Ugo tells me that he is editing a book in which Mandolin Memories will be republished along with two translations of it, one in Italian and the other in French. The Italian version has been translated by my friend Giovanna and the French version by Didier Le Roux, who I met on my very first trip to Brescia. Ugo has written a preface to this book and he has a special task that he would like me to undertake. He would like me to translate the preface from Italian to English.
I am silent for a moment. I am both thrilled and daunted by the prospect. It is yet another connection. I am walking in Samuel’s footsteps. I have no option other than to accept the task.
*
‘A Night in Tunisia’.
No, I have not suddenly been transported across the Mediterranean Sea to the shores of North Africa. I am joining the Mandolin and Guitar Orchestra for the Monday rehearsal and we are playing jazz tonight. We are trying a Papparelli/ ‘Dizzy’ Gillespie number called ‘A Night in Tunisia’.
Claudio Mandonico, the conductor, looks up and greets me. He is always pleased to see me, even if I am the most infrequent attendant of rehearsals. The orchestra meets twice a week to rehearse and I only visit when I am in Brescia.
This evening is strangely nostalgic. We are upstairs in the room we rehearsed in on my first ever visit. I ask why we are using this room and it soon becomes obvious. The extra percussion instruments required are already set up here.
I am tired from an exacting day in the mandolin class and also from the journey to and from Padua. Now I am sitting next to Miki, Giovanna is sitting further forward, and I am struggling with crazy rhythms and a style I am not used to. Curiously, though, instead of becoming exhausted, I seem to be growing more and more animated as each moment passes.
I am quickly intoxicated by the repetitive quirky rhythms. They swing and dance provocatively around the same spot. The hollow sound of a traditional drum echoes behind me. A modern drum kit increases the tension. All these elements combine to generate infectious energy, raw and urgent.
*
On the commuter train from Brescia to Milan, I have a sticky moment. I take my ticket from my bag in preparation for the ticket inspector. Ticket inspectors invariably visit, usually several times in a journey. I place the ticket in my pocket, but as I do so, I realise that my return ticket to Milan has been validated twice. I remember putting it in the punch machine this morning at Brescia station. I look closer and notice that the other hole with time, date and place refers to Padua, yesterday, late afternoon.
I look in disbelief. I can’t believe I have made a mistake. I thought I was so organised this time buying a return ticket for Milan to avoid queuing at Brescia station when I returned. I flick though the other bits of paper in my handbag. The return ticket to Padua is unmarked. There is definitely no hole, no stamp. Obviously, I validated the wrong ticket yesterday.
I take a moment to consider my predicament. I devise two plans. The first is that I will erase all knowledge of what has happened from my mind and act as if nothing has happened. The inspector, despite it being unlikely, might overlook the other marking on the ticket.
The second plan is that if he or she notices, I will act surprised and explain the truth, as if I am only just becoming aware of the mistake. If I have to pay the fine, so be it.
To my absolute delight, the ticket inspector takes my ticket, punches it, and with glazed eyes returns it with a ‘grazie signora’. I am relieved not to be the centre of conflict and attention in my carriage. I am grateful that I am not a protagonist in the kind of drama I have seen so often before.
In Milan, I have the whole day free until mid-afternoon, a rare treat, and I intend to make the most of this opportunity. Ugo has told me of some interesting early mandolins in two different museums. I take my mandolin and overnight bag to the left-luggage office, taking care to remove my umbrella from my bag as it is raining. Then, I head for the newspaper stand, where I purchase a map and some tickets for the metropolitana – the underground train. I spend five minutes sitting down in the waiting room whilst I study the map and memorise the salient details. I don’t want to wander around looking like a lost tourist. I then fold the map up and put it in my pocket and make for the metropolitana.
As I approach the entrance of the metropolitana at nine o’clock in the morning, I am met with a terrible disappointment. Officials are closing the entrance with metal shutters. For the second time this morning, I stare in disbelief. I ask an official what is happening. Apparently, the metropolitana is having a strike and no one seems to know when services will be resumed. I walk back to the waiting room upstairs in the mainline station and have another look at my map. I have such a long stretch of time before me that I have to press on with my plan. I noticed that there were hundreds of disgruntled commuters waiting for buses and taxis outside the station. My only realistic option is to walk.
I study the map carefully and check the position of the stations before the Teatro alla Scala, Milan’s famous opera house. On the number three line from the Central Station, the stops are Republica, Turati and Monte Napoleone. There seems to be an almost direct overground route, with just a slight twist to the left and then to the right in the middle, between here and the opera house. It doesn’t look too difficult and it doesn’t look too far on the map, although maps can be deceptive. If the distance between Milanese stations is roughly the same as the distance between London tube stations, then I have to walk perhaps a distance equivalent to the length of Oxford Street. After Tottenham Court Road station, there are three stops: Oxford Circus, Bond Street and Marble Arch. It seems feasible. I put up my umbrella and set out into the inclement weather, heading towards Milan’s historical centre.
I have never seen the heart of Milan, even though I am frequently moving through the city. I often fly to Linate airport and take a bus to the station. It is a very convenient service, running frequently and taking only twenty minutes between the airport and the station. I see the suburbs and unknown Milan. I see old-fashioned trams and interesting shops. I always notice a street called Via Stradivari as we approach the station from the north-east of the city. I think it is wonderful to have a road named after a violinmaker.
Standing in front of La Scala, Milan, I feel humbled. This is an important moment in my journey. All my life I have heard of the prestigious reputation of La Scala, one of the great opera houses of the world. My friend, Maria Cleofe Miotti, plays mandolin in performances of Prokoviev’s Romeo and Juliet, as does Dorina Frati who was so hospitable to me on my first solo visit to Italy. And I feel another sense of connection because I sometimes play for the same ballet in London at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden – another of the world’s great opera houses.
I enter the Museo Teatrale della Scala, The Theatrical Museum of the Scala, by a door on the left of the main façade. As I buy a ticket, I am warned that the theatre itself is closed for a rehearsal. The price of admission to the museum normally includes a peek at the opulent splendour of the interior. I am not bothered by this news because I have come specifically to see the mandolins in the museum collection.
I wander through the glass cases, looking at scores, conductor’s batons, pictures and other memorabilia. I see a charming eighteenth century porcelain figurine of a mandolinist. I see an early flute and various Baroque keyboard instruments, but I see no sign of the mandolins. I check carefully as I return through the displays to make sure that I haven’t missed anything accidentally in my excitement.
At the custodian’s desk by the exit, I feel quite let down. Clearly there are no mandolins, but I feel that Ugo wouldn’t have given me incorrect information. In the past I probably would have accepted the situation and departed, puzzled and frustrated. Today, something stirs within me. I find myself mentioning the mandolins to the custodian. I tell him that I had understood that the museum contained a collection of early mandolins. I tell him that I was advised by Maestro Ugo Orlandi of the Conservatorio at Padua to visit the museum and that it was a matter of
some urgency because I have a flight to London that I must take later in the day.
All at once, the custodian is taking headed notepaper from the drawer in his desk and he starts to write a letter. He tells me that the mandolins have been moved to the nearby Palazzo Clerici, just a few minutes’ walk away. He says that if I take the letter with me and present it to the reception, I will be allowed to see the mandolins that are of such interest to me. I thank him profusely, hardly believing what has taken place. In a split second, I summoned up the confidence and language to pursue what I wanted, and against the odds a door has been, quite literally, opened for me. So many times in Italy, what seems impossible suddenly becomes possible.
At the Palazzo Clerici, I walk up the steps into a building which seems to be mostly for business. I hand over my letter and I am asked to give up my coat and umbrella. A uniformed security officer carrying a huge bunch of heavy keys is summonsed and he takes me up in the lift to a higher floor. He unlocks the door of a huge white room housing various glass cases. Then he hovers at the door whilst I have my own private viewing of the mandolins. I have the impression that the collection is not quite ready for the pubic and I feel enormously privileged to have this opportunity to view it.
Outside in the rain again, I feel a huge sense of achievement at having found the mandolins. I abandon the idea of visiting the instrument collection at the Castello Sforzesco as the custodian at La Scala museum informed me that the castle was closed for restoration. He has saved me an unnecessary walk. Instead, I relax by going to the Duomo.
The cathedral is the largest and most complex Gothic construction in Italy. It has 135 spires that stretch towards heaven like stalagmites. It is hard to comprehend the time that skilled craftsmen have laboured to produce such an intricate structure. It is eternally incomplete. My guidebook explains that after six centuries it is still not really finished, owing to the continuing maintenance and restoration required.
I stroll through the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, an impressive arcade, just off the Piazza del Duomo. It is shaped in the form of a cross with a glass dome over the central octagon. The high vaulted roof and the dome, both constructed of metal and glass, afford light and space. The patterned tile floor and the mosaic pictures in the lunettes of the octagon give a richly furnished feel to this covered stretch of beautiful shops and smart restaurants. The arcade, with its many coffee houses, has a reputation as a meeting place for artists, scholars and politicians. No wonder it has been dubbed the ‘sitting room of Milan’.
I walk on through the Piazza della Scala and back the way I came along the Via Manzoni. At the Piazza Cavour, I stop at a Brek restaurant that I had noticed earlier on my way to the centre. I have a nourishing lunch of pasta with zucca, pumpkin and prosciutto di speck – an unusual but excellent combination.
A quick detour though the public gardens on the opposite side of the piazza brings me almost to the next piazza, the Piazza della Republica. From here, after a delicate negotiation of the tramlines, it is just a ten-minute walk in a straight line to the entrance of the Central Station. I shall collect my belongings and wait for the bus to the airport.
vii
Work has begun on my Baroque mandolin.
I suppose, in a sense, work begun on the first day that I met Chris with the idea that it might be possible. After that, we found it difficult to arrange an appointment to return to see the instrument at the Royal College of Music. They were very busy with numerous enquiries and the arrival of computers. Instead, we managed to secure an appointment to view a similar instrument in the Victoria and Albert Museum. We were able to view the instrument in an office away from the public viewing area, and we were allowed to take both measurements and photographs.
In the weeks that followed, Chris phoned me saying that some of the detail of the decoration hadn’t come out well enough in the photographs. The V and A Museum were unable to provide a further viewing as they too were installing new computers and now lacked the space. There seemed to be only one course of action open to me. I returned to the museum’s public gallery on three successive occasions, the first two with my spouse, in order to take further photographs. With my husband’s state-of-the-art photographic equipment, we had a good chance of obtaining photographs without reflection caused by lighting and the glass case surrounding the exhibit. Unfortunately, not one photograph was good enough.
By the third and last visit, I was fed up and struggling with negative thoughts that my idea to have an early mandolin wasn’t going to materialise. Alone, I made a hasty visit to the musical instrument collection late one Saturday afternoon in early spring, with my idiot-proof camera in my pocket.
Furtively, I removed the camera from my pocket and quickly, guiltily took the required photographs. I am not really sure if one is supposed to take photographs of exhibits, although tourists do it all the time. Nevertheless, I felt I was only trying to recapture the image that we had had permission to capture previously and had failed to achieve. I tried to focus on the idea that, despite it being unlikely, the photograph would somehow be good enough to be useful to the mandolin-maker.
Outside my kitchen, the fig tree is covered in green buds. I am filled with childlike wonder that what looked like a dead twig last week is now alive and growing. Inside, I feverishly unpack my new photographs from their box and arrange them on the long table in the breakfast room. I stand back and take a deep breath. Somehow, the photographs look as if they might be good enough.
viii
The Alsatian held on a lead by an armed officer ignores my mandolin case and bag. There is nothing to sniff at. I walk unimpeded through the dogana, the customs, at Marco Polo airport. The Venetian light is bright and the warm air is humid and body hugging. It is wonderful to be back.
I am thinking carefully about what I have to do. I need to purchase a bus ticket for Treviso and when I have found out the time of my arrival, I must phone Giovanna’s parents so that they can meet me. I am visiting Treviso for the first time, so I am a little anxious.
“Frances.”
Someone is calling my name. I look up automatically, but without thinking that it refers to me. I realise that I am looking into the face of Giovanna’s father. He smiles and I smile in recognition at the same time; we are both pleased to see each other. I wasn’t expecting him to collect me, so it is a lovely surprise and a great relief.
As we walk to the car, he introduces me to a family friend, a young lady in her twenties, who is studying English and has come along for the ride and a bit of English conversation practice. I am more than happy to oblige.
*
I am always being looked after in Italy. The mums are especially concerned with nourishment. On one occasion, Marco’s mother pulled a homemade frozen lasagne out of her freezer, at the last moment before my departure, to save me having to cook after a tiring journey when I returned home. Another time Ette’s mum pressed a jar of her own passato into my hand, so that I could cook my son’s supper easily on my return. So many little acts of kindness.
When it is necessary, Italian families are very good at pulling together and rallying round. Once, I had arrived at Brescia station and was unable to make contact with Giovanna by phone. I just kept getting the segretaria telefonica, the answering machine. On the third try, I heard her father’s voice. He had just popped into her new flat to collect some post. He gave me the phone number of Giovanna’s brother and told me to ring it. When I did, immediately afterwards, Giovanna’s mother knew of my predicament, as if by telepathy, and told me that she and her son were coming directly to the station to collect me. I found out that Giovanna and I had our wires crossed and I was expected on the following day. The family gave me supper and looked after me until Giovanna was able to pick me up.
*
After lunch and a little rest, I am off to explore the sights of Treviso with Giovanna’s parents. We walk past the site of the Fish Market and into the Piazza dei Signori, the heart of the city. Here many people are gathe
ring to meet friends, to do a little shopping and to take the customary passeggiata. We continue our passeggiata viewing the Venetian influence, canals, narrow streets, over hanging houses, some with exterior frescos. Apparently, half the city was lost in bombing during the Second World War. At the beautiful Porta San Tomaso, Giovanna’s father shows me the heads of the winged lion, the symbol of Venetian dominance. He points out a faint crack at each neck. This, he says, is because the heads were damaged during the occupation in the war. They have since been restored.
At six o’clock, we conclude the sightseeing by attending Mass at the Duomo, a Venetian Romanesque cathedral dating from the twelfth century. I take great pleasure in the tranquillity of this quiet hour of ritual and prayer. The Saturday evening Mass counts as an attendance for the following day and is very popular with those who need or wish to have the whole Sunday free.
*
A blackbird is singing on the horse chestnut tree outside my balcony window. I am busy practising another Sauli partita, this time in G minor. I am glad of the bird’s company. I have always loved the sound of birdsong. When I was sick as a small child, I would lay in bed listening intently to the birds and their music. It was an endless source of delight and fascination to me. As I grew older, I used to make my own little manuscript books and I tried to notate the sound that they made. For a while, the blackbird and I make music together.
*
Outside, the vegetation is alive and growing prolifically. The plants are always a few weeks, sometimes as much as a month, ahead of the same plants in England. It feels like summer to me, but it is only April. Yesterday we managed to squeeze in a quick visit to Giovanna’s aunt, her mother’s sister. She lives in the country just outside of Treviso. It is only ten minutes in the car, but suddenly I found myself walking amongst the lettuce and tomato plants, and observing how advanced everything was in comparison to our allotment at home. A short while before, we had been in the city centre. One of the things I have noticed about Italy is a greater connection between town and country. I remember seeing once, in a Tuscan market town, a lorry completely laden with artichokes for sale. It is quite normal for a farmer to bring for sale just one type of vegetable or fruit – the one that is currently in season. And so many people who have their own piece of garden devote a part to growing vegetables, salad items and herbs, and everyone with enough room has their own vine. All this reinforces the sense of season and the rhythm of nature.
The Mandolin Lesson Page 21