The Mandolin Lesson (17 page)

It is the depth of winter and my life has taken on a new rhythm without my perceiving it. It is measured in mandolin lessons and monthly trips to Italy. Each time I return, usually on a Tuesday, I spend the following morning arranging the next trip. I phone around looking for the most economical fare. I have a yellow cardboard folder, which contains the tickets and connected correspondence for my travel. On the outside of the folder, I have printed a list of telephone numbers of the airline companies who fly to the destinations I am interested in. In general, the pattern that has established itself is Milan if I am staying with Giovanna or Bologna if I am staying with Ette. When I have found the most reasonably priced ticket, I make a few phone calls to Italy to check my accommodation and to confirm the date of the lesson. I then make my reservation and I breathe a sigh of relief. I can settle down to practising the music for the next lesson and focus on my teaching, which will generate some money to cover the cost of the fare.

Just before my departure to Italy, I see an interesting advertisement in my music magazine. The Arts Council of England seeks applicants for the Artist's Research and Development Fund. I write at once for an application form.

On Tuesdays, I attend an Italian class during the evening at the University of London. Last summer, I obtained a certificate for reaching a certain level within the internally run Scheme of Proficiency. Now I am in the most advanced group and I have the opportunity to take another exam that is offered by the Institute of Linguists. The more serious members of our group are keen to take the exam and ordinarily I would be one of this subset. However, my commitment to the mandolin lesson means that more often than not I have to miss every fourth Italian lesson. It is a compromise, but I feel it is better to attend when I can than not at all. At least this way I am able to make some progress with refining my linguistic skills. I also like the structure of the homework that is set weekly, although sometimes it is a struggle to find sufficient time for it. The idea of another exam, though, fills me with horror. I just don't feel I have the mental space to afford it while I am studying music so intensely.

*

When I get off the plane and my feet touch Italian soil, I have a strange sensation of taking on another role. I walk out of my life in England and straight into my life in Italy. It is as if I am walking onto the stage in a theatre wearing the appropriate clothes and carrying the correct props for my performance. I do not wish to give the impression that my experience is in any way artificial, unrealistic or pressured by expectations. I merely mean that one minute I am speaking English and being busy with playing, teaching, church activities and family responsibilities. The next minute, I am speaking and thinking in Italian, and totally bound up in the lives and concerns of the family that is looking after me.

In Bologna, I go shopping with Marco and Ette. Having had lunch and having taken a rest, we set off at about five o'clock – the ‘
buona sera
hour'. We visit first a shop that specialises in modern furniture. Inside, we see some beautiful bookcases constructed in cherry wood with glass-filled panels that lift and slide back over each bookshelf. I immediately fall in love with these bookcases and imagine them in my own home. My own bookcases are open and dusty. They are so difficult and time-consuming to keep clean that I have largely given up. These bookcases with the rich glow of cherry wood and their clean, simple lines are stylish and harmonious. My books and music could be displayed and stored neatly, free from dust, whilst at the same time contributing to an uncluttered look and a peaceful atmosphere. I have seen a number of similar bookcases in the houses of my Italian friends.

We move on to a lighting shop, which also thrills me. I walk around slowly, amazed at the high quality and diversity of fittings. This is only a little shop on the edge of Bologna and I would have to visit a central London shop to find anything approaching this selection. I suppose it is the sense of style that strikes me most. There are traditional fittings, although they are mostly Venetian glass chandeliers. But it is the contemporary fittings that really excite me. They have the power to transform mediocre rooms into places of exemplary design. Living space can be completely reshaped by just a little artful illumination. I stop to admire a cascade of tiny opaque glass cones suspended mid-air, as if drizzling, from thin pendulous wires.

Just as I am inspecting some up-lighters, we have a dramatic moment when everything becomes suddenly pitch black. A light flickers and steadies itself into a beam on the floor. A lady moves with a torch towards the front of the shop explaining that the lights have fused and she is going to the fuse box. I am a little confused for a moment and consider the possibility that it might be a power cut. Then, power is restored and the shop is once more alive with the intense energy of white lights, coloured lamps, coruscating chandeliers and the heat of all the bulbs.

During the evening, I spend time with Ette's other family – her in-laws. Each Saturday, Ette and Marco visit Marco's parents for dinner. When I am staying with Ette and Marco, I accompany them on their visit.

These visits are a great source of pleasure to me. We don't really do anything special; we just spend time being together. Marco's parents and particularly Marco's mother always make me feel so welcome and a part of the family. It is always very relaxed. Usually the television is on and Ette and I are given a pile of magazines to read. Marco's mother has a great interest in fashion and current trends in fabrics, probably as a result of her tailoring work, and has a good collection of magazines. Ette and I decide which ones we want to read and then sink into the cushions on the sofa for a quiet half-hour.

Every now and then, Marco's mother returns from her preparations in the kitchen and we have a little chat about something or other. Sometimes Marco's younger sister, Rosanna, also joins us for a little chat. Often the men retire to another room to discuss work-related topics.

The meal on Saturday always follows the same pattern. Marco's mother cooks a kind of soft bread roll using a device that looks like a waffle iron. These bread rolls, cooked in this particular way, are a Bolognese speciality. On the table is an array of fillings that can be placed inside the still warm rolls. There is
prosciutto
, salami, local cheese, artichokes and wild mushrooms, both preserved in olive oil. There is also salad of celery, chicory and bulbs of fennel. We each have a miniature pottery saucer in which to place a little olive oil and salt. Into this dressing, each individual dips pieces of a salad as required. The dinner is really an Italian version of English high tea. The sticks of celery arranged in a jug remind me of the suppers we had during my childhood on a Saturday evening. My mother would always have a wonderful spread of freshly baked bread, cheese, ham, pickles and celery.

My Italian meal concludes with a varied selection of desserts and fruit, followed by an espresso. Marco's mother makes an exceptionally good
tiramisù
and I have to indulge in a second helping.

*

I dip my biscuit thoughtfully in my tea. I glance up for a moment at the light filtering through the crochet curtain. In the distance, a bell tolls persistently. It is always the same note, enhanced with reverberations.

The tea, with the absence of milk, is translucent golden brown. The biscuit tastes rich and wholesome. Made with cream, it is called ‘
Macine
' and is thick and round with a small hole in the centre. On the back of the packet, it gives details of the calorific value of different breakfast combinations that include the biscuits. It seems that I am partaking of the 350 calories breakfast: four biscuits, a cup of tea and a fruit yoghurt. I look longingly at the other varieties of breakfast biscuit. There is the exotic ‘
Settembrini
', which contains the pulp of figs; the highly embellished
‘Pan di Stelle
', which is a chocolate biscuit studded with nuts and tiny white stars; and my personal favourite ‘
Ritornelli
', which is made from almonds and cocoa.

On the side of the packet is a recipe for the biscuits I am eating. I am intrigued to know whether the recipe will turn out biscuits similar to the ones I am consuming with such relish. It claims that the recipe is genuine and simple, but it seems strange for the manufacturer to give away its trade secrets.

My flight isn't until lunchtime so I spend most of the morning helping Ette with the chores. I strip my bed of its linen and I take the sheets downstairs to be washed. Whilst I am there, Ette opens the door to the cupboard under the stairs and rummages around. She reappears and offers me a cardboard box, much like a pyramid in shape but with six sides and the top sliced off. I recognise the box: it contains
Pandoro di Verona
, a special kind of light sponge, which is traditional at Christmas time in Italy. I ask my friend if she is sure. She says that she has several of these cakes and there is too much for just the two of them. I remember that my son is particularly partial to this cake. It has a moist outer coating and the box contains an envelope of icing sugar that is to be sprinkled over the cake before serving. I waver for a moment, considering the extra item I shall have to carry. Then I hold out my hand, take the thin red ribbon handle on the top of the box and accept the gift with gratitude.

Towards midday, when I have finished my Italian housework, I put my mandolin, my overnight bag and the cake onto the back seat of Ette's car. It is quite cold and we close the car doors quickly. Ette puts the keys in the ignition, but she is unable to start the car. We both shiver, taken back by the sudden temperamental nature of the car at this inopportune moment. It is not a flat battery. The engine will not attempt to turn over. Quite simply, the ignition is somehow jammed. In a split second of panic, we decide to return indoors to make a phone call. A taxi is unavailable, but we manage to speak to Marco's sister who is free and leaves immediately to rescue us. We are only ten minutes by car from the airport, but without any means of public transport, we might as well be a hundred miles away. It is now past the check-in time of an hour before the flight and I feel very nervous about missing the flight. It seems an eternity before Rosanna arrives in her beautiful Fiat
Spirito di Punto
. I am so grateful for her kindness in my moment of need. At the airport, I thank her profusely, give Ette a hasty hug and run – mandolin in one hand and cake in the other.

Inside the terminal, I scan the departures and see with disbelief that my flight has been cancelled. I run back to the glass door of the entrance and see that my friends have now departed. I feel abandoned, confused and panic-stricken. I go to the check-in desk, feeling on the verge of tears. I explain my problem, how I came to be late and now my flight is cancelled. I don't know what to do. The lady behind the counter smiles and says that my cancelled flight is caused by an air controller's strike and that it has been transferred to Pisa airport. If I would like to return to outside of the terminal building, I would find a coach which was about to depart in five minutes' time. I run faster than I would have believed I am able to. I check that the coach is for my flight departing from Pisa and, trembling, I collapse into the first available seat near the front of the coach.

As we circumnavigate the city and I catch a glimpse between the buildings of the famous leaning tower, I can't help feeling that my disastrous homeward journey had brought about an unexpected pleasure.

*

On the tube in the rush hour, I am squashed and uncomfortable. Luckily I am sitting down, but I am having great difficulty protecting both the mandolin and the cake. At Knightsbridge, an elegant lady carrying a Harrods' bag and wearing a cream knitted suit gets onto the train. I judge at once that she is Italian and then I rebuke myself for being obsessed with Italy and all things Italian and making assumptions. Just as I am thinking all of this, the lady begins to converse fluently in Italian with the gentleman she is standing next to. I smile to myself. As I do so, I feel some discomfort in my hand. I look down and see that the red ribbon has cut into my fingers and left a deep imprint.

I am heading for the first free telephone kiosk in Brescia station. I have just arrived from Milan, after having flown into the airport at Linate. In my pocket, I have a small notebook with Giovanna's number and a handful of coins. The number is engaged so I try again and this time we are connected.

Giovanna asks me if I am tired or hungry. I am not sure what to say. I am not feeling too bad, so I politely say no to the question. I tell her that I'm feeling fine.

“Good,” she says, “because we are going to a concert and the concert is at half past six. I am coming now to pick you up.”

She hangs up and I walk to the entrance to wait the ten minutes it will take for her to arrive by car. I reflect upon our conversation. It is dusk and all around me there is the constant movement of shady characters. Outside, I stand near to the taxi queue because I feel it is the safest place. My decision to choose this spot as a place of safety is not based on any reason, but simply on intuition. It just feels right. The concert is only forty minutes away and here I am again just walking straight into my Italian life on a Saturday night. Within an hour of arriving, I shall be attending an unplanned concert. The unpredictability of what might happen when I am here is both charming and, at times, although not today, exasperating.

I look from my point of vantage for the arrival of my friend's car. I have a slight problem in that I can't see very far without my glasses and also I can't remember the exact details of the car I am looking for. I think it is a Fiat Panda in light, silvery, sage green, but I am not sure. This is because I don't pay much attention to cars unless they have a significantly beautiful shape. It is at moments such as these that I am subjected to irrational fears. A thought pops into my head: what happens if something prevents my friend from arriving and I am stranded at Brescia station for the night? I am tempted to give way to a ripple of panic. The ripple threatens to become stronger as car after car comes and goes, picking up passengers, but my friend drives none of them. I feel uneasy and vulnerable. Just then, I glimpse a movement, repetitive, soothing. A blurred image comes into focus. It is Giovanna walking towards me waving. I hadn't noticed her car arrive.

The venue for the concert is the church of
Santa Maria del Carmine,
which is situated in a road just off the
Via Battaglie
and is very close to the centre where the mandolin orchestra rehearse. It is not far away, but it is a struggle to get there through the busy traffic and it is difficult to find a parking space in the surrounding narrow streets.

The
Chiesa del Carmine
is reputed to be the most important example of Gothic architecture of the fifteenth century in Lombardy. From the outside, it is quite an impressive building with its countless spires embellishing the edge of the roof. Inside, the church is endowed with vast spaces. I am drawn to the intimacy of the side chapels. One of them, the
Capella Averoldi
, is frescoed by Vicenza Foppa. Almost at once, I am distracted by Giovanna noticing a friend. We walk over, arm in arm, to speak to the friend. We attract a few more people and I find myself mingling, listening and chatting. I am asked the purpose and length of my visit and where it is that I am staying. I so enjoy this pastime of chatting and being sociable. And now I feel even more pleasure as my Italian improves and allows me to express my thoughts and opinions more accurately and in more detail.

Just being here with my friend, chatting to Italian people in their own language and attending a concert of Renaissance music played in the setting of a Renaissance church is more than enough. I am living life, if only for a brief period at a time, as an Italian. The frescoes of Foppa, the depiction of the Annunciation by Floriano Ferramola and the newly restored cycle of pictures in the chancel, all recede into the background. Without any trace of disrespect, I can quite see why works of art become almost as wallpaper to Italian people. They are surrounded by so many great works in so many of their churches, galleries, historic buildings, and even by the exterior walls of frescoed edifices, that they become indulged.

A tourist visits a particular location to look at and to admire the treasures of historic interest and artistic merit. Sometimes it is difficult to appreciate the things that constantly surround you. In England I live near to Epping Forest, but I don't walk in it as much as I would like to. It is the same with central London. I am closely connected by tube to one of the cultural capitals of the world, yet I never make as much use of this convenience as I might by going to see concerts, films and plays. And so it is with Italy. I do not consume every detail or all the factual information, but I have an impression, a consciousness of something larger, if in places a little blurred. I have ceased to be a tourist and I am comfortable with my state.

Italians are not unmarked by living with the most beautiful wallpaper in the world. As if by osmosis, they know intrinsically, from the cradle onwards, what does and doesn't look beautiful. And this sense of beauty is in everything that is created in Italy. It is the same sense of beauty that is found in a Giorgio Armani suit, a piece of hand marbled Venetian paper or a plate of pasta cooked with the best fresh ingredients. And it is this sense of beauty that I have come to soak up into my music.

*

On Sunday, I attend the Mass with Giovanna at her local church. I love the way my friend touches my hand with holy water after she has dipped her hand in the receptacle near the entrance. She then crosses herself and I follow suit. It feels so natural and normal. It happens many times when we are visiting churches, but it is always the same. It is an outward expression of intimacy and spirituality that touches a very deep and private part of me.

The church of
SS. Trinità
is a modern church built in the round. Outside it is a concrete cylinder with little to commend it, except a modern campanile with five exposed bells set in a concrete framework. In the background, verdant hills soar, reminding me that we are on the edge of Brescia where the urban environment ends and is seamlessly joined to open countryside. Beyond the hills, to the east of the city, lies that exotic jewel of Italian lakes,
Lago di Garda
. My friend always refers to it as the big one; Lake Iseo – in the other direction – being the small one.

Inside the church, I find myself in a circular space, not unlike a contemporary theatre – perhaps reflecting the ancient Roman amphitheatre, in which unfolds a drama on several levels. Most central of all is the drama of the Eucharist that takes place around an altar just off-centre. In curving, tiered pews, the parishioners look on, sometimes participating in the drama.

“
Signore, pietà. Cristo, pietà. Signore, pietà
,” the onlookers murmur. “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy. Lord, have mercy.”

How deeply resonating these words, the
Kyrie eleison
, are in any language. They have a pleading quality, expressing a deep desire for a healed relationship with God.

Out of the corner of my eye, I am aware of flickers of movement. At the edge of the building, behind the highest tier of seats, people are wandering backwards and forwards. Around the walls are dark wooden wardrobes placed at intervals. These wardrobes, in reality confessionals, are constantly in use by visiting penitents even though the Mass is already in progress. I am sure that at home, in the Roman Catholic Church, it is usual to visit the priest to make a confession before the Mass. In the Anglican Church, the hearing of individual confessions is not obligatory and is seldom practised. Where it is encouraged, it is usually conducted on a more informal basis. The sight of individuals and families, some with small children, just milling around the edges, seems quite extraordinary to me.

I focus back to the words. I am amazed by how – in conjunction with the ritualistic choreography – easily comprehensible they are. I experience a slight time delay of a few seconds in the proceedings, because I must listen and then understand. Unfortunately, this church doesn't supply booklets or service sheets, so I am frustrated by not being able to follow the words. If I could read the words, I would be able to say all the words spoken by the congregation at the same time as everyone else. As it is, I have to hear the words and understand them. As I do this, I realise the words are identical to the words used in my own Anglican Eucharist at home. This delights me as it affirms my belief that there are more things in common that unite than differences that divide, when comparing the worship of the Church of Rome and the Church of England.

When we reach the point of going forward to take the Blessed Sacrament, I remain in my seat, as do quite a few others. This moment is poignant for me. Being christened as a Roman Catholic and then becoming a member of the Anglican Church in my adult life has left me feeling at times confused and hurt. I would dearly love to have membership of both churches in the fullest sense, so that I could also receive Holy Communion in the Roman Catholic Church. It is a bit like wanting dual nationality and perhaps mirrors my patriotic status. On the one hand, I am fiercely proud of being English and on the other, I am passionate about my adopted second home, Italy.

What is interesting is that no one in Italy quite understands my predicament. This is because in Italy, the Roman Catholic Church is the national church. Therefore, I am totally welcomed and accepted. Everybody – Giovanna, her parents, her friends, the priest – they all welcome and accept me enthusiastically. In England, it is not always the same because the Roman Catholic Church is a church in exile. As a result, it can sometimes become like an exclusive club. Today, Giovanna introduces me to her friends and the priest and I am made to feel included and special, even though I have not received the consecrated bread – the Eucharistic Host.

As the service concludes, I contemplate the three apsidal icons. I think they are modern representations, pastiches of ancient icons found in the Russian and Greek orthodox churches. It is almost thirty years since the inauguration of this church, which was built to meet the demands of the expanding Brescian population. The centre icon is of the Trinity after which the church is named. I am not sure exactly who the Trinity are, but I think they are the three mysterious angels who appeared to Abraham in the desert. They are sitting together, under a tree, eating a meal. The composition is the same as the ancient icon of which I remember seeing a picture of in a book, but the buildings in the left-hand corner are more Byzantine in appearance and the
quercia di Mamre
, oak tree of Mamre, is more elaborate. The gloriously rich colours are bright and jewel-like and the gold leaf halos of the three figures are quite stunning.

Outside, Giovanna and I find
coriandoli
underfoot – tiny coloured circles, the size of the waste paper made by hole punching machines. The coloured circles are scattered everywhere. We have seen children dressed in fancy dress costumes for
Carnevale
, the Carnival celebration that heralds the beginning of Lent, and we saw them carrying plastic bags of the
coriandoli
, which they randomly threw about. It is the local custom and I only hope this confetti is biodegradable. It is everywhere. The word confetti is not used for this paper.
Confetti
means something else: the sugared almonds given at baptisms, weddings and other special family occasions.

Later in my room, I flick through a copy of
Grazia
magazine and I hear the plaintive bell of the local seminary being tolled. It has become a familiar sound. My mind returns to the angels visiting Abraham with a message that his wife, Sarah, will have an unexpected pregnancy despite her advanced years. I wonder whether angels only bring messages about births or do they communicate messages about other things?

*

On Monday evening, after the mandolin lesson, we have dinner as usual but there is a special treat afterwards. We eat a kind of biscuit made locally to celebrate Shrove Tuesday, which is tomorrow. The biscuit is thin and wafer-like and very sweet. Giovanna's father asks me about our custom in England. He spent a little time working there as an engineer many years ago. I tell him about the making of pancakes, but we are both in agreement that these Brescian
biscotti
are
molto buono
, very good.