The Mandolin Lesson (5 page)

I enjoy my wine and water, mixed,
mezzo e mezzo
, half and half, just as the Italians do. I had learnt from my many Italian holidays that I enjoy drinking wine much better this way. The pizza is also fantastic. It is such a pleasure to be eating an authentic pizza with a wafer-thin base and fresh, simple ingredients. Although I have had some good pizzas in London, they are never quite the same – despite all the claims – as those made in Italy. They are usually complicated with too many ingredients and often a tomato sauce, which is uncharacteristically spicy. In Italy, most pizzas have only one ingredient in addition to the bread base, tomato sauce and mozzarella cheese. If it is a pepperoni pizza, for example, it will only have pepperoni sausage added to the basic ingredients.

After a healthy bowl of
macedonia
, fruit salad, and an espresso, I return to the station. The overnight train to Paris doesn't come too soon for me. It has been a long day. A second long day. The station is cold and the waiting room hosts quite a lot of people with disturbing behaviour. I walk up and down the platform in order to keep warm and to avoid contact with unwelcome strangers. As soon as I am able, I board the train, hand in my passport, arrange my bed and settle down to sleep.

In Paris, I am not restored by my night's sleep. I feel pretty ghastly and I would love to have a bath. I am, however, delightfully distracted at the Bastille station by a young lady playing a harp. It is a large harp, the sort found in an orchestra. I am amazed at its presence amongst the throng of early morning commuters. The frame of the harp flashes gold and the celestial sounds of the strings echo all around. The buskers I have encountered have portable instruments and live in fear of being moved on. This one is ensconced in the centre of the platform. I know nothing about the French attitude to busking or of the likelihood that this one will be moved on or even prosecuted. I know only that the Parisian commuters seem respectful of this precious instrument and that perhaps they are even thankful for the inspirational music encouraging them on their way.

At
Gare du Nord,
I embrace the comforts of a civilised society by hiring a bathroom for a modest fee. The bathroom is just a small room containing a toilet and a hand basin, but it is perfect for my purpose. With a flannel, a bar of soap, hot water and privacy, I am able to carry out my ablutions in an old-fashioned but most satisfactory way. I am so grateful for this opportunity and I am so grateful for hot water.

Breakfast is good: fresh croissant and milky coffee. Soon, I am on a train heading for the English Channel. The return journey is slow and tedious. The channel crossing is uneventful. Kent is also tiring – all the more so, because, although we are not far from London, the train is particularly sluggish. I hit the London rush hour and take the District Line from Victoria station to Mile End. I change there onto the Central Line, because I just have to walk across the station platform, which is easier with my luggage. I walk the five minutes' walk from the Central Line station to arrive home in the early evening. I have been for my first mandolin lesson and I feel in a state of collapse.

I have not been home a complete week when Ugo rings me to say that he has arrived in London for a series of concerts. We have a confusing conversation in which he tells me that he is staying very near to where I live. He would like me to meet him for lunch. It turns out that he is staying at the Forum Hotel in Kensington. It is nowhere near where I live, being on the diametrically opposite side of London. I explain that he is in the west of London and I am in the east. Yes, we are connected by tube, but it will take over an hour, maybe the best part of two hours, before I can reach him. He is undeterred, tells me his room number, and says that he looks forward to meeting me shortly.

I arrive at the hotel an hour and a half later. I speak with the receptionist and she rings through to Ugo's room, but there is no reply. I tell her that I will wait.

The reception area is massive. There are all sorts of coming and goings. I notice three clocks giving the various times around the world. I order coffee. I visit the ladies' room. On my return to the reception, Ugo materialises just as I had given up hope of seeing him.

He says that he became involved in talking with members of the orchestra and that he wasn't in his own room. He is here now and he has some paperwork to do with me. We order sandwiches for lunch and we sit down to look at the papers.

I have some forms to fill in. Forms are always tedious and Italian ones are especially so. I also have to give him some money for some taxes that have to be paid. I don't really understand these taxes. There are three different sums to be paid. One is a yearly tax for students attending a course. Another is, I think, because I am joining the course. The final one is because I have been late in sorting out the paperwork for entering the course. It is a sort of fine, I suppose.

The three sums, 26,000 lire, 53,200 lire, and 11,700 lire, make a total of 90,900 lire. I felt quite alarmed. It sounds so much and it is unexpected – at the best of times, I have always found numbers so confusing.

In reality, the bill is not so bad. It is approximately 100,000 lire, which is about forty pounds. It is just that it is an extra sum to find for my, as yet, not funded course of study.

There is another very important task I am told that I have to undertake before I return to Italy. I have to take all my certificates to the Italian Consulate in order to obtain a
Certificato di Equipollenza
, a certificate of equivalence. It is at this point that things begin to take a complicated turn.

I am told that my Master's degree and my Violin Diploma are not sufficient to convince the Italian authorities that I am proficient in theory, harmony, history of music, keyboard skills and so on. I am a little aghast but I try not to show it. The authorities require my grade certificates for piano and theory, dating back to my childhood. They also want to see the syllabuses for my diploma and degree courses, in order to understand that I have already covered all the other aspects of the mandolin diploma course. This is because Ugo is trying to arrange it for me to visit only for the mandolin lesson.

One significant problem in all this is that the authorities require proof of an exam they call
Licenza di Teoria e Solfeggio
.
Licenza
means certificate or diploma, so it is an examination that includes both theory and
solfeggio
. I feel fine about the theory because I know, whatever the standard, I have covered everything. The
solfeggio
is another matter.
Solfeggio
is a system of identifying sound names with the pitch of written notes. It is a foolproof method of being able to sing from sight. It is a fundamental skill, which is useful and some would say essential to any musician, instrumentalists and singers alike.

I have been exposed to
solfeggio
but I haven't used this system exclusively. The issue is that
solfeggio
is a method of ear training that helps the musician to perform more efficiently. He or she learns a vocabulary of rhythms and pitches separately from the instrument. When the performer uses the instrument, he or she can concentrate more fully on the technique of the instrument since the rhythms and pitches are second nature. It is an excellent idea.

However, training the ear, or aural work as it is often called, is organised differently in England. The same work, recognising pitches and rhythms, is divided into a range of listening activities. These activities, singing back a tune or clapping a rhythm in the early stages, become progressively more difficult as studies continue. They are examined at each stage with the practical examinations. So, for example, someone who has the Grade Eight Violin exam has studied aural work to a high level. The aural work is an integral part of the instrumental exam and not given a separate certificate.

How I am to overcome this difficulty is beyond me at present. I feel overwhelmed. I am told that I must get all my certificates translated into Italian before I take them to the consulate and that I should act in a convincing manner. Ugo must have noticed my lack of confidence. I go home in a complete daze.

*

It is almost 6.30 pm and I am sitting in the Italian Institute in Belgrave Square. I am here to listen to a concert given by an Italian orchestra. The programme is to include a mandolin concerto by Giovanni Battista Pergolesi, with Ugo as the soloist. I have not seen Ugo since yesterday lunchtime.

Outside it is twilight and I look at the silhouettes of the autumnal trees. The windows are bare but harmoniously framed by painted wooden shutters. The large expanse of room with its stucco ceiling is decorated in minimalist white. It is on the first floor at the front of the building looking out onto the square. I love the atmosphere of this room and I imagine it full of people dancing.

This is to be an intimate concert. Half the room is arranged with rows of chairs for the audience and the other half contains a group of chairs forming an arc, from which music stands periodically mushroom.

The orchestra members take their places. The men wear the traditional uniform of formal evening suits with tailed jackets. The ladies wear long black clothes of their own choice. They follow the same dress code as female orchestral players in England, but I am struck by how stunningly different and glamorous they look. Some of them wear trousers instead of long skirts. The trousers are beautifully cut garments in soft draping fabrics, which move elegantly with the wearer. I also admire the abundance of exquisite lace and see-through material used so seductively in the blouses that accompany the trousers. One of the violinists has sleeves like mantillas. I see several outfits that I would love to wear and I consider the problem of trying to find shops that sell suitable clothing for concerts.

Ugo appears and begins to introduce the concert.

It is quite an extensive talk, given entirely in Italian. I listen to the sound of the words as if they themselves were notes of music. Sometimes, the words are fast and bubbling with intensity. Other times, they are enunciated slowly with elegiac precision. It is difficult for me to understand the intricate detail of the speech. I am distracted by the beautiful sounds of the words and often forget to connect their meanings. Also, the odd word, usually a conjugation of a verb, throws me and I miss the nuance of meaning. Overall, I have a general impression of the sense of what has been said, but I fear I may have missed some important detail.

The programme consists of unknown works written by Neapolitan Baroque composers. Two of the works are in four movements following a contrasting pattern –slow, fast, slow, fast. Two other works follow a tertiary plan – fast, slow, and fast. Our attention is drawn to the slow movements, in which seventeenth and eighteenth century Neapolitan composers were influenced by the close proximity of the sea. In these slow and reflective movements, we will experience a gentle, hypnotic, lilting rhythm, reminding us of the sea lapping against the boats.

The theme of the sea might be a wildly romantic notion, but is nonetheless a clever connection with the title of the orchestra,
I Musici dell'Aquarium
, The Musicians of the Aquarium. The use of the English word aquarium is correct, if perhaps a little ironic, since so many English ensembles choose to Italianise their names in order to add romantic charm. This ensemble is an association for culture and education, which is connected to an International Marine Biological Laboratory. It is a puzzling collaboration.

The first work is a concerto for oboe and orchestra by Francesco Mancini. This is followed by a violin concerto by a composer I have never heard of called Angelo Ragazzi.

Next is the moment I have been waiting for: the mandolin concerto. First, there is a bit of retuning. The orchestra is a small chamber orchestra consisting of six violins, two violas, one cello, a doublebass and a harpsichord. Ugo sits down on a chair that has been placed in front of the orchestra and to the left of the conductor. They start to play, all the instruments co-operating in filling the room with vibrant energy. The room is alive with the resonance of sequential rhythms and the rhetorical banter between the soloist and the group of instruments. The middle movement is my favourite. Entitled
Largo
, it is music of languishing lyricism, packed full of emotional intensity. It is hard to understand how such tenderness is possible from a plucked metal string. And it seems to me remarkable that Baroque music is at times so romantic and sentimental. I have a strange sensation. It is as if I have discovered this truth for the very first time.

The concert concludes with another work by Pergolesi, a concertino for strings, and three songs sung by a soprano and accompanied by the orchestra.

After the concert, when Ugo has changed back into smart casual clothes, my husband and I take him to an Italian restaurant for dinner. I have booked a table at
Orso
, which is situated in Covent Garden, very near to the Royal Opera House. We find a parking place reasonably close by and walk the short distance to the restaurant. As we pass the Drury Lane Theatre Royal, I am startled by a quick movement and a noise. The strap on Ugo's mandolin case has snapped at one end and the bowl of the instrument, still contained within the padded case, briefly makes contact with the pavement. I am worried that the instrument is damaged, but Ugo is relaxed and thinks it is fine without inspecting inside the case.

Orso
is neither a traditional
trattoria
nor one of the new pizza/pasta establishments currently opening up everywhere. Instead, it offers a menu that is changed daily and which includes the best fresh ingredients available, together with the exotic elements of Italian cuisine. The menu might include delicacies such as fried mozzarella cheese with anchovies and capers, or grilled swordfish with roasted peppers and ravioli made with wild mushrooms. The meal is always initiated with bread served with aromatic olive oil flavoured with herbs. The food, intrinsically attractive, is enhanced by being presented on beautifully hand-painted, rustic crockery.

The restaurant has a contemporary, uncluttered appearance and the ambience transmits a feeling of energy provided by the clientele of artistic and media personalities. Both the location and the food is perfect for an after concert celebration.

When we have eaten, we embark upon a sightseeing tour of London at night. This entails a short detour east, in the car, to Tower Bridge. We weave backwards and forwards across the Thames in a westerly direction. Our intention is to return Ugo to his hotel, but first we must point out all the illuminated bridges and buildings of importance: The Royal Festival Hall, The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, and so on. It is late, but I am happy and proud to be pointing out the significant sights.

*

The phone rings at breakfast time. It is Ugo wanting to do some music shopping and requiring my assistance. I have a mandolin pupil arriving shortly, so we arrange to meet at my house. My pupil arrives and the lesson progresses. Towards the end, Ugo arrives and I leave him in the sitting room looking through my record collection. I return to my pupil in the music room and complete the lesson.

My pupil departs and I make some coffee. Ugo and I sit in the morning room adjoining the kitchen of my Victorian house. He is interested in my use of pale yellow for the walls and my partiality for shades of green in my crockery. My design brings the warmth of Italian sunshine into the eating area. The room I had inherited was a dismal depressing grey that reminded me of London drizzle. Now I am collecting hand-painted Italian plates, bowls and mugs, in various shades of blue, green and yellow.

“Ah! Green the colour of
speranza
, hope,” Ugo sighs. He continues: “In Italy, grey is a good colour for a kitchen.”

I learn a number of useful things from Ugo that are unconnected to music. I am experiencing problems with a glut of homegrown tomatoes – more precisely, allotment-grown tomatoes. Pounds of them are stacked in boxes on the floor. We grow them to make sauces for pasta, but this year we have more than I can manage. I don't have time, with my forthcoming trips to Italy and mandolin practice, to bottle them.

Ugo tells me that tomatoes can be frozen easily without any preparation. Just place them in plastic bags and put them in the freezer. When you want to use them, they are hard like golf balls. Place them in boiling water, as you would do normally, to remove the skins. The skins come away easily and the flesh begins to defrost. The tomatoes can be chopped up and used in the normal way. The heat from cooking quickly completes the defrosting process.

This is a useful tip about freezing tomatoes. I have never read about this idea in any of my many Italian cookery books. Ugo also says that it is possible to freeze
castagne
, chestnuts, in the same way. When the nuts are removed from the freezer, it is important to pierce the shell and then you can proceed to roast them on an open fire in the usual way. They take a bit longer because they defrost first and then cook. But this method of storage is excellent because it prevents the nuts drying out.