The Mandolin Lesson (12 page)

I have returned to the farm with my family. Both my husband and my son are delighted with the location, although for different reasons. My husband dreams of a life of self-sufficiency in the country, whilst my son is liberated in a way he has not yet experienced – by being free to wander outside the house by himself. In our London suburb, children are not encouraged to play outside in the street or to go with their friends to the park. We are constantly fed information, which makes parents believe, rightly or wrongly, that our streets are unsafe. Here, though, it feels secure and comfortable.

We are staying in the room in the new house, which is at the top of the steps by the lemon tree. Two of the lemons have been harvested and are now in our room. Pina has thoughtfully placed them with a knife on a small plate, along with tea-making things, in case we want to make a cup of tea in the privacy of our own room.

I decide to have a little practice whilst my family have gone off to explore our new environment. I put the mandolin case on the bed and open it up. There is just one shutter partially open and I need a little more light, so I open up another shutter. As I open the shutter, the sun pours in, immediately lighting up the previously darkened room as if I had switched a light on.

It is late afternoon and I begin to play the Conforto mandolin concerto, which I am preparing for the exam I am taking in the autumn.

“Da-da-da-da, dum dum, dum dum. Da-da-da-da, dum dum, dum dum.”

I sing the opening bars and play at the same time. I try to be conscious of the pulse to make sure my timing is secure, but I am troubled at first by the opening semiquavers. On my copy of the music, the words ‘right hand
molto rilassato
' have been written.
Molto rilassato
meaning very relaxed. Also written, in capital letters, is the word ‘LIGHT'. This word and the other words are instructions written by the Maestro. The right hand is required to be light and relaxed, so that the music is fluid and delicate. Somehow, the semiquavers at the beginning seem too fast. I seem to play them awkwardly and I feel that sensation when you trip over something and then recover your balance, and feel for a few seconds out of control.

After a few more attempts, I recover sufficiently to satisfy myself and the music continues to dance along happily. My notes blend and merge alternately with the murmur of a cicada and the sound of a gentle breeze rustling the vine leaves. In a performance of the concerto, a small ensemble of string instruments would accompany the mandolin: a few violins, a cello and perhaps a harpsichord. In an exam, for practical reasons, the piano would provide a prosaic accompaniment. Here, the sounds of nature conspire together to make an improvised and poetic accompaniment.

I play for some time. When I stop, the sun is lower but still potent. Outside, its heat seeps into everything: the soil, the plants, the stones, and even people. Inside, it is cool. I love the simplicity of my surroundings. The bare white walls are conducive to study, giving the room an atmosphere of a studio. It is plain and without distraction. An echo enhances the sound of my mandolin. I am undisturbed, solitary in my sanctuary. It feels as if a few minutes have elapsed, but when I look at my watch I realise that the minutes are hours. Bliss.

*

After lunch on Saturday, Pina thinks we should explore the environs. She suggests that we go to Marostica to look at the
scacchi
. She keeps talking about the
scacchi
(pronounced scakki) and tries to explain their significance, but I am none the wiser. I really don't know what she is talking about and I have left my pocket dictionary over at the new house. She also thinks we could take in Bassano del Grappa. She arranges for us to take a family friend as a guide, a doctor from Milan who is also staying for a few days at the farm.

The doctor, a heart surgeon, is elderly, gentle in manner and speaks some English.

Refreshed from a post-lunch nap, we drive towards Marostica. It is about four o'clock in the afternoon and everywhere there are signs of life sleepily stirring. A shutter opens, out of a door an old man shuffles, and young people congregate on motorcycles. It seems so strange venturing out at this time of day. In England, the shops would soon be shutting, instead of opening up for the second half of the day's trading.

The sun is still blinding and blistering hot. My husband is driving, I am sitting in the back with my son, and the doctor is sitting in the front passenger seat. Unexpectedly there is some confusion about the turning to take and, simultaneously, the crazy antics of a car overtaking us on a bend. Somehow, in the confusion, my husband accidentally knocks his sunglasses off. From where I am sitting, it is difficult to understand exactly what happened. I only know that the glasses have fallen off and as they are retrieved from the floor, it becomes apparent that they are broken. My husband is extremely agitated because the sun is so bright and it is difficult to concentrate on an unknown road.

When we park outside the city walls of Marostica, our first task is to find a new pair of sunglasses. A pair of sunglasses, as well as being a fashion statement, is an essential item in Italy. The sun is so much stronger than in England and it is also consistent, giving a predictable summer. Despite changes in the weather pattern, caused in recent years by the greenhouse effect, we still suffer capricious weather during the summer months at home.

Almost immediately, we find a shop that sells cameras, binoculars and sunglasses. As we walk inside, I feel a sense of trepidation, knowing that my husband finds shopping for personal things stressful, and I fear that we might be heading for a family crisis. A middle-aged man behind the glass counter is deep in conversation with a customer interested in a camera. A lady, possibly the shopkeeper's wife, comes to our rescue. I tell her that my husband needs a new pair of sunglasses. She shows us to another counter at the other end of the shop. We show her the broken pair and she takes out about six pairs of metal frame glasses, which are similar in design. My husband tries on the different pairs. He looks at himself in a mirror that stands on the counter. He rejects one or two pairs. The lady attentively wipes and cleans the lenses of the glasses to be tried and, when necessary, makes adjustments to the glasses with a small screwdriver. The whole process is intensely fascinating.

Eventually, it seems that my spouse has tried on just about every pair of spectacles in the shop. In reality, we have probably only looked at about twenty pairs. My opinion is sought yet again, but there is still a flicker of indecision in the purchaser's mind. It is between two pairs of glasses. Both are fine, but I have expressed my preference. I am astonished at the assistant's patience. She is not at all bothered. The doctor also has an opinion. He feels that one pair is supremely better than the other pair. They are more elegant and more refined for a man. It is done. My husband produces a plastic card and unflinchingly pays the designer frame price for what is undoubtedly the best pair of sunglasses he has ever owned.

Outside the shop, looking every inch an Italian behind the new shades, my husband informs me that he was sold this pair of glasses. I don't quite comprehend his meaning for a moment. I wonder is he dissatisfied? Then he clarifies his position and explains that the assistant took an inordinate amount of care and time to make sure that he bought the correct pair, the most suitable pair. I had to agree with him. We had had wonderful service and the shopping was a pleasurable experience.

In the
piazza
of Marostica, everything becomes clear to me.
Scacchi
is chess. Marostica is a fairytale medieval town with two castles, one high up on a hill and the other one lower in the
piazza
. It is also a town obsessed by the game of chess. The
piazza
is marked out in huge grey and white squares, which host a biennial re-enactment of a human chess game, played in 1454. The game was a pacifist version of a dual to win the hand of Linora Parisio. Her father refused to let the suitors fight the traditional dual for humanitarian reasons. He wanted neither of the men to die or to become enemies, so he decided that the two rivals should play a game of chess. He also devised a perfect compromise: the winner would have the hand of Linora and the loser would take her younger sister, Oldrada, as a consolation prize.

The re-enactment uses period costumes, the knights being mounted on horses, and is carried out with announcements in Venetian dialect since Marostica was under Venetian rule during the fifteenth century. Everywhere I see posters of the spectacle and I pick up a leaflet about it. The pictures depict the pageant in the foreground of the lower castle, which was the home of Linora. It looks a magnificent pageant and I wish I could attend. The programme boasts 500 people in costume, twenty horses, fireworks, and period music. Apparently Linora was secretly in love with one of the suitors and the leaflet explains that she sent a secret message to the people of Marostica saying that if her choice of suitor was successful, then the lower castle would be illuminated by white light. This was so that everyone could participate in her joy. I find the sentence construction in the leaflet awkward at this point. The Italian uses the subjective tense and the English translation is not clear. It suggests that the castle might be lit up if the correct suitor wins. I am anxious to know if Linora married the man she loved and was happy in her life. The next game will take place in September of next year, just over twelve months away. I can't wait that long!

We decide to adjourn to a bar at the side of the
piazza
for a quick drink. I have an apricot juice and I carry on reading my engrossing leaflet. This game of chess has captured my imagination. I read that the 1994 re-enactment used the moves of a famous game played in 1858 at the Paris Opera, during a performance of the
Barber of Seville
. I am slightly disappointed that the Marostica game doesn't use the original moves. Perhaps it is not recorded. This hiccup of authenticity doesn't throw me for long. I have in my mind a picture of a box like those at Covent Garden, with two gentlemen playing chess whilst the performance of the opera is in progress. I suppose the game is silent and wouldn't disturb other members of the audience. I also think how theatrical the game of chess looks in the picture before me. It could easily be an extravagant opera set.

I finish my apricot juice and walk outside to join the others. Under an arcade are small, pavement-size squares arranged as chessboards. Fathers and sons play chess with huge plastic chess pieces. So much is this game the preoccupation of Marostica that the town even has communal chess pieces. We watch for a while before moving on.

*

Bassano del Grappa is well described in my guidebook as charming, picturesque and trendy. Laying in the foothills of the Alps, the town takes part of its name from Mount Grappa which is situated to the north. It also gives its name to a burning liqueur distilled locally and much favoured by Italians in their coffee.

The doctor takes us first to view Bassano's most important landmark. We follow him through tiny twisting streets, up and down steps, until we come to a unique covered wooden bridge that majestically reaches across the Brenta River to connect the two sides of the town. It is called
Ponte degli Alpini
and was amazingly built for the first time in 1599 according to the design of Palladio. It has subsequently been rebuilt several times, always to the same design. This bridge seems to be a meeting place as well as a tourist attraction. We linger for a while, walking the length of the bridge and studying the movement of the water flowing beneath.

In the centre of the town, it is difficult to walk across the
Piazza Garibaldi
because it is being resurfaced and we have to weave our way between metal rods and plastic orange ribbon. My shoes become quite dusty with the sand being used to set the stones. I stop in a little pocket of space to look up at the square, medieval tower,
Torre di Ezzelino
. I can't stand still for long because it is very busy with people and I am afraid of losing the others. I move with a throng of people, keeping my eye on the others ahead. The doctor leads us into a quieter side street. He takes us into a gastronomic food shop and begins to do his shopping. He buys fresh pasta,
tortellini
, filled with ricotta cheese and spinach. The assistant delicately places the floured pasta on a cardboard tray and wraps them carefully in paper and ribbon. She warns the doctor to keep the parcel the right way up, to avoid damage to the pasta. The doctor also selects various salad items: olives, roasted peppers and artichokes preserved in olive oil. He is going to make a present of the food to Pina.

*

Just before Sunday lunch, I find my son outside with Marco, who, along with Ette, has now arrived. My son is looking perplexed and is showing Marco a clean white handkerchief that he has just taken from his pocket. He looks up at me for help. I ask Marco what he has said so that I can help my son. Marco has kindly resurrected some schoolboy English and repeats the phrase slowly.

“You have angry?” he says.

It sounds like ‘you have angry' to me. English pronunciation is sometimes difficult for Italians. I take a moment to think. I can see how it might sound like ‘hanky', but I am sure this is not what Marco means. Marco is looking just as puzzled as my son and is frustrated by our incomprehension. My son doesn't look cross, so I don't think he is angry or that I have arrived at the tail-end of a dispute.

Someone has called out that lunch is now ready and various people are moving towards the house. In a change of tack, Marco tells me that lunch is ready.

“Yes,” I say, “I'd heard. I was just coming.”

Then, I have a moment of perception. Marco has asked my son if he was hungry, if he was ready for lunch. Probably he was trying to communicate that lunch was ready. The word that sounded like ‘angry'
was really ‘hungry'. It is difficult for Italians to pronounce since it is necessary to aspirate the letter ‘h', which is not used in the Italian alphabet.