This particular manuscript was difficult to reproduce in photocopy from the microfilm for various technological reasons. Firstly, the microfilm was in negative and the machine at the public library was without the attachment to convert it back into a positive image. Thus I had black paper and white spots for the notes, instead of the other way around. Secondly, the size of each page of the manuscript didn’t seem to correspond to the size of paper available from the library machine that particular day. It transpired that in order to capture everything on a single page of the manuscript, I had to take four photocopies. I had to shift the magnifying lens of the machine to the left and right, top and bottom of each page, so as not to miss any corrections and scribbles at the edge of the page.
When I came to examine the manuscript at home, I had to cut and paste the sheets together as if I were creating a montage. So complex was the procedure that, in this case, I wrote a score out by hand before feeding the information into the computer. It was impossible to stand by the computer and know what the notes were. I had to compare all the parts and make decisions about the composer’s intentions.
Thus, I am not unhappy that mistakes in my work have been pointed out. On the contrary, I am pleased and rather excited. I love the ensuing discussion. I am fascinated by comparative opinions and the evidence presented to support those opinions. It is exactly for this that, in the beginning, I pursued meetings with Ugo. I wanted to know his ideas and reasons for those ideas. I also, from the outset, wanted especially to study the concerto repertoire. It is only now, at the conclusion of my studies, that I have finally reached my objective.
Ugo finds two other separate short notes in the first movement that he thinks are incorrect. I protest saying I have copied them precisely, but Ugo says that I must use my ears. He cups his ears in his hands to emphasise the point. It sounds rude, but in this case he is right. What he might say if he were to put the matter more delicately, is that it is a matter of harmony. The two notes in question are most probably erroneously written, as, in each case, other notes provide a more satisfactory harmonic progression.
The musicological discussion comes to an abrupt halt with a knock at the door. The administrator that I had seen earlier asks for a word with the Maestro. The Maestro returns after two minutes and asks me and the other two students to accompany him to another room. He tells us to bring our instruments.
In the new room, I see the party of schoolchildren I had encountered earlier this morning. They look about twelve or thirteen years old.
Maestro Orlandi is introduced by the administrator and then proceeds to embark upon an improvised talk on the mandolin. He introduces me and the other two students as three of his female pupils, which he thinks is appropriate as today is Festa della Donna. He also thinks it is appropriate because the mandolin has so often been associated with female gender. Historically, women, rather than men, have been painted with this instrument. The instrument is full of beautiful curves, he explained, like the shape of the female body. Finally, the generic word from which the Italian word for mandolin, mandolino, is derived is mandola, which is a feminine word.
I am fascinated by this thesis. It sounds sexist and at odds with the politically correct society with which I am so familiar in England. I listen carefully to the Italian words, which I no longer translate in my head; I just understand them. I think this idea is being explained as an historical concept, but it sounds, with the use of the present tense, so definite that the mandolin is a feminine instrument now. I would like to qualify this statement by saying that, for various reasons, the mandolin has traditionally been thought of as a feminine instrument. Maybe that is what he means, too. Perhaps it is just a matter of emphasis. I am reminded how difficult it sometimes is to understand people when talking in English. Being well acquainted with one’s native language does not provide immunity from misunderstanding.
I am asked to play some music to illustrate the sound of the instrument. I play the opening of the Barbella concerto I had been working on earlier. The notes sing out from the instrument. Michelle is asked to sound the open strings of her instrument to demonstrate the tuning and Miki is required to perform some notes with tremolo technique.
The commentary is at times simple and entertaining. At others, it is comprehensive and complex. I notice that the schoolchildren are in their outdoor jackets. They are padded and brightly coloured. They all look like ski-jackets and most of them are done up. Outside, the sun is shining and its light streams in through closed windows. Inside, the central heating is on. I notice how hot the room has become and I am sure the schoolchildren are too hot in their ski-jackets. They have been mostly enraptured by the talk, but as we discuss the mandolin’s connection to the lute family and other ancient plucked instruments from around the world, I notice some fidgeting. I am not surprised. They have been attentive for a long time and they must be feeling the excessive heat.
Our talk and demonstration is so successful that we are later called upon to give a repeat, if abridged, performance to another group of schoolchildren.
My lesson continues with a second concerto. This time, it is by Luigi Lamberti. We play the first movement happily. Ugo points out another small note that is erroneously written. I have copied it exactly from the manuscript, but the harmonic sense suggests the Maestro is right.
In yet another place, another wrong note which I have again reproduced exactly from the manuscript. I don’t argue. I will reflect upon the correct solution later.
When we play the second movement, I am stopped and told that I am touching only one of the two strings with the plectrum. This is true. It is a little nervous thing I sometimes do when I am playing softly and become distracted. It happens imperceptibly without me noticing. We start again and now I am stroking both strings at once to create maximum volume, whilst, at the same time, maintaining the dolce, sweet, sound of the slow movement. The quality of sound is melodious and tender, but also powerful and penetrating.
In the final movement, there are a couple more tiny alterations to be made to my edition. Again, notes erroneously written in the manuscript and meticulously copied by me.
I am very pleased with today’s work. I have discovered many new things about the two manuscripts I have studied. It has been a musicological discussion that I had hoped to have last year, at the end of the spring. When I last visited, my playing was so nervous that we never reached the intricacies of today’s discussion. Today I played well and instead of discussing playing technique, we were able to discuss the music itself.
I am asked about my next visit. I don’t know when I will come again. Probably I will come for Giovanna’s wedding at the end of May, but that is only for a few days. Also, lessons at the Conservatorio end at the beginning of June. Between now and then is Easter. I do not think I will return for the mandolin until the autumn. I am told that ‘more concertos are good’ and I am happy with that plan.
I have a list of music at the British Library, which Ugo would like me to find for him. I was given the list at the concert and now we discuss his requirements. I mention that there is something I too require: my certificato della frequenza, certificate of attendance. In the absence of the final diploma, it is quite important that I should have some official record of my attendance. Ugo is at once putting on his jacket and asks me to accompany him to la segretaria, the secretary. I tried to arrange this certificate in April last year, but, despite various enquiries, events had conspired to prevent me either attending to collect the piece of paper, or receiving it by post or personal messenger.
The secretary thumbs her way through the mandolin folder on her desk. I am mentally admiring the rose pink colour of her cardigan, when, halfway through the pile of papers, she finds my paper. It is dated 21st April 1998. It has been waiting almost a year in that folder for me. I mention that I also haven’t received the pagina scholastica, which is an official document I had received in my first two years. In the sixth and seventh years, my third and fourth years, I ha
d received no such documentation. I was told that the Italian government has changed the law stopping the issue of the pagina scholastica. The certificate I had just received was in place of it. Today’s certificate with its official stamp and signature is on see-through computer paper. Its appearance is disappointing, but I am pleased to have it finally.
Then, as an afterthought, the certificate for the diplomino is mentioned. The diplomino, or little diploma, is an exam which I had successfully passed at the beginning of my second year. I had never received a certificate and when I had enquired, I was told it was not possible. A certificate was just not issued for this diploma. Now I am told that it is possible and that I can have a certificate, probably tomorrow, all being well. However, I must buy a marca da bollo for 20,000 lire, a type of stamp as excise duty, from the nearest tobacconist’s shop. I have just five minutes in which to achieve this, since the secretary’s office will then close for lunch.
I run all the way down the marble stairs, out into the street, through the little arcade opposite and across the next road, taking care to avoid a bus and a cyclist. I go through another small arcade and turn right. I see the white T sign on the black background and head immediately for it. Luckily, I remembered the tobacconist’s position. I quickly buy the stamp and return by the same route. I am astonished by my speed. I am so excited by the thought of having the certificate I thought I couldn’t have, that my body’s movements are accelerated to a new height. I am also fearful of missing this five-minute deadline and I am aware of the consequential surge of adrenaline pulsing though my body. I excel myself and return at exactly half past twelve, just seconds before the office is locked close.
Back at the classroom, I find that someone has arrived with a mandola to show the Maestro. An interesting discussion ensues but it mostly washes over me. The morning has been so happy and fruitful in so many ways, but also intense, that I need a pause. I feel jubilant.
After a while, the mandola player departs. Kim, the Korean mandolinist, begins his lesson and he is also studying the Barbella concerto. He hasn’t studied the manuscript and is playing from a photocopy of a handwritten edition prepared by the Maestro. The score is quite different from mine, with lots of musical shorthand to speed up the process of writing by hand. After just one movement, I find I am at saturation point with mandolin music and, in particular, with Barbella. Miki and Deborah have both had an early lunch and are now at their history of music class. Ugo has decided he is too busy to eat at present. Michelle awaits her lesson. It is nearly two o’clock and I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since breakfast, not even a cup of coffee. So I decide to excuse myself and go for some lunch.
I go to the Caffé Eremitani, since it is close and convenient. I can have a good lunch at a very reasonable price and at this time of day, I will be assured of a seat. I am not unhappy to be alone. In fact, I am very pleased to be able to rest my mind for a little while. I would equally have been happy to eat with some of the other students, but I feel just as comfortable with or without other people. The only thing is that I would have liked an opportunity to catch up with Deborah’s news. She wasn’t at the concert on Saturday and I haven’t spoken to her for over a year.
I order tagliatelle al ragù. I had seen the dish downstairs behind the glass counter as I entered. There are usually two varieties of pasta, which change daily and which are heated up as required. This is in addition to the many different types of sandwiches and salads available. I know I will not be eating until quite late this evening so I choose a wholesome pasta dish, only I am told that it is called paglia e fieno. That is fine, I agree. I have learnt not to be fazed by anything. I suspect the dish is called paglia e fieno, straw and hay, on account of the two colours of tagliatelle, yellow and red. The amusing fact is that usually the ‘straw and hay’ name of the dish refers to yellow and green tagliatelle. The dish also usually has peas, cream and ham as the ingredients for the sauce. My sauce is definitely bolognese. Typical Italian confusion, which is at times frustrating and, at times, quite charming.
Instead of a salad, I also choose a delicious dish of chargrilled vegetables, peperoni, finocchio and melanzane, peppers, fennel and aubergines, all drizzled in extra virgin olive oil. For me, this dish is gastronomic heaven. It is fresh, simple and so good. I drink water with my meal and complete my lunchtime treat with an espresso.
For the second time today, I receive a sprig of mimosa. I will give this one to Giovanna this evening. From my table, I can survey the whole café. I am in the corner of the upper floor and at the balcony edge. To my right side is a balustrade filled with glass. Over the edge is a sheer drop to the bar below and a small number of tables. To the left of this balustrade is the descending staircase. The back wall of the establishment is covered with a mirror that reflects light and amplifies the space. Thus I am able to enjoy a view of everything that is going on, both downstairs and upstairs.
My attention wanders from one little drama to another and provides me with constant entertainment. These people hadn’t ordered water: they had ordered something else. That lady has waited an inordinate length of time for her sandwich and confuses the waiter by asking for a cappuccino with it – and so on. There is always something to watch, something to amuse. I feel relaxed and happy. I feel a contentment I have long desired and never quite achieved before.
Back at the Conservatorio, I meet a new pupil, Anna, who is in her early teens. She has been to school this morning and, like Emanuele, comes for her lessons in the afternoon. I manage to speak with Deborah. She is suffering with a cold and not feeling her usual cheerful self. I find out that her father has retired and they have moved from the family-run music shop. Deborah gives me her new address and explains that she now has her own smaller business, selling music accessories. I promise to send her a postcard from London.
Deborah and Miki depart to catch trains. Anna and Michelle have their lessons in turn and also depart. The lessons are completed for the day. Ugo begins to pack his belongings away and I take my leave.
I stop for a cup of tea at the Bar Pollini, which faces the entrance of the Conservatorio. I meet Michelle there and we talk about her life in France. I am interested to know how she finds living in a foreign country. A graduate in philosophy, she tells me that she misses her family.
We follow our refreshment with a visit to the music shop, Musica Musica, which is just around the corner. Last time, I visited with Sergio and found some useful newly-published Italian Baroque music for mandolin. Today I find five new pieces, which have been published since my last visit. I find a solo mandolin sonata by Giuseppe Giuliano, and sonatas for two mandolins by the same composer, as well as by Giovanni Battista Gervasio and Prospero Cauciello. In fact, I find two works by the last composer. I am really pleased with my find.
Next, I visit the flower shop to fulfil my obligation to buy vegetable seeds for my husband. I buy packets of the Genovese variety of courgette, plum tomatoes and wild rocket.
I return home to Giovanna’s apartment after a highly successful day. On the way, I notice how many more shops are open this evening than there were this morning. A Monday phenomena; many shops remain closed on Monday morning as their half day. Somehow in my euphoria, and with the distraction of so many interesting shop windows, I walk straight past Giovanna’s road and miss my turning for the second time today.
*
Tuesday morning is a bonus. Normally, I have to spend the morning of my return day travelling. Very often, I have had to take trains and buses to connect with my flight. Sometimes, because I have been involved in other people’s lives, the time has been lost time. It might have been spent just being at home – my friend’s home. Often I was grateful for the lost time, because although I didn’t do anything special, I was glad to have the rest, the slowness of pace, after a period of intensity.
Today, however, is different. Today I am in Padua and only an hour away, by bus, from Venice airport. Between now, eight o’clock, and midday, when I take the
bus, I have four hours of free time. I intend to enjoy myself and to use this precious time being a tourist. I ardently desire to see a number of things that I have never had the luxury of time to see. I have always been too busy studying music and travelling. Although I hope to continue visiting Italy occasionally, to maintain my contact with the mandolin culture here, I want today to celebrate the conclusion of a period of formalised study of the mandolin.
Giovanna has a plan. She takes me with her in the car on the first part of her journey to work. She drops me near the hospital and tells me to keep walking in a straight direction. Eventually I will arrive at the bus station where I can check the bus times and buy my ticket for later. Giovanna is sure this will save me time as I have a heavier ‘magic’ bag now to carry (Giovanna has always referred to my canvas overnight bag as the ‘magic’ bag, since I always manage to fit so many things into it). Yesterday, I only had music to carry in my bag. Today, I have my overnight things as well. In addition to my bag, handbag and mandolin case, I also have the big plate to carry. It is now wrapped in newspaper and placed in a strong cardboard carrier bag with red rope handles. Nevertheless, it is cumbersome to manage.
I am not entirely convinced that Giovanna’s plan is any better than the route I took yesterday. I suspect my perception is coloured by the weight and awkwardness of the items I am carrying, together with the onset of rain. This road is a busy main road flanked by twentieth century urban and industrial sprawl. It is a completely different world from the historic centre and yet it is the same city.
Finally, I reach the bus station. I easily purchase my ticket and obtain a timetable. There is a departure at five minutes to midday. If I miss that bus, there will be another half an hour later. I make a mental note of bus stop number eight, from where the bus leaves. Everything is organised – well, almost organised.
A five-minute walk brings me to the Conservatorio. I place my mandolin case, bag and the carrier bag down in a space near the porter’s office. It is possible to leave luggage at our own risk; a very useful service that seems strange and outmoded to me, living with excessive security precautions in London. I chat with the lady porter, explaining that I have an appointment with the secretary to collect a certificate and then I will be returning to England via the bus and Marco Polo airport. I mention the fragile gift and she finds a safe corner for it. She is so kind and accommodating. I was afraid that she and the gentleman porter might be confused by my appearance as today is not a mandolin teaching day and also because I haven’t visited the Conservatorio during this academic year. However, they recognised me from yesterday and from the concert on Saturday. Everything is fine and I am properly organised for the morning.
The Mandolin Lesson Page 26