buildings of the famous leaning tower, I can’t help feeling that my disastrous homeward journey had brought about an unexpected pleasure.

  *

  On the tube in the rush hour, I am squashed and uncomfortable. Luckily I am sitting down, but I am having great difficulty protecting both the mandolin and the cake. At Knightsbridge, an elegant lady carrying a Harrods’ bag and wearing a cream knitted suit gets onto the train. I judge at once that she is Italian and then I rebuke myself for being obsessed with Italy and all things Italian and making assumptions. Just as I am thinking all of this, the lady begins to converse fluently in Italian with the gentleman she is standing next to. I smile to myself. As I do so, I feel some discomfort in my hand. I look down and see that the red ribbon has cut into my fingers and left a deep imprint.

  5

  I am heading for the first free telephone kiosk in Brescia station. I have just arrived from Milan, after having flown into the airport at Linate. In my pocket, I have a small notebook with Giovanna’s number and a handful of coins. The number is engaged so I try again and this time we are connected.

  Giovanna asks me if I am tired or hungry. I am not sure what to say. I am not feeling too bad, so I politely say no to the question. I tell her that I’m feeling fine.

  “Good,” she says, “because we are going to a concert and the concert is at half past six. I am coming now to pick you up.”

  She hangs up and I walk to the entrance to wait the ten minutes it will take for her to arrive by car. I reflect upon our conversation. It is dusk and all around me there is the constant movement of shady characters. Outside, I stand near to the taxi queue because I feel it is the safest place. My decision to choose this spot as a place of safety is not based on any reason, but simply on intuition. It just feels right. The concert is only forty minutes away and here I am again just walking straight into my Italian life on a Saturday night. Within an hour of arriving, I shall be attending an unplanned concert. The unpredictability of what might happen when I am here is both charming and, at times, although not today, exasperating.

  I look from my point of vantage for the arrival of my friend’s car. I have a slight problem in that I can’t see very far without my glasses and also I can’t remember the exact details of the car I am looking for. I think it is a Fiat Panda in light, silvery, sage green, but I am not sure. This is because I don’t pay much attention to cars unless they have a significantly beautiful shape. It is at moments such as these that I am subjected to irrational fears. A thought pops into my head: what happens if something prevents my friend from arriving and I am stranded at Brescia station for the night? I am tempted to give way to a ripple of panic. The ripple threatens to become stronger as car after car comes and goes, picking up passengers, but my friend drives none of them. I feel uneasy and vulnerable. Just then, I glimpse a movement, repetitive, soothing. A blurred image comes into focus. It is Giovanna walking towards me waving. I hadn’t noticed her car arrive.

  The venue for the concert is the church of Santa Maria del Carmine, which is situated in a road just off the Via Battaglie and is very close to the centre where the mandolin orchestra rehearse. It is not far away, but it is a struggle to get there through the busy traffic and it is difficult to find a parking space in the surrounding narrow streets.

  The Chiesa del Carmine is reputed to be the most important example of Gothic architecture of the fifteenth century in Lombardy. From the outside, it is quite an impressive building with its countless spires embellishing the edge of the roof. Inside, the church is endowed with vast spaces. I am drawn to the intimacy of the side chapels. One of them, the Capella Averoldi, is frescoed by Vicenza Foppa. Almost at once, I am distracted by Giovanna noticing a friend. We walk over, arm in arm, to speak to the friend. We attract a few more people and I find myself mingling, listening and chatting. I am asked the purpose and length of my visit and where it is that I am staying. I so enjoy this pastime of chatting and being sociable. And now I feel even more pleasure as my Italian improves and allows me to express my thoughts and opinions more accurately and in more detail.

  Just being here with my friend, chatting to Italian people in their own language and attending a concert of Renaissance music played in the setting of a Renaissance church is more than enough. I am living life, if only for a brief period at a time, as an Italian. The frescoes of Foppa, the depiction of the Annunciation by Floriano Ferramola and the newly restored cycle of pictures in the chancel, all recede into the background. Without any trace of disrespect, I can quite see why works of art become almost as wallpaper to Italian people. They are surrounded by so many great works in so many of their churches, galleries, historic buildings, and even by the exterior walls of frescoed edifices, that they become indulged.

  A tourist visits a particular location to look at and to admire the treasures of historic interest and artistic merit. Sometimes it is difficult to appreciate the things that constantly surround you. In England I live near to Epping Forest, but I don’t walk in it as much as I would like to. It is the same with central London. I am closely connected by tube to one of the cultural capitals of the world, yet I never make as much use of this convenience as I might by going to see concerts, films and plays. And so it is with Italy. I do not consume every detail or all the factual information, but I have an impression, a consciousness of something larger, if in places a little blurred. I have ceased to be a tourist and I am comfortable with my state.

  Italians are not unmarked by living with the most beautiful wallpaper in the world. As if by osmosis, they know intrinsically, from the cradle onwards, what does and doesn’t look beautiful. And this sense of beauty is in everything that is created in Italy. It is the same sense of beauty that is found in a Giorgio Armani suit, a piece of hand marbled Venetian paper or a plate of pasta cooked with the best fresh ingredients. And it is this sense of beauty that I have come to soak up into my music.

  *

  On Sunday, I attend the Mass with Giovanna at her local church. I love the way my friend touches my hand with holy water after s
he has dipped her hand in the receptacle near the entrance. She then crosses herself and I follow suit. It feels so natural and normal. It happens many times when we are visiting churches, but it is always the same. It is an outward expression of intimacy and spirituality that touches a very deep and private part of me.

  The church of SS. Trinità is a modern church built in the round. Outside it is a concrete cylinder with little to commend it, except a modern campanile with five exposed bells set in a concrete framework. In the background, verdant hills soar, reminding me that we are on the edge of Brescia where the urban environment ends and is seamlessly joined to open countryside. Beyond the hills, to the east of the city, lies that exotic jewel of Italian lakes, Lago di Garda. My friend always refers to it as the big one; Lake Iseo – in the other direction – being the small one.

  Inside the church, I find myself in a circular space, not unlike a contemporary theatre – perhaps reflecting the ancient Roman amphitheatre, in which unfolds a drama on several levels. Most central of all is the drama of the Eucharist that takes place around an altar just off-centre. In curving, tiered pews, the parishioners look on, sometimes participating in the drama.

  “Signore, pietà. Cristo, pietà. Signore, pietà,” the onlookers murmur. “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”

  How deeply resonating these words, the Kyrie eleison, are in any language. They have a pleading quality, expressing a deep desire for a healed relationship with God.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I am aware of flickers of movement. At the edge of the building, behind the highest tier of seats, people are wandering backwards and forwards. Around the walls are dark wooden wardrobes placed at intervals. These wardrobes, in reality confessionals, are constantly in use by visiting penitents even though the Mass is already in progress. I am sure that at home, in the Roman Catholic Church, it is usual to visit the priest to make a confession before the Mass. In the Anglican Church, the hearing of individual confessions is not obligatory and is seldom practised. Where it is encouraged, it is usually conducted on a more informal basis. The sight of individuals and families, some with small children, just milling around the edges, seems quite extraordinary to me.

  I focus back to the words. I am amazed by how – in conjunction with the ritualistic choreography – easily comprehensible they are. I experience a slight time delay of a few seconds in the proceedings, because I must listen and then understand. Unfortunately, this church doesn’t supply booklets or service sheets, so I am frustrated by not being able to follow the words. If I could read the words, I would be able to say all the words spoken by the congregation at the same time as everyone else. As it is, I have to hear the words and understand them. As I do this, I realise the words are identical to the words used in my own Anglican Eucharist at home. This delights me as it affirms my belief that there are more things in common that unite than differences that divide, when comparing the worship of the Church of Rome and the Church of England.

  When we reach the point of going forward to take the Blessed Sacrament, I remain in my seat, as do quite a few others. This moment is poignant for me. Being christened as a Roman Catholic and then becoming a member of the Anglican Church in my adult life has left me feeling at times confused and hurt. I would dearly love to have membership of both churches in the fullest sense, so that I could also receive Holy Communion in the Roman Catholic Church. It is a bit like wanting dual nationality and perhaps mirrors my patriotic status. On the one hand, I am fiercely proud of being English and on the other, I am passionate about my adopted second home, Italy.

  What is interesting is that no one in Italy quite understands my predicament. This is because in Italy, the Roman Catholic Church is the national church. Therefore, I am totally welcomed and accepted. Everybody – Giovanna, her parents, her friends, the priest – they all welcome and accept me enthusiastically. In England, it is not always the same because the Roman Catholic Church is a church in exile. As a result, it can sometimes become like an exclusive club. Today, Giovanna introduces me to her friends and the priest and I am made to feel included and special, even though I have not received the consecrated bread – the Eucharistic Host.

  As the service concludes, I contemplate the three apsidal icons. I think they are modern representations, pastiches of ancient icons found in the Russian and Greek orthodox churches. It is almost thirty years since the inauguration of this church, which was built to meet the demands of the expanding Brescian population. The centre icon is of the Trinity after which the church is named. I am not sure exactly who the Trinity are, but I think they are the three mysterious angels who appeared to Abraham in the desert. They are sitting together, under a tree, eating a meal. The composition is the same as the ancient icon of which I remember seeing a picture of in a book, but the buildings in the left-hand corner are more Byzantine in appearance and the quercia di Mamre, oak tree of Mamre, is more elaborate. The gloriously rich colours are bright and jewel-like and the gold leaf halos of the three figures are quite stunning.

  Outside, Giovanna and I find coriandoli underfoot – tiny coloured circles, the size of the waste paper made by hole punching machines. The coloured circles are scattered everywhere. We have seen children dressed in fancy dress costumes for Carnevale, the Carnival celebration that heralds the beginning of Lent, and we saw them carrying plastic bags of the coriandoli, which they randomly threw about. It is the local custom and I only hope this confetti is biodegradable. It is everywhere. The word confetti is not used for this paper. Confetti means something else: the sugared almonds given at baptisms, weddings and other special family occasions.

  Later in my room, I flick through a copy of Grazia magazine and I hear the plaintive bell of the local seminary being tolled. It has become a familiar sound. My mind returns to the angels visiting Abraham with a message that his wife, Sarah, will have an unexpected pregnancy despite her advanced years. I wonder whether angels only bring messages about births or do they communicate messages about other things?

  *

  On Monday evening, after the mandolin lesson, we have dinner as usual but there is a special treat afterwards. We eat a kind of biscuit made locally to celebrate Shrove Tuesday, which is tomorrow. The biscuit is thin and wafer-like and very sweet. Giovanna’s father asks me about our custom in England. He spent a little time working there as an engineer many years ago. I tell him about the making of pancakes, but we are both in agreement that these Brescian biscotti are molto buono, very good.

  6

  This month, I am preoccupied with my approaching birthday celebrations. Somehow I managed to agree to a party, suggested and organised by my husband. He is brilliant at organising things and comes into his own on occasions like this. He has printed an invitation card for my ‘Forte Party’, which is a clever musical play on the word ‘forty’. Invitations have been sent out to forty of my closest friends and colleagues. I am deeply troubled.

  I can barely bring myself to speak of or write anything about these impending celebrations, since it seems an acknowledgement of my own mortality. I hadn’t realised that I am so old, that I am possibly halfway or further though my life. In my mind, I am still twenty. I have an odd twinge in my knee occasionally and my health is a bit fragile if I get overtired or overstressed, but otherwise I feel fine. It is not that I feel no different exactly, more that my health hasn’t deteriorated. And in terms of appearance, I am much better than I was twenty years ago. Now, I have blossomed. At twenty, I felt awkward and uneasy about my frizzy long hair and self-conscious about my complexion. I always felt slightly old-fashioned and behind the times. Now, I feel a sense of new self-confidence. I wear beautiful clothes that make me feel good. After experimenting with various different hairstyles over the years, my hair has returned to the shoulder length it was at the end of my teens. It is curly, and naturally so. At my very smart London hairdressers, the staff say I am lucky not to need a perm or colour. They think my hair is wonderful since others at my age seek all k
inds of help. And where I once found it difficult that I looked so young and naïve, now I enjoy being mistaken for being younger than my chronological age. Perhaps I am like a vintage bottle of wine that improves with age.

  Perhaps being a late starter has contributed to my state of mind. My childhood, up to the age of eleven, was lost to illness. I spent most of the time away from school as a result of a weak chest. I suffered with continual bouts of bronchitis and undiagnosed asthma. Sometimes I was quite ill and I spent a lot of time in bed. Nowadays, the advances in medicine have meant that asthma is more successfully diagnosed and treated. In addition, the efficacy of new medicines means that sick children are rarely so ill that they spend a prolonged time in bed. Ill children today are often up and playing with their toys, both at home and in hospital. Science and technology, as we are all too aware, has changed the world dramatically in the last thirty years.

  Losing so many opportunities in the first quarter of my life meant that when I was a teenager I had to make up for lost time. My family spent a year in Canada when I was just twelve and during this period I taught myself to play the violin. I didn’t realise that what I was doing was remarkable. I had begged my father for the violin. I was so desperate that the ukulele, given to me by my paternal grandmother when I was four and had first expressed my interest in a stringed instrument, was transformed into a violin. I made a crude bow out of wood and horsehair that I found in my father’s shed, and then proceeded to make dreadful sounds on the ukulele with the help of my newly crafted bow. It was completely wrong, of course, because the ukulele has a flat bridge, unlike the violin, which has a curved bridge to accommodate the bowing. I was so disappointed but I held onto my dream.