The Mandolin Lesson (9 page)

April arrives quickly and Bologna beckons.

I have never visited this city before so I am excited at the prospect and a little apprehensive about the unknown, a different journey and staying with someone new.

Like last time, I am going on Wednesday and returning on Sunday, so as to stay a Saturday night and qualify for the cheapest ticket price. I haven't exactly come to terms with being absent for Saturdays, but I think this is a compromise that I am going to have to accept and that will hopefully get easier as my son gets older.

My flight is between Gatwick and Verona, the latter being the nearest location to my destination that I could find. In fact, Verona is nowhere near Bologna. It is considerably north of my final destination and a train journey is necessary to reach it.

On the Central Line, I meet a friend who I haven't seen for some time. We catch up with our news and I explain that the mandolin case is not because I'm going to a rehearsal in town, but because I'm going to Italy for a mandolin lesson. I tell her about the train journeys, the new development of finding somewhere to stay, and the flight I am taking to Verona.

“I don't know how it is going to turn out exactly,” I tell her, “but I am learning to take one month at a time. It is going to be a challenge trying to find the next cheapest flight each time I return home and I don't know where the money is coming from, but I have found sufficient funds up till now. I'm still looking at various bursaries. I will just have to see what happens.”

At Mile End I change to the District Line, which takes me to Blackfriars station. Here, I catch a train that takes me directly to Gatwick airport. As the train departs across Blackfriars Bridge, I stare at the symbols of London, my English heritage, my life. I look intently at the huge dome of St. Paul's; I think of my son and wonder where he is and what he is doing. I feel love, pride and sadness all at once. I say a prayer for him. I gaze at the magnificence of our favourite bridge, Tower Bridge. I think how strange it is that music brings us so close together and yet today pulls us apart. I consider the pain of love, how we have to let each other be ourselves and live our own lives. I am bound to be back safely in a few days and yet undertaking this journey, and all my journeys, seems to intensify my emotions.

*

At Verona, I catch a bus to the station. I have just missed the train to Bologna. It is late afternoon and quite warm. I phone Ette and tell her the time of the train I am catching and she says that she will meet me at the station. I have a little time to waste, so I find a table at one of the station's bars and I order a
toast
and cappuccino. The
toast
is really a toasted sandwich with a filling of ham and cheese. I sit quietly savouring my snack and watching the world go by.

*

The train to Bologna hurtles across the plains of Emilia-Romagna. The landscape is so flat in comparison to the train route between Milan and Venice. I look at the distant farmhouses, each with their row of protective trees. The late afternoon sun envelops the fields in amber light. The train is warm. I am sitting on the left, but those on the right have drawn every available piece of curtain to protect themselves. There are a number of windows open in my open-plan carriage and the ensuing breeze is humid. I feel quite mellow and sleepy.

*

As I step down from the train, I see a familiar face. Ette has somehow chosen the correct spot on a long busy platform to meet me. She smiles at me and greets me like a long-lost friend. In these first minutes of our meeting, I have such a sense of welcome and being cared for.

We drive to her flat in her white Ford Fiesta. The slow chaos of city traffic gives way to the speed and order of the
tangenziale
, the by-pass. We appear to be heading into the country on a motorway, but my friend tells me that we are still in Bologna, just moving towards the
periferia
– the outskirts. All around, I can see farmland and rustic dwellings scattered here and there. In the distance, I notice the cupola of an important landmark: the Sanctuary of the
Madonna di San Luca
. To the right are the tennis courts where her husband, Marco, plays tennis. To the left, there is a new shopping mall and a huge sporting stadium that sometimes acts as a venue for pop concerts.

Abruptly, we leave the motorway. We wind our way through a country lane. On the right, there is a house with neatly tended grapevines and chickens running between them. A dog barks as we drive past. I notice trees covered in pink and white blossom. The white trees are
pesca
, peach, and the pink ones are
ciliegia
, cherry. Ette explains that she is passionate about cherries and that her parents grow copious quantities of them on their farm. I ask about the farm. Her parents are almost self-sufficient, but their main source of income is from the growing of grapes for wine production. I am absolutely enchanted by this connection with country life.

At the end of the country lane is a T-junction with a main road. Opposite is a row of shops and a bus stop. We turn right, then almost immediately left. Behind the shops is a new housing development: blocks of flats coloured in shades of apricot and cream. We have reached our destination.

The flat is on the first floor and reached by a lift, although there are stairs for emergencies. It faces the elements, with a red tiled pathway connecting the entrances of all the dwellings on this level. I look over the iron balustrade, down at the communal gardens below, and then return my gaze to the flat. The hidden windows are secure with closed brown shutters. Ette struggles with the keys for the heavy wooden door. She turns them many times, it seems, and finally the door is released and falls open.

Inside it is dark at first and we have to put on the hall light whilst the shutters are opened to let in the daylight.

It is a simple and stylish flat. Painted white throughout, it is furnished with a blend of ultra-modern and dark antique-looking furniture. In the living area, there is a contemporary sofa in creamy, off-white colour fabric. This is contrasted with a dark wooden table and a sideboard. The walls are also embellished with the same juxtaposition of old and new. On one wall, there are framed prints that are about one hundred years old. On another wall, there are soft, dreamy sketches of reclining nude ladies, drawn by a friend of the family who resides in Vicenza.

Ette gives me a guided tour. It is a bit unusual, she tells me, in that the flat is on two levels. The entrance area gives way to the L-shaped living space. Immediately on the right of the front door is a door leading into the kitchen. Opposite the kitchen, on the left of the front door, is a small second bathroom. There are two more doors on the right, after the kitchen. The first leads to the cupboard under the stairs, which is useful storage space for shoes and coats. I will find spare
carta igenica
, toilet paper, if I need any. The second door leads to the stairs.

At the top of the stairs is the main bathroom and three bedrooms, one of which is laid out as a study.

In the room that is to be mine, Ette thoughtfully shows me how to operate the shutters for the windows. On this floor, all the shutters are adjusted with internal chords. The chord is pulled downwards in order to raise the shutter and is pulled towards you in order to lower it. I had found these difficult to operate in the past but the mystery is now dispelled. It is just a matter of knowing the technique of how to do it. Now, it is effortless and no longer a struggle. It is even possible to adjust the shutter so that there are little gaps between the metal slats, enabling a glimmer of light to permeate the room in the morning. I prefer not to sleep in the absolute dark so favoured by Italians and I like to know when morning has arrived.

Ette is at pains to make sure I understand that I should relax and feel at home. She tells me that I may take a shower, watch television, read, whatever I like. There is a little time before her husband arrives home and she has preparations to attend to in the kitchen. She asks me whether I like turkey and asparagus and I assure her that I do. She leaves me alone to unpack.

There isn't a great deal to unpack but I am glad of these few minutes alone. My bed is of the metal fold-up variety, which is used for occasional visitors. It is simple but clean, comfortable and perfectly adequate. A woollen crocheted blanket, made up of different coloured squares, covers the bed. I haven't seen a blanket such as this since my childhood. My grandmother made one that I had on my bed, but it was knitted, not crocheted. I admire the stitches, mostly trebles. They are similar to the treble pattern of the black jacket I am making. The jacket is really a crochet cardigan that I am making in black for my concerts. The idea was inspired by the preponderance of lace I have seen at Italian concerts and the difficulty I have in getting suitable clothes for my own concerts.

I look around the room. It is light and airy. There are white muslin curtains at the window. On one side, there are fitted wardrobes with plain white doors. In a recess between two pairs of double doors is an old-fashioned wardrobe in dark wood. It has a mirror on the door and is not dissimilar to one I have at home. This wardrobe is really the linen cupboard. Inside are shelves packed with towels, sheets and pillowcases. Ette introduced me to the linen cupboard in case I had need of extra towels or an extra cover for the bed. I peep inside at the neatly folded linen. I love the traditional pillowcases and smooth linen towels with their edges, handcrafted in crochet or embroidery. Some of them even have boarders delicately decorated with holes made by drawing the threads of the fabric away.

I close the door of the cupboard gently and go downstairs, to investigate the progress of the preparations for dinner.

At dinner, I meet Ette's husband, Marco, who is an engineer. Engineering is the most esteemed of professions in Italy. Both Giovanna's father and brother are also engineers, and I am proud to say that my father is a retired engineer. In Italy, he would be well-regarded.

We eat our meal in the small kitchen. Behind me, there is a portable television on the counter, which informs us with the news programme, the
telegornale
, and entertains us with the
publicità
, or adverts. The turkey is wafer-thin slices of breast, pan-fried with a creamy asparagus sauce. The sauce is delicious and we all mop up the residue with bits of bread.

*

I sleep well, despite the heat. I drink freshly squeezed orange juice and tea without milk for breakfast. I also consume a good quantity of biscuits since there is nothing else. The biscuits are excellent but I am not sure they will sustain me until lunchtime. I don't eat a traditional cooked English breakfast at home, except on special occasions, but I do like to eat cereal with fresh milk. I can see that the lack of cereal and fresh milk is going to take some getting used to.

The plan is that Ette will accompany me to the lesson today, taking me by car to the station and showing me the route. She has also realised that I have brought the wrong clothes with me; they are too warm for this weather. She shows me a selection of T-shirts and asks me to select one. I choose a beautiful turquoise blue. This, with my leggings and navy blue blazer, make a passable outfit. We hardly know each other yet, so I am a little embarrassed to borrow the T-shirt, but I am also touched by her kindness.

Before we depart, Ette cleans the floors throughout the flat, easily and quickly, by passing a kind of broom, with its head covered in a duster, over the surfaces. Her husband suffers from an allergy to dust and pollen. She likes to keep the floors clean by attending to them regularly. The floors are tiled and easy to clean in this manner. My house is full of fitted carpets and the most rigorous vacuuming has little effect on dust levels. Even steam cleaning and shampooing are only temporarily effective. I am most interested in these easy-to-clean floors.

*

The trip to Padua goes smoothly. I am keen to notice every detail of the passing countryside. Mists enshroud the flat fields. Later, they will disappear as the scorching heat of the sun pervades the atmosphere. I fancy that the fields look flooded. We pass over a huge suspension bridge above a wide and energetic river I take to be the Po. I ask Ette if the flooded fields are where the rice is grown, but she is not sure. I buy Italian brown rice at home and I am interested to know where it is grown. Ette, like me, is new to this region. She has only lived in Bologna since her marriage in the autumn. Marco's family live in Bologna, but Ette's family is from Breganze, north of Vicenza.

The train journey takes just over an hour and a quarter. We are taking the faster EuroCity train for which we have had to pay the
supplemento
, an extra charge. The EuroCity is an international express train and our train is going to Vienna via Venice. Once again, I notice the feeling of being connected to other European countries in a way I have not been used to in England.

*

The lesson also goes well. I must begin to prepare a sonata in D major by Emanuelle Barbella for the lower diploma that I shall have to take in the autumn. Apparently, there is a recording of the Barbella played by Fabio Menditto. I scribble the details in my notebook for later investigation.

Another issue raised in the lesson was the business of summer mandolin courses. The Maestro thinks it would be helpful for me to attend the plectrum course in Spain. It is to be held in Logroño in Rioja and he is to be one of the course tutors. A number of other students are planning to go. I don't know what to say about this unexpected proposal. I start to say something but no sound emerges. I clear my throat and manage to croak that I will think about it. Privately, I can't help thinking that I have enough on my hands just coming to Italy without entertaining a new project of a trip to Spain.

*

Friday morning is taken up with a trip into central Bologna. We leave the car parked just outside the historic centre and take a bus from
Via Saragozza
the rest of the way. From the bus stop onwards, I am aware of the perpetual
portici
, arcades, which line the streets everywhere. Seemingly, they were built in the twelfth century to house thousands of university students. Originally, they were built over the streets on to existing buildings. Over the centuries, the Bolognese, mindful of the protection they offer from the elements, continued to add further
portici
. I have read that Bologna has more
portici
than any other city in the world – more than 35 km to be precise.