The Mandolin Lesson (3 page)

Ugo has a different idea. He thinks I should join the diploma course at Padua in order to continue my studies. I am stunned. It is a ridiculous idea. Never, even in my wildest dreams, would it be possible. For a start, I live and work in England and the course is in Italy. I ask for details. He says I could visit once a month for a year or maybe two years. It would only be the mandolin lesson. I wouldn't have to study history, harmony etc., because I have already studied those for my violin diploma, which I had gained in England.

It was possible, he said. It would be easy – but I am not convinced that we were discussing reality. I am a mother with a small child, albeit at choir school, who I am responsible for. There are violin pupils, with their exams, to consider and my concerts to think about.

*

On my return home, I am filled with conflicting emotions. I like the idea of being able to study the mandolin further and in one way I find the idea of the structured course attractive. On the other hand, the idea of any more formalised study is daunting. The idea of more exams, especially practical exams, would be a challenge, which seems at this moment too difficult to contemplate. I have done such a lot of studying for the Master's degree and I am quite exhausted from it. I also thought that the Master's degree would be the end of formalised study. Even if my family agreed to support me in this crazy plan, I would still have the problem of funding the project.

I also notice on my return, apparently quite by chance, an advert in
The Times
. Under the section marked ‘scholarships' is an advert placed by a Trust inviting applications for research in Venice and the territories once subject to it. The areas of interest included music and culture. Padua was at one time part of the Venetian Republic. The Venetian composer, Antonio Vivaldi, had bestowed the mandolin repertoire with a number of important works, including the much admired solo mandolin concerto. Today, an important part of Italian culture is being preserved, renovated and developed, in the shape of the Italian school of mandolin playing. This cultural phenomenon is happening within the old Venetian Republic. Even the other important centre of mandolin renaissance and development, Brescia, had been part of the Republic during the fifteenth century. There are it seems numerous connections between the Italian school of mandolin playing and Venice. It also seems an excellent project to investigate the performance practice and cultural traditions, which are so alive in Padua
,
and to make them known in England. I obtain and complete an application form.

*

It is the beginning of the year and a brown envelope arrives containing a pale lavender envelope and a letter, both of which have been roughly torn into a total of about six pieces. The accompanying photo-copied letter from the Italian Post Office informs me casually that my letter has been damaged by their sorting machine. They send me their ‘distinguished salutations'. My letter has been eaten by their machine and looks like, and is indeed, a puzzle. I place the pieces together, and with the odd word or letter missing due to the ragged edges, I am able to make out the contents. Giovanna says that Claudio Scimone (principal of the conservatoire at Padua and conductor of
I Solisti Veneti
) has sent a letter of reference on my behalf to the Trust. I only hope that the letter was in better condition than the one I have just received.

*

Somehow, despite other overlapping letters, Giovanna and I manage to arrange for me to make another trip during the spring. My plan is to fly to Verona and spend the first night in a hotel in Padua. I shall spend the following day at the
Conservatorio,
the conservatoire
,
and then travel by train to Brescia where I shall spend the rest of the week. At the last minute, I learn, by letter, that a one-day masterclass in which some German mandolinists are taking part is to take place at the
Conservatorio
on the day of my visit. Giovanna also requests that I bring for her a number of English novels. She needs them for her course at the university and they are more expensive to purchase in Italy than they are in England. I only have five books to buy, including a personal favourite of mine, Jane Austen's
Emma
, but it is amazing how such a small quantity of books can be so bulky and heavy to carry.

I stay the first night at the Hotel Corso
in the
Corso del Popolo,
which is the main road leading from the station into the centre of Padua. After breakfast, I ask for directions to the
Conservatorio
. I had received conflicting information about its location. I have two addresses for the music college. A phone call to Ugo confirms that the correct address is in
Via Eremitani
. The other address is an annex. My map doesn't show
Via Eremitani,
but the hotel receptionist says that it is an easy walk of five to ten minutes. It is straight until I meet a junction where a road forks off to the left. The road to the left is
Via Eremitani
. It is obvious really because set back to the left at the beginning of the road is the
Chiesa degli Eremitani
, the Hermit's Church, and next to it is the
Nuovo Museo Civico
, the New Civic Museum. I leave my suitcase, heavy with books, at the hotel reception so that I am unencumbered and I arrange to collect it as I return past the hotel on my way to the station.

In my music bag, I have some music – a concerto by Nicola Conforto. I am so pleased. The music has the appearance of printed music that you can buy from a music shop, although it is not possible to buy this music from a shop. I have made this edition of music myself by inputting information into a computer using a special programme for writing music. I have recently acquired a CD on which Ugo has recorded this among a number of other Italian mandolin concertos. Like me, Ugo had requested the microfilm from the
Bibliotheque Nationale
in Paris. He had written it out by hand, being frustrated by technology and finding the simplest methods best. I have a vision of making all the Baroque concertos, available at present only in manuscript, accessible to anybody who desires to play them. After discussing the intricacies of plectrum strokes, whether to use a down or an up stroke and so on, I present Ugo with a copy of my edition. He reciprocates, unexpectedly, by presenting me with a copy of
Cinque Sonate
,
Five Sonatas,
for mandolin by Domenico Scarlatti, published in Italy, with revision by himself. Inside the cover is a handwritten dedication:

‘a Frances Taylor, la speranza mandolinistica inglese! Ugo Orlandi. Marzo ‘94.'

The writing is a little difficult to make out, especially the final letters of the phrase
‘la speranza mandolinistica'
, so I am unsure of the exact significance. I don't know whether I am the English mandolin's hope or a hopeful English mandolinist! Nevertheless, my new music is the result of some interesting scholarship which had uncovered new evidence pointing to the conclusion that five Scarlatti sonatas, previously thought to be for keyboard, were probably meant for mandolin. I am absolutely delighted with the new repertoire.

The Germans take most of the day to materialise. Eventually, they arrive by car in the late afternoon. Giovanna has studied German as well as English, and is enlisted to translate their talk about the German school of mandolin playing. However, they seem to prefer talking in English, which leads somehow to me becoming involved in the clarification of a discussion on the differences between the German and Italian schools of playing. The delay in the day's proceedings means that suddenly I find myself as one of a group of about six people, trying to walk and run intermittently, as fast as possible, towards the station. I have to collect the heavy suitcase and am grateful when one of the boys in our group chivalrously offers to take it for me. He wheels the case along on its small plastic wheels at breakneck speed and I can see that it will never recover from the experience. The spare space in the suitcase, released by the books, is put to good use on the homeward journey. Giovanna's mother thoughtfully gives me a beautifully boxed, traditional Easter cake, called
colomba,
because, as its name suggests, it is in the shape of a dove.

*

A family holiday to Umbria during April, in which we travel to Florence by train from London, fuels the idea that it might be possible to travel to Italy by train. The following month I receive a letter from the Trust telling me that regretfully they are unable to grant my request for funds to pursue research in Venice. They had so many excellent applications to consider, and the advisory board was faced with a difficult task in making its selections. I do understand their position and it is a polite letter wishing me well for the future. I am already making applications to a number of other charitable trusts. Nevertheless, it is disappointing and the future is uncertain.

*

Much confusion follows surrounding the bureaucracy to enter the course. I decide to proceed with my application for the course, despite the uncertainty, and I write to Giovanna asking what the procedure is. A hasty reply explains that I must urgently copy an attached sample letter, naturally written in Italian, filling in my personal details and send it immediately to the
Conservatorio
. Seemingly, I have missed filling in the correct form, which was due at the end of April. This letter is to ask for special permission to be accepted onto the course, even though I have not filled in the correct form, because of my special circumstances – these circumstances being that I was waiting to hear about funding for my travel expenses. The fact that they are not forthcoming is not addressed. The whole language and structure of the letter is legalistic and archaic, using phrases such as ‘I the undersigned'.

*

I send a number of letters and faxes to Ugo since I understand from Giovanna's letter that he might still be able to obtain the form for admission to the
Conservatorio
. I receive a short letter from Giovanna saying that Ugo is surprised that I haven't had any communication from the
Conservatorio
. The brief note also tells me that my audition for admittance to the course is on the 13
^th
and 14
^th
of October. I then receive, finally, a letter from the
Conservatorio
stating that the
esame di
ammisione
, the admission exam, is at eleven o'clock in the morning on Friday the 14
^th
October. I have already booked my train ticket, but a phone call to Ugo confirms that Thursday the 13
^th
is fine.

I am sitting on the train, which has stopped. We have just passed some grey roofs of houses, which were huddled together and built lower than the train track. Over the roofs, I had glimpsed at the sea in the distance. It is dove grey, flat and still. A few seagulls swoop and squeal near the train track. Their cries beckon me back to halcyon childhood holidays: the sea breeze through my hair, the taste of salt on my lips, the walk along the water's edge searching for beautiful shells, feeling the shock of the cold water as it lapped over my bare feet. For a moment, I am bathed in the memory of being carefree: breathing in fresh sea air, being joyful; just being. Suddenly the train jolts and we are moving back in the direction from which we had come. We make a slight detour, since we are now on a different track, and arrive at Folkestone Station.

Actually, I don't feel at all carefree. I think about the components of my journey. I am beginning to feel tense and I know that I will not be able to relax properly until I am on the train from Paris to Padua, because then I will have no more connections to worry about. The overnight train from France to Italy is the only long and continuous part of my journey, lasting twelve hours, which is exactly half of the entire twenty-four hour journey.

I pass through customs into the departure lounge ready for the next sea crossing. It is basic in design and reminds me of an airport lounge from a 1960's film. The coffee bar is a 1990's addition to the set and I treat myself to a cappuccino, knowing that tomorrow I shall have the authentic article. My next task is to avail myself of the ladies' toilets. I regard this as a key skill for successful journeys: always locate and use any available loo, since you never know where the next one is. Unfortunately, this one is made for extremely thin people and is not to be recommended for people carrying mandolin cases.

I sit down to wait and take advantage of the time to study the Paris underground system. I have a compact plasticised map of the city centre and the metro. It is small and easy to use, without attracting a lot of attention to myself. Nevertheless I am cautious of being in a strange city, with little knowledge of the language, and I have decided to memorise the route so that I minimise the appearance of looking lost or ill at ease. The French train I will catch from Boulogne will take just under three hours to arrive at
Paris
Nord
. At about four-thirty, the beginning of the rush hour, I shall be embarking upon a trip across Paris, along with the native commuters. My preferred plan is to take the number five line, which is depicted orange, in the direction of
Place d'Italie
. I thought the destination would be easy for me to remember. I will count seven stations until
Bastille
where I will change. I must then travel on the light orange number one line, in the direction of
Chateau
de Vincennes,
for one stop in order to arrive at
Gare de Lyon
.

The ferry is a catamaran with a huge interior, the size of a dance floor, filled with rows of seating. I manage to find a seat on the port side of the vessel. My aisle of seats has three seats across, a gangway, and another three seats across. Just this little strip of seating looks like a whole aeroplane. I am pleased to be near the large windows because I have a good view of whatever is happening outside without having to venture up onto the outside deck. I am sensitive to the cold and I have my modest, but at times awkward, luggage to carry. Travelling by myself feels a huge responsibility. I am conscious that I must keep my luggage with me at all times. At
all
times!

I settle down with a coffee and a sandwich for lunch, and I amuse myself by viewing the ‘in-flight' movie, a tourist's guide to Boulogne. I am captivated by the images of the historical centre. It would be lovely to have sufficient time to stop and buy cheeses at the specialist cheese shop or to wander around the church with an Italianate cupola.

In France, there is much walking and many flights of stairs to negotiate between the ferry and the train. Some people contend with huge suitcases and I am happy to have my portable luggage. I tell myself that I am on French soil now and that I have completed the first stage of my journey by arriving in the first foreign country. I remind myself that we have switched languages and that I must give the appropriate response to the official at passport control. After a polite ‘
merci
', I am boarding the train for Paris. No more sea now, it will be
terra firma
all the way. I am a little tired but I am anxious to see everything from the train window. I don't want to miss any part of this experience.

I am struck by how similar the countryside is to the countryside at home: patchwork fields of green and brown, and copses of trees. It is, perhaps, not altogether surprising if, as we are told by geologists, England and France were united once as a single landmass. I fall asleep and I awake at Amiens. I notice a terrace of stone cottages high above the track. The windows are enticing the onlooker with painted wooden shutters. I especially admire the pale blue ones. It is a shame I'm not able to stop and explore. It is just after three o'clock and quite a lot of people board the train.

After the approach to Paris, in which I notice the sleek and famous
TGV
parked with other trains, I arrive at
Gare du Nord
and alight from the train. As I walk along the platform, I feel a sense of quickening. I realise that I must muster some energy and keep my wits about me. I feel the urgency, or perhaps fear, of being about to enter the urban jungle. I know that in my native urban jungle, London, I am familiar with all the clues, signals and messages, which help me to avoid danger – but here I am struggling just to scan the signs and symbols that will alert me to the metro. I think I know where I am going. I checked out the metro entrance in the spring when I travelled to Florence. I didn't travel on the underground then because we had lots of luggage and took a taxi between the overground stations. This is my first time on the metro. I find myself temporarily walking against the flow of commuters. I must have misread a sign and entered at the wrong entrance. I don't know. I'm confused. I retrace my steps and see the ticket office. I have rehearsed my lines from the phrase book and taken notice of its advice. I ask for a
carnet
of tickets. Now I have ten small rectangles of green cardboard and I am ready to use the first one in the automatic ticket machine. I watch the lady in front of me and copy the procedure. It is easy and I am now a commuter in Paris.

The labyrinthine passages through which I must venture at the Bastille seem shabby and dimly lit. I am jostled by the crowd, which is moving with me and I take care to protect the mandolin by holding the flat top of the case close to the front of my body. My body feels weary and my legs ache, even though I have spent most of the day sitting. This is a low point in the day. I hear in my mind all the complaints and lamentations of my friends who have to cope everyday with the underground at home. I decide that underground train travel certainly is the worst kind of travel in the world, and that I am probably on the worst underground system in the world. I have forgotten all the grim stations at home.

Just as I am being assaulted by this deluge of negativity, I step onto what must certainly be one of the most beautiful underground platforms in the world. I am stunned first by the shaft of natural light and then by the breathtaking views of the harbour with all its moored boats down below. To one side of the water's edge, a vibrant market is in progress. All this is visible because one side of the platform tunnel is exposed above ground and is covered by glass. I could wait forever for the train, so entertaining are the comings and goings down below. I am right over someone's houseboat. I have a privileged view of a little slice of Parisian life through this glass and it reminds me of watching exotic reptiles in the reptile house at the zoo. My thoughts are interrupted by a turquoise train, which might have emanated from the pages of a Tintin cartoon.

At
Gare du Lyon,
I head for a new looking development of subterranean shops and restaurants. I find the restaurant we had eaten in during the previous spring. It is an unpretentious establishment and I feel a sense of security knowing that I have visited it on an earlier occasion. I am also encouraged by knowing that they cook quite an acceptable French version of pizza. I am nourished by a pizza
forestiere
, which is topped by ham, mushrooms and an egg. I have a window seat and as I quietly sip my mineral water, I watch, from the safe haven of my table, anxious commuters hurrying along outside. I also have a salad and then a coffee. I take as long as I can over my meal. I read the menu three times, translating all the words I am able to, and I watch the progress of the other customers, listening carefully to the spoken language. I am comforted by the food and warmth of the restaurant. Eventually I am unable to waste any further time having a leisurely supper and I pay my bill, remembering to take advantage of the ladies' room before departing.

It is half past six and I have about an hour and a half before the departure of my train to Italy. I am at a loose end and find myself wandering aimlessly. I look in the windows of some of the shops. There is a wonderful chocolate shop. I feel as if I am on automatic pilot. The pleasure of window shopping eludes me. There seems nowhere suitable to sit down and rest so I am trying to occupy myself by looking at the shops. Normally I enjoy window shopping, but now my eyes seem glazed over. I have seen so many images flashing past me during the course of the day and it is probably only natural that I should feel tired. I long for a comfortable, inconspicuous chair where I can sit down and relax, and just be.

Near the platforms for international departures, there are benches to sit down on. These benches are made of metal and are reminiscent of park benches. The whole area is partially exposed to the elements and the night air is cold and sharp. I find a place to sit and from which I can see information about my train. It is still early evening and yet this station, like many others throughout the world, acts as a magnet to marginalised people. The homeless, the drunk, the mad and the sad, all intermingle with international travellers.

I am profoundly grateful when I enter the safety of the overnight train to Venice. I easily find my carriage and compartment. The compartment is divided into six couchettes, three on each side. Each berth is provided with a small pillow, a blanket and a plastic bag containing a clean pillow case and a sheet. My bed is at the top, which I had thought would give me even more security and privacy once I had made the journey up the ladder. I quickly take up my belongings and arrange them in a recessed shelf near my head. I then set to work making up my bed. It is neat and cosy and I look forward to collapsing on it, but I feel I cannot collapse just yet. It is so odd sharing one's bedroom, my compartment, with five complete strangers. The train moves out of the station and everyone mills around in the corridors looking out of the windows at the illuminated city melting away into darkness.

A lady in uniform passes through the corridor informing people that the buffet is ready to serve supper. The thought is tempting: a thin, moist steak accompanied by French fries and a glass of red wine. I wish for a moment that I hadn't eaten earlier, but I console myself with the thought that it was a better plan. I am now better organised. I don't, for example, have the hassle of taking all my belongings with me to the buffet car. I have, as it is, to take a small calculated risk by leaving my stowed away belongings whilst I visit the bathroom and clean my teeth. I feel uncomfortable about it, but I am exhausted and it is too complicated. I think, anyway, that taking my mandolin to the bathroom will only attract unnecessary attention to it. I also have enough trouble keeping my balance in the short walk between the compartment and the bathroom. The train seems to move about considerably more than I remembered from the spring rehearsal.

At last I am tucked up in bed and I try to relax and rest. I am not wearing night clothes. I wear instead the underneath layers of my day clothes: a long-sleeved cotton polo neck sweater and cotton leggings. They are chosen for comfort and their quality of being non-creasing. It is the most practical solution to the problem of travelling in this way.

I do not sleep well on the train. I am restless. At times, I become too hot. I remove the blanket a little but I leave the sheet in place. I have arranged it to be folded in half with the fold on the outward edge of the bunk. In this way, I feel I will be contained and less likely to fall out of my lofty bed. I hear the voice of the customs official at the Swiss border. I handed my passport to the carriage steward soon after boarding the train. Passengers are re-issued with their documents in the morning. This ensures that passengers are not disturbed from their sleep. I lie awake on the still train thinking that I have just arrived in Switzerland, the second foreign country of my journey. I also think about the Calace
Preludio
I have to play for my audition. I run the opening bars over in my head, imagining how my fingers feel to play it. This should send me to sleep but it doesn't. I remember how once I had found that listening to my own imagined playing of this piece had comforted me in hospital. When I was very ill, it soothed me and made me soporific. Now it only served to increase my anxiety because I worry that I haven't been able to practise on the journey. Then I worry that I have had insufficient sleep and I will be too tired to play properly.

I stir. I realise something is happening. The train has stopped and I must have finally fallen asleep. A deep loudspeaker voice announces ‘Verona
Porta Nuova
'. I have arrived in Italy. I look at my watch. It is a quarter to seven. I snuggle under my blanket, feeling its warmth and comfort. Now I don't want to leave the place of my repose. It seems that all night I struggled to be in a place as relaxing as this and now that I have found it, I must abruptly abandon it. Sluggishly and somewhat resentfully, I make an effort to prepare myself for the day. I put on my boots and my jacket. I tidy the bed. When I have retrieved the ladder – there is only one per compartment – and descended by it, I run my fingers through my hair. I glance in the window at my tangled hairstyle and strategically place a hair band on my head. I feel fractionally more civilised. I join other people in the corridor to watch fields and farms flash by in the ever increasing daylight as we speed towards Padua.