I have also seen that in the most remote hilltop town in Umbria or Tuscany, it is possible to find a small clothes shop selling stylish, if basic and practical, garments. And the food shops sell the best quality produce, together with local specialities that we might consider a gourmet treat if bought in some smart London delicatessen. Even in the country, it is possible to buy specialist goods of high quality. And everywhere, it is easy to find something good to eat, in the most isolated of places, in the most unpromising locations. A sense of the land, a sense of nature, intermingles comfortably with the sophistication of culture and an urban environment. It is reflected everywhere in art and architecture: the bucolic fresco on an exterior wall, the mouth-watering bunch of grapes dangling in the decoration of a building and carved from stone.
*
In Padua, the Maestro is very keen that I should take part in the saggio next month – the end-of-year recital given by the students of the Conservatorio. He hands me a copy of the music we are going to play, ‘Tramonto’ by Raffaele Calace. I am really flattered to see that my part is for the first mandolins. ‘Tramonto’ translates as ‘Sunset’ and is a descriptive piece for a plectrum quintet with the addition of flute, oboe and piano. The quintet comprises first and second mandolins, mandola, mandolincello (or liuto), which is the mandolin equivalent of the cello, and the mandolone (or arciliuto), the mandolin equivalent of the double bass.
We spend some time rehearsing the piece and I feel so happy that I am able to make the notes sing and breathe with an even tremolo. Today, I know that I am among equals. I know that my tremolo is good enough and I play with a wonderful confidence. The notes soar up high, and higher still. Sometimes they are full of emotional intensity and other times they are pure and ethereal. It is soul-nourishing food.
*
In London, I have some engagements playing the mandolin again in Otello at the Royal Opera House. It is strange being a professional player in one country one moment and a music student in another country the next. But I am grateful for a new sense of ease in my playing. I don’t wonder nervously whether the tremolo will be wobbly and unsteady. I just do it. It is just there.
I always find it hard to switch off after I have been playing professionally. It is difficult to go home on the tube after the opera and just go to sleep. Adrenalin pulsates around my body and I feel energised. To relax, I have been reading a facsimile edition of the journal of Dr Charles Burney’s tour through Italy. It makes excellent bedtime reading. He meets so many interesting characters in his travels and describes both the encounters and the music with such attention to detail that it is easy to imagine actually being there. The language is so graceful and harmonious that it is a joy to read, both for its sound as well as its content.
I find several references to the mandolin and one in particular that astonishes me. Burney describes an impromptu concert for a famous castrato, Luini Bonetto, staying at the same inn as him in Brescia. He says:
‘He is a native of Brescia; was welcomed home by a band of music, at the inn, the night of his arrival, and by another the night before his and my departure, consisting of two violins, a mandoline, french horn, trumpet, and violincello; and, though in the dark, they played long concertos, with solo parts for the mandoline. I was surprised at the memory of these performers; in short, it was excellent street music, and such as we are not accustomed to; but ours is not a climate for serenades. (Thursday, July 26th 1770)’1
So the tradition of mandolin music in Brescia goes back two centuries before my visits there and a century before Samuel Adelstein’s voyage to Italy. And we have evidence, an eyewitness account, that it was of the highest quality. Mandolin concertos played from memory. I wonder which ones they were or if they were concertos that have now been completely lost. I also wonder about the variety of instruments in the ensemble. The idea of two brass instruments consorting with a mandolin seems preposterous. Then, I remember the Renaissance concert I attended in Brescia last year – the programme being a mixture of pieces for brass instruments and pieces for mandolin. Perhaps they can exist alongside each other.
It seems extraordinary to me that an Englishman should travel so far, so long ago, when travel was an even more arduous exercise than it is now, to learn about music in Italy. And that he should visit a city that I have become so familiar with and find there an exceptional performance by a mandolinist is even more remarkable. History repeats itself time and time again: Burney, Adelstein, myself. It is as if I am standing with two mirrors either side of me and, as I look into one, I see my image repeating itself into infinity. Who was there before Burney?
ix
On the motorway heading in the direction of La Serenissima, the strains of ‘A Night in Tunisia’ and other familiar jazzy numbers come from the car speakers. I remember the rehearsal in which we practised these pieces three months ago. Ugo takes his right hand from the wheel and gives me the cover of the new CD. It is entitled ‘Musica per un Momento’, ‘Music for a Moment’, and is dedicated to the memory of Lorenzo Bianchi who tragically died prematurely last year. An active member of the Brescia Mandolin and Guitar Orchestra, he was distinguished by being the first student ever at the mandolin course in Padua when it was initiated in the mid-seventies with Giuseppe Anedda as the Maestro.
I think of a photograph I have at home – my own memory of Lorenzo. He was playing the mandola after the rehearsal of the orchestra had finished. He had been interested in the nature and details of my visit. He didn’t seem to think that it was so crazy to be travelling such a long distance to find out about mandolin playing. I asked him and some others if they would mind if I took some casual pictures. It was one of my early trips before my formal study at Padua. I nurse my memory for a while, before being jogged back to the moment by the start of ‘Tramonto’.
‘Tramonto’ is the final track and we listen intently in preparation for our performance today at the saggio. We listen repeatedly to the same track, mentally rehearsing our playing. It is only mid-morning but I am troubled by the sun. Despite air conditioning in the car and my occhiali da sole, I find little protection from the heat. The bleaching light of the sun, unremitting and relentless, scorches my forearm through the window. I place my cotton cardigan over my raw skin to prevent further injury.
I look at the final pages of the CD booklet. It lists members of Lorenzo’s family, friends and musical colleagues. I find the names of my mandolin friends. All my friends and acquaintances are here. They have contributed by playing in the recording. I am moved by this expression of love, this fitting way to honour the life of Lorenzo B.
*
‘Click’.
Deborah has taken a picture with my camera of me standing in the corridor behind the auditorium of the Conservatorio. The moment is captured: the black understated jacket and trousers, me playing a few notes, in a relaxed posture. We are well rehearsed and now we are looking forward to our turn in the concert. I want some more tangible evidence of my playing in Italy, to nudge my memory in years to come. My enthusiasm takes me outside into the courtyard, where the Maestro is smoking and talking to three of the male students. I want to take a group picture but Deborah is reluctant. With some difficulty, I persuade her to overcome her shyness and join the others.
‘Click’.
Hopefully, I have distilled the essence of another moment.
We hover near our open mandolin cases, cherishing and comparing our instruments as parents do their children. Emanuele, the youngest pupil, is playing a solo with piano accompaniment in the concert. He is quite chatty and wants to try out the English he has been studying at school.
From stillness, our music begins. Notes drift here and there, soft and fine, like gossamer threads floating in a gentle breeze. Softly, neatly, smoothly, passionately, we create a seductive pink and golden glow. The sun is set. The light fades. Our music fades. The notes become stillness once again.
*
We celebrate the success of the concert with supper at a local
pizzeria. Being part of this group of mandolin students feels like being part of a family. There is a feeling of warmth between us; everyone looks after each other, a bond we share because of our commitment to a tiny pear-shaped instrument. I love this sense of belonging. I love being part of this family.
I have a pizza with melanzane, aubergines, which I am partial to, but I notice that Ugo chooses a pizza topped with rucola and raw tomatoes. When the pizza arrives, it is swamped by a huge mound of salad and Ugo asks for the condimenti and proceeds to dress his salad with olive oil and salt. I decide I will try this variety the next time I have an opportunity. I also notice that everyone seems to drink beer with pizza in Italy. I imagined that people would enjoy a good glass of local wine with their pizzas, but time and time again, I see people imbibing Italian beer instead of vino locale. I try the beer and find that, strangely, it does seem to have an affinity with pizza.
“Tonight I will stay in Padua in a hotel and tomorrow I fly home from Venice,” I tell someone.
Another question is asked.
“I arrived yesterday at Milan and I stayed last night as a guest of the Maestro’s family in Brescia,” I continue. “Midweek. Two nights. Arrival at one destination, departure from another. Yes, it sounds glamorous and expensive, but I saved coupons for a whole year from my supermarket, and then exchanged them for this special ticket. It is amazing what a person will do for the love of our instrument, for the love of music.”
x
Although the academic year has drawn to a close, I find myself unexpectedly back at the Conservatorio in the second week of June to take an exam. The rules have changed and I am required, along with three other mandolin students, to be successful in an examination in order to pass into the next year of study. It is probably only a formality, but I am unnerved by yet another test, especially when I thought there would be no more assessments until the final diploma.
The Maestro confirms that I should present the first two movements of the G minor partita by Sauli. I love these movements and the whole work they come from and I play the piece fairly well in the lesson. However, I am suspicious. It all seems too straightforward and simple. I start to fret about what exactly the examiners will be listening for.
The day is hot and interminably long. We are unable to escape to take any substantial refreshment because we are on standby for the exam. We are unable to find out an exact time for the exam and we receive a number of vague and conflicting messages. Eventually, we are asked to wait downstairs in the corridor leading towards the examination room. We distract ourselves by chatting and joking, but I notice that my head is swimming. It must be the heat and lack of food, combined with a little pre-performance stress.
When it is my turn to enter the examination room, I feel strange and weak. I sense the impatience of the examiners. I had thought there would be some conversation as in other examinations, but they are anxious for me to start. I adjust the height of the music stand and lightly touch the strings to re-check tuning. I had already tuned carefully before entering. To my horror, my feet do not touch the floor. I have been given a piano stall to sit on instead of a chair, but I do not feel able to adjust it. Under the beady eyes of the examiners, I start the music and immediately regret doing so.
Without proper contact between my feet and the floor, I am uncomfortable and unable to support the mandolin adequately. Worse still, I cannot establish a secure sense of pulse. I am unbalanced and insecure and the music reflects this. It is clumsy and awkward. I tense up and hit the strings too hard, which results in one of the A-strings becoming flat and making everything sound even more dreadful. I can’t think of a word to say in Italian when the music is finished. My mind is blank and confused.
*
After a shower back at the hotel, my body feels a little more comfortable but my mind is still uneasy. The silence of the room is punctured by the squeal of the phone. There is someone to see me in the foyer.
It is Gianluigi. The Maestro is in the car outside and we are about to depart for a rehearsal of Vivaldi’s Juditha Trumphans in Venice. I had been very much looking forward to this opportunity. I have not heard this oratorio before and tonight there is a rehearsal for a concert to be given by I Solisti Veneti in the Basilica di San Marco. The Maestro is playing the mandolin accompaniment to the aria ‘Transit aetas’: ‘Life passes’. Gianluigi and I are really just hangers-on.
In the car, the Maestro informs me that I passed the exam and can continue into the seventh year. However, my mark was not that good and he thinks I should delay taking the final diploma. I can take it whenever I am ready as an external student. I sense he is perplexed that I play well sometimes and not others. I need time to let this all sink in. I should feel relieved, but at the moment I feel disappointed.
On the bridge to Venice, we park the car and change to a bus. At the Piazzale Roma, we proceed on foot. The Maestro races ahead, sure of the well-worn route to the Piazza San Marco. Strangely Gianluigi is uncertain, as this is his first time in Venice. I, on the other hand, have already rehearsed this walk with my husband. Gianluigi and I follow the Maestro like two young ducks following their mother. We are always a few paces behind, but as we reach each corner I always remember the way we should go, left or right, or straight ahead. I chat to Gianluigi, telling him the things I remember from my last visit and pointing out things of interest. How odd: here I am, an Englishwoman, giving a young Italian man a guided tour of Venice.
As we walk through the Campo S. Margherita, I long to linger. The warm evening air, drenched in golden light, is laced with cooking smells mingling with the fragrance of summer flowers. I am so hungry and I think how lovely it would be to stop for supper and a glass of wine, to sit at one of those outdoor tables, but no, the Maestro continues on tirelessly.
In the Basilica, Gianluigi and I find a kind of natural bench, made from stone jutting out of the posterior wall. We sit and watch what is happening. I feel the cold, damp Venetian stone against my back and I gaze up at the ceiling. It is quite incredible. The beautiful mosaic pictures with golden embellishment are illuminated exquisitely by powerful lights, which are being adjusted in rehearsal for a television recording of the concert. The lights are positioned on towers of scaffolding. There are no chairs and no pews in the space of this Holy place. There are no tourists, just an orchestra and some singers going through their paces at the front. It is absolutely extraordinary. All the times I have previously visited the Basilica, it has been crowded and dark and hurried. Now, I have a precious gift: light, space and time to view the mosaics in the cupolas, and all this accompanied by the most marvellous music. My attention is drawn from the plumage of an angel to the theorbo. I adore the deep purr of the strings.
Outside, in a brief break, there is still no talk of food, but I am able to buy a soft drink. I am astonished to see my companions choosing a sloppy granita of garish fluorescent green colour.
At about ten o’clock, while we are still waiting for the magical mandolin moment, Ugo advises us that the rehearsal is badly behind schedule and that he thinks we should make our way to Venice station. Gianluigi has the overnight train to Naples to catch and I must return to Padua by train. We are both sad not to have heard the mandolin, but we cannot risk being stranded in the watery city.
Again, Gianluigi is uncertain, but I manage to steer us to the correct stop for the number one vaporetto. We buy the tickets and we are soon aboard the Accelerato, which, despite its name, chugs deliberately along the Grand Canal. Sluggishly, we move past the tapestry of palazzi with their intricate lace balconies and embroidered windows, and facades of richly coloured threads – some gilded and some faded.
At the station the ticket office is closed, but Gianluigi is feeling more at home. He takes me to what looks like a cupboard full of cleaning materials, where an assistant sells me a small green cardboard ticket. It doesn’t mention Padua, it just records the distance in kilometres, but Gianluigi says it is normal for a ticket out of hours. Then he takes me
to a local bar, where we satisfy our hunger with toasted cheese and ham sandwiches. Finally he insists on accompanying me all the way onto the platform, making sure that I get the correct train and that I find a suitable carriage with other people. I am touched by his gentlemanly concern.
I have a five-minute walk from Padua station and I walk smartly through the groups of girls working the streets. Curiously, I feel no sense of unease. They are just doing what they do. I neither judge them nor fear them. I just walk safely to my hotel.
xi
Italy comes to England in July in the shape of Sergio Zigiotti.
Sergio has completed the mandolin course, but is still studying at university to finish his degree. He needs to spend a few weeks in London perfecting his English for an exam he must pass, in order to conclude his work for the degree.
The two weeks of Sergio’s stay are an extremely happy period, in which life takes on yet another different rhythm. Sergio attends a language course in the mornings and some afternoons I travel on the tube to meet him and we spend the rest of the day together at the British Library looking at old printed music. One day, we are able to make photocopies of duets and other music by Antoine Riggieri as it is already on microfilm. We are extremely pleased with our find. On the train home, Sergio points to an article in someone else’s Evening Standard. The young man reading, noting my interest, gives me the paper as he leaves and I read a feature about an author called Louis de Bernières who has written a novel entitled Captain Corelli’s Mandolin.
The Mandolin Lesson Page 22