The Mandolin Lesson (6 page)

We travel on the tube to Oxford Circus. We talk most of the time about the mandolin. At our destination, we head directly for Schott's in Great Marlborough Street. I find nothing of interest today but Ugo sees a sale of old music placed in some cardboard boxes. He thumbs through and finds a number of interesting pieces that might be useful for mandolin. Suddenly, the shop is filled with chattering foreigners. It is the Neapolitan orchestra. Ugo talks with his friends and I find myself translating and helping the players with their enquiries.

*

It is Sunday evening in the Duke's Hall at the Royal Academy of Music. It is the venue for the second London concert of
I Musici dell'Aquarium
.

I have been busy ringing up all the other professional mandolinists to tell them about the concert. I notice that some of them are here. I see my friend Sue and we greet each other with a kiss. I promise to introduce her to Ugo after the concert.

This evening, I am with my family and we are complete with my ten-year-old son. It has been an onerous day. This morning I attended my church and this afternoon I heard my son sing at St. Paul's Cathedral. Now, I am about to listen to an evening of music. My usual routine on Sundays is to attend my own church in the morning and the cathedral in the afternoon. On special feast days, I might give my own church a miss and attend the cathedral twice. Today is different because half-term holiday began after Evensong and my son who boards at school is anxious to get home. He is very tired and we have had to stay in town for tea and to while away a couple of hours before the concert. There wasn't time to go home and come back again.

The programme is identical to the other evening except for one detail, the inclusion of an extra mandolin concerto: the
Conforto
. I have a particular interest in this concerto as it is the first one I have made an edition of, using my new computer programme, and I took it show Ugo earlier this year in the spring. Although I have a recording of Ugo playing this work, I am enraptured to hear a live performance.

At the end of the concert, I introduce Sue to Ugo, but I have an exhausted little boy tugging at my hand and I have to depart quickly.

*

This morning, my task is to take my certificates to the Italian Consulate for ratification. Ugo has returned to Italy but I have the company of my son, as it is his half-term holiday.

At the offices of the Italian Consul, I have to wait before I am able to present my documents. All my certificates have accompanying pieces of paper with Italian translations of the wording. I began these translations but quickly found myself out of my depth. An Italian friend of mine helped me enormously by correcting them and typing them out on her word processor, so I am sure that they are accurate.

The administrator that I see does not agree with some of the wording, a nuance, or a difference in cultural meaning. She starts to type out a document on headed paper, which will explain my qualifications for the Italian authorities. She looks suspiciously at each certificate in turn. I feel nervous, a little stressed. My son is sitting on a chair and I sense he is restless. I have warned him not to speak unless he is spoken to. He is the sort of child who is always asking questions and striking up conversations with the people we meet – but he is also at the age where in his innocence he may contradict me, and undermine my position. I feel the delicate tension of this moment. So much hangs on the
Certificato di Equipollenza
. Without it, I might not be able to proceed with my mandolin studies.

I am pleased to have the
Certificato di Equipollenza
in my possession, although I am surprised that all my certificates, even my degree, have been stamped and signed on the back as being authentic. I feel confused. I don't know whether to be pleased or dismayed. I feel my certificates have been violated in some way, but perhaps in years to come, it will be the only evidence of a remarkable story. It is only the advent of the European Community that makes my impending cultural exchange possible. If I had to pay tuition fees as well as travelling expenses, then the whole project would be out of the question.

My second lesson is taking me on another adventure. This time, I am going all the way to Venice where I will spend a night in a hotel and the first part of my trip will be on the new Eurostar train. I am really excited at the prospect of going directly from London to Paris, via the channel tunnel, in three hours.

My husband is accompanying me on this trip. He is anxious to try out the new train. He also wants to see where I am going for my lessons and it is generally a good excuse for a few days away from it all.

The plan for this short break seems attractive to me because we will have a day free to relax in Venice. After a good night's sleep in a hotel bed, we will take the short train ride back to Padua where I shall attend the mandolin class. At the conclusion of the day, we will return to Paris on the overnight train in the usual way.

The Eurostar is an absolute dream. The journey time, from city centre to city centre, is cut by about four hours. The concept of being linked to Europe by land and the feeling of Italy being more accessible is thrilling. I also have this feeling of being present in an important moment in history. I am one of the first passengers to try out this new method of transport – the first train to travel beneath the sea. I wonder whether the first tube travellers to make the journey beneath the Thames viewed their experience in the same way. Were some of those passengers also nervous of travelling in a tunnel under the water?

A communal sigh of relief is audible when the train arrives in France after thirty-five minutes of darkness. It really hasn't been very long. It was just like travelling on the underground, without all the interruptions of the stops.

The whole journey, especially in France, is so quick that it is difficult to enjoy looking out of the window. Fortunately, I have brought with me a magazine to indulge in. The internal design of the carriage gives me the impression of being on an aeroplane. Reading and having a drink seem more appropriate than looking out of the window.

In Paris, we retrace my journey of the previous month. I feel a little easier travelling across Paris on the metro this time, and the wait for the overnight train to Venice is tolerable since I have some company.

*

The journey to Venice passes without incident. I wake as before at Verona, which means that the last part of the journey is a little longer. It is about forty minutes after Padua, and just before nine o'clock, when we arrive at
Venezia Santa Lucia
.

Our first priority is to check our luggage into the left-luggage office. I feel liberated with nothing but a small handbag to carry as we walk out of the station and down the big steps that lead to the Grand Canal.

The second priority is breakfast. We turn into a street to the left of the station and find a bar. We order
brioche
and cappuccino, and stand with the locals eating our breakfast. We could be in deepest Italy, except that we are only a few minutes from an international railway station. There are no foreigners, other than ourselves, and we are hoping to be undetected. My husband has dark hair and is Mediterranean in appearance. I speak sufficient Italian to get by. We are passable Italians, as we nibble at our
brioche
. I take care to hold the white paper serviette around the pastry. It is a delicate business. I don't want to get my fingers sticky with the apricot jam and I don't want to be smothered in crumbs. There are other women dressed in elegant trouser suits who are managing the same operation with great aplomb. I think I am doing well. No one seems to have noticed that we are tourists yet.

We walk out into the chill November air. I have postcards from previous trips of Venice enshrouded in mist and I have always wanted to visit it in the dead of winter. November is not quite winter, but it is certainly the approach.

Our plan is to walk towards St. Mark's Square through the streets and myriad alleyways. We begin to make our nostalgic pilgrimage to the basilica, pointing out to each other the places we remember from our earlier holidays. It is difficult to explain the allure of Venice. I have visited it on three other occasions, but I am always ready to return and hungry to experience it again.

Some people say that its enchantment is a result of it being a city on water. They quote the fact that it is a city whose transport system relies entirely on boats. The buses and cars all have to stop in the
Piazzale Roma
at the entrance of the city where it is joined to the mainland by a bridge. The same bridge carries trains to the terminal nearby. Aircraft land at the airport, which is just across the lagoon, on the mainland. It is a peaceful city, people say, without the stress of modern transportation.

The Venice that I am visiting is charged, as if with electricity. At certain times, when shops are open for business, it is particularly energetic and lively. It always seems to hum and throb. Its pulse, its vibrations, its movement is constant. Even when it appears quiet, it is never still. There is always water lapping against the stones or bricks somewhere. I listen to the rise and fall of the engine noise of the
vaporetti
. I hear these water-buses knocking against the landing-stages as they unload their passengers and refill with new ones. I am reminded of a time when I stayed in an inexpensive hotel near the station that backed onto the Grand Canal. All through the night, I was woken each hour by the thud and resultant vibrations of the
Accelerato
water-bus as it stopped and started near my window.

Walking through the
calli
, or alleys, is like being in a maze. High up between the buildings of the narrow streets and alleys are strips of blue sky. Down here, I find it impossible to have any sense of direction. I am distracted at frequent intervals: a window, a balcony, some pots with late flowering plants, a cat. I see a linen shop and stop to admire some embroidered pillowcases and duvet covers. I never imagined that I could be so domestically inclined. I am rushed on. My husband is always confident of the route and always pressing ahead relentlessly. I am always ready to linger and to waste a little time.

We walk over tiny bridges. We see a barge laden exquisitely with fruit and vegetables: shining aubergines, large green and red peppers, swollen bulbs of fennel and salad leaves. The boat is moored on one side of the canal and is being used as a market stall. A group of ladies, with their shopping bags, wait to be served.

Just a little way further is a modern shop window with handmade wooden toys arranged on glass shelving. I am looking for something to take home for my son. My eyes trace over the various patterns of wood grain. I compare them with the patterns I have seen on the bowls of mandolins. I don't see the gift I am looking for, but I am fascinated by the stark contrast of the old and the new: an ultra-modern shop fitting within a cluster of ancient buildings.

Periodically we cross a
campo
, the Venetian equivalent of the
piazza
. These wide, open spaces are a welcome relief with their greater light. I let my eyes focus on some distant detail: the Baroque façade of a church or the shape of a campanile.

In the
Calle dello Spezier,
I hear the music of Vivaldi, a violin concerto. We are a long way from Vivaldi's church. I follow the sound of the music and it takes me across a pretty courtyard, decorated with potted plants. I feel as if I am entering someone's private house. At the other side of the courtyard is a shop window, in which is displayed a lute and books of music. The lute is placed on its front so that the round bowl is visible. I survey the ribs carefully, noticing the contrasting flaming in the alternating strips of wood. It is extremely attractive.

I remember a former visit when I tried to study the paintings by Pietro Longhi that are housed in the
Ca'Rezzonico
, the last home of Robert Browning. In a painting called ‘
La Polenta
', the lute like instrument was viewed from the back. Another picture I wanted to see had been moved, I was told, to the
Galleria Querini-Stampalia
. When I tried to locate it, nobody knew of its whereabouts. I am anxious to collect iconographic evidence of all lute type instruments, as they contribute in some way to the evolution of the mandolin. It is, at times, a frustrating investigation.

I am dragged away from my thoughts to the
Pasticceria Marchini
, one of the many confectioners of the city. I can smell the sweet sugary fragrance before we see the array of pastries. The Austrian influence in Venetian history is reflected in the wonderful
Sachertorte
s and various types of strudel. I am tempted to buy some nougat, but I resist and press on.

A shop that specialises in marbled paper catches my eyes. I love the designs. The paper is handmade and very expensive. I steal a few moments evaluating the different patterns and colour combinations. I prefer the blues and green to the reds and oranges. I decide to experiment with marbling when I return home. I would like to use the designs as cover paper for my editions of music. My son's class did some beautiful work when they tried marbling at school. I resolve to seek his teacher's advice on the matter.

We enter the
Piazza San Marco
. Even though I have seen it several times before, and despite the nuisance of the pigeons, I am struck by its vastness and by the glory of the decorated basilica. The gold and jewel-like colours of the paintings on the façade of the building glitter in the sun. Slowly we walk across the asymmetrical ‘square' towards the Campanile, savouring the experience. Turning right, we walk past the Doge's Palace in the direction of the water. Turning left, we walk a little way along the
Riva degli Schiavoni
, until we find a café with outdoor tables. We sit down and order our morning coffee.

The water changes endlessly. Sunlight falls on the undulating surface, making it iridescent: slate grey, turquoise, opaque, limpid, sparkling.

I stare at the crooked sticks growing from the water, protecting the parked gondolas that bob up and down ceaselessly. My gaze extends to the ambiguous horizon and then focuses on the church of
Maria della Salute
, across the water. I have a silk screen print of this church at home. My picture is predominantly turquoise: a symbol of hope and gratitude, it was built to honour the deliverance of the city from the plague.

*

Apart from a short gap during which we consume delicious pizzas, the rest of the day is spent walking around: exploring, admiring and reminiscing. At about five o'clock, I start to worry that I haven't done any practice. My legs are tired and I want to go to our hotel. We take the
vaporetto
to the station and collect our luggage. We take another
vaporetto
along the Grand Canal towards our stop at the
Accademia
. The water-bus is crowded with people returning home from work. A tired baby is crying and being comforted by its mother. Through the glass door at the front of the boat, I see the famous Canaletto scenes of Venice drenched in the pink light of the setting sun. Probably this scene has been observed and described thousands of times, but I am left with a sense of privilege at having seen it first-hand.

*

In the hotel, I have a shower and change. It is bliss to be clean and to be able to relax in the privacy of our room. I begin to practise. My husband is restless and departs for another short walk. I think he should rest but he wants to make the most of every minute. I say nothing. It is no use trying to dissuade him. It only makes matters worse.

My need to practise is urgent and my mind is quickly focused on the notes. I have prepared the first three sonatas by Lecce, out of a book of eighteen. Each sonata is just a single movement. My teacher has written out the notes by hand, copying them from the original manuscript. My book is a photocopy of his work, bound together with a red spiral binding and plastic covers. I imagine how the book would look with notes printed by the computer and handmade marble paper beneath the plastic covers.

I sit on the edge of the bed with my music propped up by pillows and I begin to play. The music is reasonably clear in comparison to some handwritten examples I have seen. I play the first phrase a couple of times. It contains four G major chords. I love the quality of their sound, but one of the chords is a little tricky because it is short – only a semiquaver in length (or really quick for the uninitiated). I try it a few times until I am satisfied and then I move on.

I am soothed by the patterns that follow. Arpeggios and chords in various inversions, the notes played separately and repetitively. They create a harmony, an order, a peace, a stillness within me. At the same time, the relentless semiquavers imbue me with an energy; intensified by a dominant seventh here or lightened by the decoration of a trill there. At the cadence points, there is always just a skeleton of notes to suggest the punctuation. Such simplicity. Such beauty.

An hour has disappeared as if it were a few seconds, and I am content.

*

My husband returns. He takes a shower whilst I watch the Italian news on television. I love watching Italian television because there is no need to be interactive. I can relax knowing that I am soaking up the language at my own pace. If there is something I don't understand, it doesn't matter because I don't need to respond.

I am hungry and ready for my dinner. I have in my mind several good restaurants where we have eaten before, but my husband has a better plan. In his search for perfection and the avoidance of other tourists, he thinks we should take the
vaporetto
to the
Giudecca
, where we are sure to find a quiet restaurant used only by the locals.

The
Giudecca
is certainly quiet and seems largely unlit. We stumble along in the dark looking for the restaurant of our dreams. We see shops closing and one or two bars, but no eating places. We decide to return to the other side of the canal and head for the two restaurants I thought of earlier. The first is near the barge that doubles as a greengrocer's. I remember having a memorable meal of spaghetti with
seppie
, but when we arrive, there is a notice that says it is closed for a wedding party. We walk on into
Campo S. Margherita
where we have already been once today and where my second choice of eating establishment is. Here, we are also disappointed. It is closed this evening, and on this same night every week. I feel disheartened.