The Mandolin Lesson (10 page)

When we alight from the bus, I am taken on a fleeting tour of some of the principal sights. We walk across
Piazza Maggiore
, scattering the pigeons as we go. The sides are flanked by overgrown medieval
palazzi
, but the largest building is the
Basilica di
San Petronio
– a symbol of municipal prestige. Everywhere I see the characteristic red bricks of Bologna, instead of the marble and ornate plaster decorations that are used so extensively in other parts of Italy to indicate wealth and importance. I try to drink in every detail, but we do not linger as long as we might since we have a pressing task to undertake. We are shopping for English books – that is to say, books for learning English.

In a nearby street, we find a bookshop and descend into the basement to find language books. We look through the various books and Ette seems to like the two that I advise her as suitable. We purchase them and return to the dazzling sunshine and smart shop windows, filled with designer labels and the sartorial elegance of luxury bags, shoes and suits.

In a gastronomic shop, we select some cheese for lunch. Both cheeses are local and one is smoked.

We catch the bus and return to
Via Saragozza
. Ette wants to show me the church of
San Luca
set on a hill and reached by a long uphill walk through yet more
portici
. We cheat and go most of the way by car. The views from outside the Sanctuary of the
Madonna
of
San Luca
are stunning. The south of the city is skirted by luscious green hills planted with grapevines. Looking back at the city centre, I see the patchwork of terracotta roofs pierced at intervals by the campaniles of various churches.

On the way home, we stop to visit the
mama di Marco
, Marco's mother and Ette's mother-in-law. The street is quiet and full of lush gardens surrounding low blocks of flats, with about three floors. The gardens are protected with fences of metal railings. Ette presses a button by the side of the gate. Some incomprehensible speech comes from the metal grill at the side. Ette replies and we hear a buzz and a click. The gate swings open and our attention is drawn above our heads to the balcony, where a smiling lady is waving and calling.

‘
Ciao
,' the lady says, with obvious pleasure at seeing us.

Ette explains that she is Marco's mother. Inside, we are formally introduced.

Marco's mother is cheerful and chatty. She has prepared some pasta for Ette to take home, but first we sit down to have a little chat. She asks me about my journey and what we have been doing this morning. We tell her about our visit to the church of
San Luca
. She asks whether we walked up the hill under the
portici
and we say that we drove there in the car. Marco's mother says it is a beautiful walk and especially useful as a kind of penitential pilgrimage. For a moment, her expression is wistful. I ask her about the cloth and pattern, pinned and half-cut on the table. Suddenly, she is animated again. She works part-time as a tailor. An unfinished jacket adorns a dressmaker's dummy behind me. The sun streams in through the balcony door and illuminates the pale wooden floor. I tell her that my mother is a gifted dressmaker and we have lots to talk about.

As we prepare to leave, Marco's mother darts into her tiny kitchen and retrieves foil containers from the freezer. The containers are filled with homemade lasagne. She places them in a plastic carrier bag and we take our leave.

*

The cheese we have purchased for lunch is served fried. I had imagined that we would eat it just as it was. Accompanied by salad, it is surprisingly good, but too rich and filling for either of us to finish the last mouthful. We thankfully retire to our respective bedrooms for an afternoon rest.

*

The evening is partly taken up with Ette's evening class in
difesa personale
, self-defence. I accompany her to the
palestra
, the sports-centre. I am really pleased at this opportunity because I have always wanted to attend a self-defence course. Although I am only allowed to observe, I am sure I shall learn something from the experience.

*

Saturday brings a problem that needs to be resolved. My flight leaves Verona just before eight o'clock on Sunday morning. It is very early and after I booked it, I realised I would have some difficulty getting from Bologna to the airport. I tried to book a hotel room, just for the Saturday night in Verona, but I was unable to find a place because it was the week of the Agricultural Trade Fair.

There is a train that travels through the night, but it is uncertain, despite enquiries, whether the bus connecting the station and airport will be operating early in the morning.

Ette is unhappy about this journey and feels the only solution is for me to go with her to her parents' farm, and to stay there for the Saturday night. She will drive me to the airport in the morning and then continue on home to Bologna. I am anxious not to cause her or her family any inconvenience, but she is sure that this is the best plan.

*

North of Vicenza, and after several hours of dull motorway driving, we are approaching Breganze. As we enter the village, we look up into the hills ahead and see at their summit a life-size cross. Ette tells me that when we reach the cross, we will have reached her parent's farm.

We negotiate steep gradients and tricky bends in the narrow leafy lanes of the hills. The car struggles and strains to take us higher and higher. We drive through a concealed entrance and find ourselves in a farmyard. Behind us as we drive in, on one side of the yard, is an ancient farmhouse. We park on the right side of the yard. On the other side is a row of barns used for housing animals and storage. As we get out of the car and stretch the stiffness from our bodies, I can see just how high up we are. In the foreground, the land falls away in a series of gentle pleats. We are facing south and I notice how incredibly flat the land is in the distance. It seems to stretch for miles and disappears into a lavender haze, which makes the meeting point of sky and land indistinguishable.

Ette runs across to the barn to greet the dogs. There are five dogs, each with their respective kennel under the shelter of an open section of the barn. All the dogs bark excitedly, vying for attention. Ette talks to each one in turn, patting and fondling their ears. Her chatter is high-pitched with feverish rhythms. I cannot understand this Italian dog talk. They are extremely appreciative of her attention and affection. She obviously adores them and misses them terribly. The one with long ears and long, wavy copper hair wags his tail the most. He is her special one: the one that belonged to her when she lived at home. I remember seeing a beautiful photo of them posing together at the flat.

It is about five o'clock and my friend is fortunately in the habit of stopping for a cup of tea at this time in the afternoon. We go inside and find a saucepan to boil some water in. The kitchen is furnished with old-fashioned kitchen cupboards. Ette searches through one of the cupboards for the tea and some biscuits. In the middle of the room is a kitchen table. At one side, the chairs are lined up against the wall, as if in a doctor's waiting room. We draw two chairs to the table and sit down to drink our tea without milk, and to eat our biscuits. I find myself mirroring my friend, dipping each biscuit into the light brown liquid before placing it in my mouth.

After our refreshment, we go outside and meet Ette's mother, Pina, coming into the yard. She had been busy at the other house. I am a little confused by this, but they take me by the arm to show me. We go back to the road from which we had entered. We cross it. As we do, Ette stops and points out a large pink house further along the lane. “That is a monastery,” she tells me. “Just a few monks live there.” There is a beautiful chapel in which special prayers were said for the marriage of Marco and Ette. They attended the chapel with their close family and friends the night before their wedding. Their official wedding was a civil ceremony the following day.

On the other side of the road, we continue down a dusty track and past a vegetable plot, until we are in front of a magnificent new building. This is the other house. Ette explains that her parents are building a new farmhouse. It is painted white and has brown wooden shutters. At one end there is a covered tiled area with three tall arches, each edged with red brick. This area is for entertaining and was used for her wedding banquet. At the back, there is a locked room which I am shown into. At one end is a built-in brick chimney fitted with spits for barbecuing food. Outside Ette points out the decorations made from corn, which are still in place from the wedding celebrations. She also tells me about the electric blinds that come down between each arch, to provide further protection from the sun.

Through another door, which is carefully unlocked, we go into the
cantina
, cellar, where all the future wine production will take place. Ette proudly shows me all the equipment. There is even an office.

Upstairs, we pass a lemon tree growing in a large terracotta pot. I view the fruit with disbelief and then delight. We climb a small staircase to enter another door. Here is a palatial room with a good acoustic, plain white-washed walls, a red tiled floor and a fireplace at one end. We open a pair of shutters to let the light in. Out of the window, a steeply inclined hill is planted with vines. I am shown an adjoining bathroom that is stylishly up-to-the minute in design and pristinely clean.

The other end of the building is unfinished. We walk around rooms lined with concrete and look out of the rectangle holes left for windows. Ette and her mother discuss where different things should be. The plan is to make rooms that can be hired out to self-catering tourists. It is a new market developing in Italy called ‘agritourism'. It simply means that the accommodation is on a working farm. As they chatter, the words drift over my head. I have an urge to pinch myself to see if it is true. But it is true. I really am standing in this Italian pastoral paradise.

We return to the old house. Pina goes inside and Ette takes me for a walk around the fields. These fields are so different from the fields at home, where everywhere is planted with cereal or used for grazing animals. Here the fields are mostly planted with vines, so the vegetation is higher and you have to walk between it. It is like a maze. I feel a sense of innocence with each moment as I notice some new tree or plant: a fig tree, an apricot tree, a cherry tree. I am constantly delighted at each discovery.

I try to analyse the fascination I have with these plants. The vines, olive trees and fig trees are biblical plants. Perhaps it is a sense of history and a sense of connection with another time and another place. All those New Testament stories with references to these plants are suddenly brought to life and given new meaning.

I stand for a moment and breathe in the damp, woody smells. The air is so good. I can hear a disorientated cockerel crowing. I gaze out at the sublime panorama and I am filled with pure joy.

In the kitchen, there is a constant stream of visitors coming and going: family, friends and neighbours bringing things, collecting things or just dropping by for a little chat. They are all introduced to me and I am introduced to them. It is like one continuous party, entertaining and enjoyable, but Ette assures me this is quite normal for her parents. They are always having visitors. I notice the laughter, interest and concern, warmth and affection that is exchanged between them all, and in which I have also become included.

A wonderful aroma fills the room. It is only a simple tomato sauce, which Pina is cooking, and yet it smells divine. It is made from an onion softened in olive oil, to which homemade
passato
is added. The
passato
is just mashed tomatoes, which have been preserved in jars. I do not know whether it is the simple, fresh ingredients or the country air which makes the cooking smell so good. Probably, it is a combination of all of these elements.

The table is quickly laid with everyone helping, and we all sit down to eat. There are six of us around the table. In addition to Ette, Pina and myself, there is Franca, Ette's sister, Firmino, Ette's father, and Gino, who is a farmhand.

We begin with spaghetti and the tomato sauce. The Parmesan cheese is passed around, as is bread, and Gino pours red wine into our glasses. It is delicious. Next, there is a choice of local cheese, homemade salami or a slice of home-reared steak. I choose the steak and accompany it with salad leaves dressed in olive oil and a sprinkling of salt. The salad is undressed and we all add our own seasoning to our own taste. Somehow I seem to have become ravenous and I accept a second helping of the steak, which nobody else seems to want. It is pan-fried, thin and melts in the mouth.

I have been trying to follow the conversation whilst I have been absorbed in enjoying my food, but it has been hard to follow. I thought that the difficulty might have been because I was getting tired or because I was concentrating on the food. Now I discover that the men have been talking in
dialetto
, dialect. Ette warned me that her father talked mostly in Veneto dialect, but I had forgotten all about it. Suddenly, as they turn their attention towards me, I find I am having a comprehensive discussion about the European community and current farming practices in Italy. I feel elated at being able to communicate with them about their life and work. They too seem delighted. Firmino invites me to return with my family for a holiday. It is a very generous offer and I am delighted by it, but I think it is unlikely that we will be able to take it up. This summer, I am probably going to Spain.

*

Early Sunday morning, when it is still dark, Ette knocks on my bedroom door to wake me up. In the kitchen, Pina prepares me coffee. She hands me the sugar and offers me biscuits, which I accept. We whisper quietly so as not to wake the others.

The car journey is mostly silent except for the English-speaking radio station, broadcast from the American Forces base. The sun rises and the mountains look dramatic. I feel confused: I am anxious to get home but also want to stay.