The Mandolin Lesson

by Frances Taylor

  The assistant smiles at me as he returns my credit card and receipt and the parting rituals begin.

  “Grazie mille.” A thousand thanks. “Buona fortuna con i studi.” Good luck with the studies. I am always having personal conversations with perfect strangers. ‘Buona sera’. ‘Arrivederci’. Every time I leave a shop, there is always a sprinkling of these courtesies. I am probably a little old-fashioned, but I do like politeness and good manners. I leave feeling that I am walking on air.

  My sense of elation has little to do with the material goods I have purchased, although they are all beautiful and useful and I am pleased with them. I am not experiencing a high as a consequence of participating in the modern leisure activity of consumerism. Rather I am filled with a rush of happiness, a result of life-enhancing interaction with the people I encountered.

  At the bus stop in Via G.Mazzini, a stone’s throw from the ancient Duomo Vecchio, the Old Cathedral, I see an astonishing sight. The bus stop has become electronic. A message moves past telling me that my bus will arrive in nine minutes. The Old Cathedral is sometimes referred to as the ‘Rotonda’ on account of its round shape. It was built on the site of the Roman thermal baths and it is still possible to see some of the remains of these baths inside. It is literally only yards from the bus stop. I stare at the tiny flashing lights as they make their journey across the screen. I have seen so many examples of the old juxtaposed with the new. Somehow, they always seem to blend comfortably together.

  The message now tells me that my bus will arrive in four minutes. There is a sign in music, a curved line like an eyebrow placed over a dot, which when placed over a note means stop and pause, giving more time to the note. This sign is often described as a ‘pause’ but is known technically by its Italian name ‘fermata’, which translates as ‘stop’ and is also used for ‘bus stop’. I often amuse my young pupils by explaining that they should think of a bus stop when they arrive at a note marked with a pause sign and that they should wait on the note, increasing its length, just as one might wait at the bus stop for the bus. Now that Italian bus stops have electric signs, I have a bit more to add to my analogy.

  9

  On the final day of May, I return to Bologna to squeeze in one final lesson before the end of the scholastic year. The weather is balmy in the opening days of June. I buy a new short sleeve cotton T-shirt in navy blue. It is not really a T-shirt in the usual baggy sense, it is a small top, which fits neatly under a jacket and goes well with jeans. I try to buy at least one new piece, even if it is something small, on each trip in order to build up my wardrobe. I remember how last year I didn’t have the right clothes and Ette so kindly lent me a T-shirt so that I would feel more comfortable.

  It seems incredible that this visit marks the end of the second year. Time has flashed by and already I am halfway through my time of planned study. And in all this time, although I never know from one moment to the next where the money is coming from, I always seem to find enough in my bank account. Somehow, even when things seem impossible, at the last moment I get a phone call and there is a new pupil or someone requiring some extra coaching. Unexpected things are always happening and somehow there is always sufficient for my needs. I am extremely grateful to have made it this far.

  il terzo anno

  i

  “Two hours then,” I repeat. I nod my head in agreement and I get out of the car. In front of me, soaring in the soft September light, is the magnificent dome of the Royal Albert Hall, one of my favourite buildings in London. Ever since, as a pre-adolescent, I watched the Last Night of the Proms on television, in black and white and with Sir Malcolm Sargent conducting, I have kept a special place in my affections for this concert venue. It symbolises something stirring, something patriotic and very English.

  My husband drives away and I have just a couple of hours before he returns and I have to accompany him to Evensong at the cathedral. I turn away from the dome and I cross the road, walking towards the Royal College of Music. This weekend there is an exhibition of Early Music at the college and I am anxious to make the most of my precious time. I would like to have a complete day or even half a day free, but I don’t, so I must make the most of my opportunity. As I walk towards the entrance, I privately declare my intention to myself. I silently tell myself that this time I will meet someone who will help me to achieve my desire of owning a Baroque mandolin.

  This all sounds crazy. I have met many lute makers before and tried without success to interest them in making an instrument for me. When I completed the last day of the summer mandolin course last year, I remember thinking that I must have a Calace instrument – a different modern instrument from my own. I wanted to have the top-of-the-range concert model because so many people have this instrument in Italy, and I thought Ugo might like my playing better if I had the same instrument as he has. At Christmas I managed to sell one of my instruments, my first Pecoraro, but by the time I did so, I had already changed my mind about the Calace. The Calace isn’t right for me for normal use. It is too heavy and I like the neatness of the cambered fingerboard of the Pecoraro or Embergher instruments. It was silly of me ever to entertain the idea that the choice of instrument would make such a difference to my playing. My perception was somehow temporarily clouded – the idea a fleeting whim. I know that I can make crude student violins sing and that skill is more important than choice of instrument. It is well known amongst violinists that a poor player will not sound any better just because he or she is given a Strad to play on.

  So when I sold my mandolin at Christmas, another idea was born. I had for some time wanted a Neapolitan Baroque mandolin, but it is such uncharted territory. I only know of one luthier in Italy making these instruments. He has made two that I know of and the last time I enquired, there was a three-year waiting list. Clearly a simple solution would be to find a luthier here and now I have sold an instrument, I have some cash to plough into the project. In my final two years of the mandolin course, we have to study the performance of Baroque music in more detail and we have to be familiar with period instruments. Without experiencing such an instrument, I am not sure how this is possible, so I am determined to have my own.

  I stand in the queue for tickets. In my mind I repeat my intention to myself again, affirming that I will meet someone that will help me to manifest the instrument of my dreams. It is like a prayer, but it is more positive and authoritative. I have been reading a lot of self-help books during the summer and I am very interested in the power of the mind and its ability to influence what happens to us. I have been reading about positive thought, affirmations and visualisation techniques. I have been thinking about this instrument that I would like to own, how it will feel to play and how it will sound.

  It is my turn to buy a ticket. I also ask for an additional ticket to visit the historic instrument museum of the college, which is open today by special arrangement. I had read about this in a music magazine. I checked my books at home to confirm that the museum holds a number of mandolins, including those of the Neapolitan variety. I particularly want to view an instrument by Vinaccia, the most eminent of mandolin-makers in the Baroque period.

  As I enter the museum, I am welcomed by the metallic throb of chords interspersed with wiry threads of decoration being executed on a harpsichord. I am excited to see so many people exploring the keyboard instruments and being allowed to play the exhibits. The museum appears to be accessible and friendly. The instruments I wish to view are, however, in glass cases in a viewing gallery reached by stairs to the left of the entrance. About halfway along the gallery, I find the mandolins. There are quite a few examples, some of the Milanese variety and some of the Neapolitan variety, including a Vinaccia. I spend some time studying the latter instrument and trying to fix every detail in my memory.

  I return downstairs to speak to the custodian of the museum. I have quite a lot of questions about the Vinaccia mandolin. Sometimes, details of measurements and plans of instruments are available and can be
viewed by special appointment. Sometimes, this information isn’t available and it is possible instead to view the instrument outside of the glass case. Permission can be given for photographs to be taken and for measurements to be recorded in order to make a copy or a similar instrument. Without this valuable facility for research and the possibility of new instruments – replicas of the worn-out and fragile originals – these period instruments would decay until they became completely extinct.

  As I am engaged in conversation with the custodian, she is distracted by several other enquiries. Suddenly, she disappears and I am left mid-sentence. For a moment, I feel the impossibility and hugeness of what I am embarking upon. I would like a copy of an old instrument that no longer exists except in a museum. It cannot be bought in a shop and I have not yet found a maker who will accept the commission to make such an instrument. Occasionally old instruments might come up at auction, but it is extremely rare and usually they are beyond being restored to playing condition. Makers on the other hand would have to take a risk in agreeing to construct a new instrument. A mandolin needs a mould, a carved piece of wood in the shape of a half pear, around which the ribs of the back are moulded. The mould is a pattern for the instrument and it is necessary to build one, from the dimensions taken from an existing instrument, before work can even begin. It might mean a great deal of research and the learning of new skills. I suppose the likelihood of finding someone interested today is minimal.

  In the same moment, as all this flashes though my mind, a voice says: “I wonder if I might help you?”

  I swing round to see a slim young man with long hair neatly tied back in a ponytail and melting brown eyes.

  The young man continues: “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation and I wondered whether I might help you.”

  He introduced himself as Chris Allen, a luthier who specialise in lutes and hurdy-gurdies.

  I begin to tell him about the Vinaccia and we walk up to the display of mandolins. Chris’s face lights up when he sees the intricate mother-of-pearl inlay on the instrument I show him. His knowledge about instrument making is so interesting and he listens carefully and respectfully to everything I tell him. Soon I see that he is very enthusiastic about the instrument I would so love to own and he is expressing an interest in making it. We go for a cup of coffee to continue our discussion. We talk for well over an hour. I am elated at finding someone who is interested in my project, someone who is not afraid of a challenge, and who is both approachable and reassuring.

  As I walk down the steps back onto the street, I remember my intention. I smile to myself.

  “Yes,” I whisper under my breath, “it worked.”

  Positive thinking really worked. Other people might dismiss it as a coincidence, but I believe it made a difference. I am filled with intense joy, confident that, whatever the obstacles, the new mandolin will somehow happen.

  ii

  There have been some changes in Brescia during the summer. Giovanna now has her own flat; her father has retired and her parents have moved back to their roots in Treviso.

  I can’t wait to see Giovanna’s new flat. It is in the historic centre of Brescia, in a little side street just off the Piazza della Loggia. It is situated over a dress shop. To gain access, my friend has to insert a huge iron key into the keyhole of the door at the side of the shop. Behind this door and stretching out in front of us is a long whitewashed corridor with a vaulted ceiling and an uneven flagstone floor. It feels as if we are entering a wine cellar.

  “This is one of the oldest buildings in Brescia,” my friend proudly informs me.

  At the end of the corridor, there is an opening to the right. We struggle up some stone steps, turning sharply back on ourselves, and take care not to lose our balance with the worn-away middle part of the step. After the usual unlocking procedure, with many turns of the key, the thick and heavy door to the flat swings open.

  Inside, the high ceiling is formed with dark brown planks of wood, which give it a rustic appearance. It is quite different from the modern plain plaster ceilings I have seen in other people’s flats. It reminds me of rural buildings in Tuscany and I can well believe that the flat is part of a medieval building, which has been renovated and converted into flats. The walls are whitewashed and scattered with stylish music posters. The main room doubles up as a living room and a kitchen. The bedroom and bathroom are separate and self-contained. They open onto a tiny and thin corridor, which connects the entrance to the main room.

  In the bedroom, Giovanna has prepared a guest bed for me and as I place my mandolin and bag on the bed, I notice her cat scurrying from under my bed. At the head of my bed, there is a little recess which gives way to a window. Giovanna opens the window to reveal louvre shutters painted in dark green. The shutters open to the left and right of the window. Down, far down, below is a courtyard. It is here on the window ledge that the cat likes to survey the world. He sits silhouetted against the light. Occasionally, I notice his head jerk as he reacts to a passing bird and then remembers that it is unsafe to move any further forward on the ledge.

  In the evening, Giovanna and I prepare a simple supper of pasta with an olive and tomato sauce. The sauce, which comes straight from a jar, is a staple store cupboard ingredient and one of my favourite convenience foods. We add some grated parmigiano and accompany it with fresh crusty bread. It is followed with salad leaves, dressed with salt and olive oil. It is interesting that among my friends and acquaintances in Italy, wine vinegar and pepper are seldom used for the dressing of salads. Finally we conclude with an espresso, which we ceremoniously sweeten and take time to savour.

  After we have washed up, we sit down to play mandolin duets. We spend several hours entertaining ourselves without realising it is getting late. Over and over, we play movements that we enjoy or are trying to improve. We are endlessly fascinated by the music and it feels enormously comfortable playing together.

  At last we realise that we are tired and stop playing, but we find ourselves chatting about life. We sit at the kitchen table nursing large bowl-like cups of warmed, sweetened milk. It is comforting and a little nostalgic. During my adult life, I have rarely taken the opportunity to have a milky drink at bedtime. We continue our philosophical discussion until quite late and then we retire to our beds.

  I am awakened on Sunday morning by the sound of a bell; the clanging of a single note, signalling the imminent start of Mass nearby, is full-bodied. The haunting reverberations tell me that I am truly in Italy, even though the room is still darkened by shutters. I fall asleep and awaken several times with other bells tolling. I love their sound. I snuggle further down under the embroidered sheet. I could listen all day, being constantly lulled to sleep and then awakened, lulled to sleep and then awakened…

  *

  Early Monday morning, I prepare myself quickly for the day. I have laid out the clothes that I need and I do the bare minimum that is necessary in the bathroom. Giovanna now has a job in an office and I don’t want to inconvenience her by disturbing her usual routine. I can shower when I return this evening. After breakfast and rapid teeth brushing, we both depart for the day.

  Giovanna gets into her car to go to work, but I am on foot today. Normally I would be going to the station to catch the train to Padua, but it is still October and the mandolin course hasn’t yet started for the new academic year. Instead, this week, there is a special mandolin course in Brescia at the young people’s music centre where the mandolin orchestra rehearse. It is the same location that I came to for the very first mandolin course I ever attended and it is the same place that I returned to for the summer course I took part in when I stayed with my family at Breganze.

  I wave goodbye to Giovanna and walk towards the Piazza Loggia. I follow the path around the back of the Palazzo della Loggia. The billowing shape of the roof is so pleasing to me. It echoes Palladio’s Palazzo della Ragione at Vicenza and I have read that Palladio was indeed a collaborator in the completion
of the building. I have also read in the same guidebook, an English tourist guidebook that Giovanna’s mother very kindly gave to me, that the lead roof was destroyed by fire in 1575, less than one hundred years after the first stone was laid in 1492. Amazingly, the restoration of the sixteenth century roof took place only relatively recently in 1914.

  After the Palazzo, I turn immediately left out of the Piazza and into Corso G.Mameli. This takes me directly to the Torre della Pallata, where I must turn right into the Via Battaglie for the music centre. The whole walk takes about twenty minutes.

  Corso Mameli is just coming to life and I am interested in the different shops I pass. I note a bookshop, which I will return to later, and a shop displaying ladies nightwear and lingerie catches my eye. I move invisibly between people going about their daily business. Elegantly suited businessmen stop for an early morning espresso at a bar. One glances over the headlines of the Corriere della Sera he is holding and another chats on his mobile phone. I remember once in Assisi seeing a Franciscan monk in a bar drinking espresso. As I looked down, I saw his bare toes peeking out of his brown leather sandals. When a mobile phone rang, I was utterly astonished to see that it was the monk who was answering. It was an incongruous sight, a religious who followed a life of simplicity and poverty using a symbol of contemporary technology and wealth.